Chapter 6
SIX
After lunch, the skies had brightened and, craving a bit of fresh air, Rita, with book and fold-up chair in hand, made her way towards the aptly named Singing Tree.
The ancient sycamore stood alone above the cliffs, its broad green canopy forever whispering and murmuring in the sea breeze.
On gustier days, the branches didn’t just rustle, they sang, a high, haunting note that carried across the fields like a hymn.
Its silver-grey trunk, mottled and peeling in papery patches, looked as though it were slowly shedding the decades it had spent standing sentinel over the bay.
She noticed how the meadow could do with a mow, but that had been Stan’s job and the trouble was, she couldn’t exactly ask Stan. Not now that she’d let him go as a farm hand as she couldn’t afford him and especially not now that she had heard he was working for Jago Jenken over at Hawthorn Acre.
The feud between the Jorys and the neighbouring Jenkens had been simmering for as long as Rita could remember, though she’d never been involved herself.
She’d quickly learned that even uttering the Jenken name was enough to make Hilda, her mother-in-law’s face harden and her voice turn to a growl.
Archie, meanwhile, if she ever asked him, would just grow cagey, offer a stiff smile, and murmur, ‘It’s nothing to be worrying yourself about.
’ Which, of course, made Rita want to know about it all the more.
But she didn’t have time to be worrying about any of that now. With her home on the line and not wanting to leave it, it was time to swim, or she would most certainly sink. Troubling thoughts of how she was going to pay the next wave of credit card bills engulfed her.
A sudden flutter of wings pulled her from her thoughts. A robin landed on a low branch, its russet chest puffed out as if it had something important to say. The sight of it brought an unexpected wave of calm, as though the little bird had been sent on a quiet mission to reassure her.
From where she stood, she could see a faint ribbon of smoke curling up from Zenya’s cauldron in the distance, drifting lazily into the brightening afternoon sky.
Oh, to be that free, Rita thought, suddenly wondering how the Mancunian had ended up in a field in Cornwall as she clearly wasn’t just on holiday.
She sighed and opened her book, read a few pages, then, not able to concentrate, closed it again and stared out at the sea beyond.
As her gaze moved between the horizon and Zenya’s camp, the little robin returned and began hopping around near her feet, and the sentiment between the pages of Wild began to stir wild thoughts within her.
The courage it had taken the woman to walk the Pacific Crest Trail alone, hauling her grief and her pack over mile after mile until she’d shed more than just the weight on her back was incredible.
And with her mind feeling suddenly clearer, her dad’s words drifted in: ‘Everything is written, Reety; you just need to sometimes look for the direction signs.’ What if she could create that space for herself… and, even better, for others too?
Images tumbled into her head: The White Lotus and that glossy hotel show she loved. The new Pilates studio in town. Sennen’s tales of digital detox weekends and yoga retreats for hen parties. Morag, describing the High Meadow as ‘heaven on earth’.
Betty had even told her about a woman in Polheron who charged eighty pounds a head to lead ‘transformational hikes’ to Seahaven Point.
The finale involved screaming into a pillow in the back of a converted camper van to ‘release years of buried emotion’.
People cried, journalled, then paid extra for herbal tea and a grounding crystal.
Rita had thought it was ridiculous when she’d heard about it.
And yet… not. The mud, the screaming, the overpriced tea, it all pointed towards something.
Not just wellness, but purpose. A softer kind of hope.
And in a world spinning faster with war, wildfires and fakery, there was a real hunger for stillness, for healing.
Maybe she could offer it, right here, in a setting that was already perfect.
Her thoughts picked up speed. A place for people whose lives no longer made sense. Who’d lost something, or everything, or themselves. Not five-star, swans made out of folded towels… just quiet. Kindness. Healing in mind and body, cradled by nature.
Seahaven Bay had the cliffs, the peace, the surf, the views. And when the weather played fair, Cornwall could pass for anywhere in the world. She had bedding, plenty of it. And, certainly, space for screaming.
Mad? Possibly. Reckless? Definitely. But so was surviving without Archie, but six months on, she’d managed that.
Her pulse quickened. A retreat needed a name. A website. Social media. Start-up cash… she’d cross that bridge later.
Names began swirling.
‘Salty Haven,’ she tried aloud – too sharp.
‘Seagull’s Rest’ – too tired, like a postcard.
‘The Sea Sanctuary’ – no, sterile, like a clinic.
She rubbed her temples, trying to catch the balance between coastal calm and new beginnings. Then, almost without thinking, the words slipped out softly: The Seahaven Bay Retreat.
‘Yes!’ Rita shouted. That was it.
It felt right.