“There is magic in this valley.”
I hear this phrase from no less than three women over the weekend. Each time, the words are hushed as if divulging a secret, whispered among the trees.
Sleeping on the fringes of a forest where ancient footpaths run alongside tumbling stone walls cloaked in moss and sacred springs sprout from the earth, we are here to retreat into this small patch of magic.
The farm and its land straddle the wooded slopes of the Wye Valley, and we learn that its fairytale-esque location had been predicted to the couple who now own it by a psychic. Skirting the river below, the ruined steeples of Tintern Abbey peek through the frothing green of the valley floor.
I am joined by a group made entirely of women, all of whom have come here from cities; Bristol, London, Cambridge. Gladly, we shed our motorway-weary, 9-5, smartphone-clutching skins, and leave them at the doors of our yurts next to our shoes.
Each day unfurls through a chlorophyll-infused lens as we plunge into much-needed green time. Sat happily in nature’s lap, our days are defined by the trill of birdsong in fields grazed on by sheep the colour of dark cocoa.
When night encroaches, the evening fires send chutes of smoke spiralling from the yurts, each tent sprouting like a vast brown mushroom from a rolling field carpeted in bluebells and buttercups. Inside, it is dark and womblike, and the crackle of the fire calls us into sleep. As the yurt itself gradually warms, so too do we thaw into familiarity, strangers slowly approaching friendship as gentle bonds forge by the fireside.
I am surprised when sleep doesn’t come easy, but this isn’t the familiar semi-somnia of a caffeine-fuelled weekday. Instead, I sense an awakening. It is a vitality that has been brought to the surface by the yoga practices that bookend our days, where we learn to align with the meridian lines of the body and channel their energy.
The retreat begins as the Taurus new moon ascends, and we are encouraged to harness its force. Sat in a circle, the women leading the welcome ceremony tell us how we have come here to bloom, and each of us is given flowers - carnations and love-in-a-mist - before we are asked to share the one that we most identify with. In a room of sunflowers, I confess to being a shrinking violet with the ambitions of a peony.
The days that follow mirror the path of a seedling, grounding through the earth, channelling water elements through slow, liquid Yin movements that we hold for minutes at a time, before blossoming with the sun in bold salutations. Every morning begins with meditations and body-scanning nidras, as we check in with ourselves on a tide of continual self-questioning balanced with strengthening affirmations.
“Where have you been neglecting parts of yourself? Where do you most need to nurture?”
I learn how to breathe again. Properly. The kind that makes you consume air hungrily, as if it were a belly-filling physical thing. Its release surprises me each time, escaping either as a heavy sigh or a lion-like roar.
Unheard of for a weekend, there is no alcohol, meat, and caffeine is scarce. Instead, my body is pushed and my mind is invited to wander, while our bodies are nourished with kaleidoscopic vegan feasts - colourful platters of fruit and veg, turmeric and fennel soups sprinkled with chive flowers and herbs plucked from the kitchen garden, celery smoothies, shots of ginger, overnight oats artfully layered with slices of nectarine and peppered with nigella seeds, and warm batches of sourdough. We sip drinking water infused with cleavers and imbibe our way through countless boxes of Yogi Tea, a different one for each mood.
Deep in the woods, we walk barefoot and forest bathe. I learn that the human eye can detect over 2,000 shades of green while staring in open-eye meditation at the canopy overhead. After dinner, we bathe in our own sacred well as the ‘eco-spa’ hot tub steams with fresh spring water.
I avoid my phone except to take pictures and to tell M goodnight. When I take it out for a quick scroll while waiting for the next yoga session, it falls through my hands and smashes into the stones. I heed the sign and banish it back to the yurt.
Between these women and their incredible knowledge, it feels like we have covered the earth with where we have been and what we know - a florist, a nutritionist, a children’s book designer, a project manager for the Ministry of Defence, a drama commissioner for the BBC. Each one teaches me something - holistic massage, the no-dig method of gardening, identifying mushrooms, why to use a dry brush after showering, alternate nostril breathing, and how colonialism began with tulips.
We are a group, but each is singular and no excuse is needed to break away from the rest - whether to read, to roam, or to sleep. A gentle and unspoken permission exists between us all that confirms whatever is best for you, is the best thing to do.
Gathering again in the bluebell woods for a closing ceremony, I take home a single stick of incense bound to a fern plucked from the forest floor, given to me as an offering alongside a handwritten affirmation that still sits in my purse. Back in my living room, I let its smoke linger and drink it in greedily. The words “may you feel life as an irresistible invitation” still dance in my thoughts, while the fronds of the fern crispen in the pages of my book.