Chapter 18
18
YURTS SO GOOD
It’s dark, and thankfully dry, by the time we reach the glamping site. Niamh is more than a little tipsy, and Laura is a little giddy too, having helped Niamh get through her bottle of Fanta. I have a feeling there will be no fires started by these two tonight and they’re likely to crash as soon as we reach our accommodation. It’s not ideal and even though it’s nice to see them enjoying themselves, I can’t help but feel a little annoyed. They know what this gig means to me. They must know I want to put a professional foot forward.
I remind myself that they are not working here. I invited them away to get a break. I can hardly start laying down the law.
The relief that washes over me to see the site itself looks lovely is immense. I’d feared we would be arriving at a boggy field and would need welly boots and torches to find our way to wherever the mysterious Peggy would be waiting for us.
Instead we arrive at a car park a short distance from the sand dunes. Grabbing our bags, we walk through a twisted willow arbour, which has been strewn with fairy lights, to reach our home for the weekend. Six yurts circle around a central meeting space, which is dominated by a large wooden gazebo.
‘Oh, this is verr, verr pretty,’ Niamh slurs. I’m not sure how much of her ‘Fanta’ she drank but I haven’t seen her this wobbly through drink in a long time.
The sound of voices drifts on the evening air towards us, along with the sound of the waves a short distance away crashing to the shore. There’s a smell of woodsmoke in the air and music is playing somewhere. As we get closer, I can just make out that the gazebo seems to be populated by a group of maybe nine or ten people, all dressed in heavy coats and hats and clutching mugs of steaming liquid. Hopefully it’s coffee and it’s plentiful and I can throw some down Niamh’s neck, and possibly Laura’s too, and bring them back into the land of the living.
Thankfully, given their unsteady gait, we’re not having to traipse through soggy bogland; instead, we’re walking on a pathway of mulch and bark chippings. We come to a wooden sign which offers directions to a ‘meeting house’ – which I can’t see from this circle of yurts.
Truth be told, the name ‘meeting house’ is giving me kind of old-world American puritan vibes. My nerves are definitely starting to kick in. I’m hoping the laughter emanating from the gazebo means I’m wrong and it’s not a place where suspected witches are put on trial.
Other signs point to the different yurts, which all seem to be named after Celtic gods and goddesses. It’s all quite nice, if basic and, in the absence of being able to see any obvious toilet or shower block, I start to worry about the availability of facilities. Might we have to schlepp to the meeting house for a middle-of-the-night pee? With my menopausal bladder, there’s a chance I could get my ten thousand steps in overnight.
‘Do you think we could move here permanently?’ Laura asks. ‘And not tell anyone where we’ve gone?’
‘Don’t tempt me!’ Niamh laughs, and takes another swig from her now empty bottle. When she takes it away from her mouth, completely disgusted that there is nothing left in it, she looks totally confused. It seems she’s the level of drunk who can’t make the connection between her current state and the now-missing Fanta. ‘Later I’m going to tell you about my Hag Cottage dream, for when I tell the whole world to go and shove itself up its own arse.’
Laura flashes me a look of concern – now realising just how inebriated Niamh is.
‘We’ll get her coffee and something to eat. She probably hasn’t eaten anything since lunch. We’ll be able to help her,’ I say, looking around for any sight of Peggy, who is supposed to be greeting us. I don’t want to bring Niamh into the throng of other attendees if I can help it. Their first impression of her should at least be something akin to her usual self and not this person I can hear whisper-singing ‘Push It’ beside me.
I’m starting to lose hope in achieving that particular goal though, until stepping into the light and in a fog of woodsmoke there appears an ethereal vision in a dryrobe.
‘Tell me one of you is Becca Burnside,’ she says in a lilting Donegal accent. As she steps closer I notice she has what I can only describe as a very kind smile. I immediately relax.
‘That would be me,’ I say, raising one hand. ‘And these are my friends, Laura and Niamh.’
‘Lovely to meet you,’ she says, reaching out to shake my hand. ‘I’m Peggy, and you’re very welcome here to our Inner Goddess retreat at Wild Water Falls. I’m really hoping you all get something very special out of this experience.’
Seeing her in the flesh, it would be hard to pin an age on Peggy. Not that it matters. She gives off a quiet air of confidence that is quite enticing. Her age doesn’t actually seem to matter. What matters is that she is one of those people who makes you feel almost immediately at ease.
‘I hope so too,’ I tell her, warmly. ‘This sounds like just exactly the kind of thing we were looking for.’
‘Great!’ Peggy claps her hands. ‘That’s exactly what I like to hear. And Grace has told me about your new column for Northern People . I am absolutely delighted to see that our generation of women are finally being given a voice – and a real voice at that. Women who aren’t afraid of ageing and want to embrace life without focusing on trying to pretend they’re younger than they are. We’ve earned our stripes.’
I blush, and hope the dark surroundings make it impossible for her to see. Then again, I don’t want to hide my ‘real self’ – the kind of self she admires.
‘Truth be told, we’re a little afraid of ageing,’ Laura pipes up.
‘A lot afraid,’ Niamh adds. ‘I feel too young to be getting old. I’m going to be a granny, you know. And Becca here too. How are we old enough to make that even a possibility?’
Her voice is a little too loud, her words a little too slurred. I hate myself for feeling embarrassed but I do. This is not the first impression I’d wanted to make.
Peggy just smiles and doesn’t seem at all fazed. ‘Ageing comes to us all,’ she says. ‘And I think most of us freak out a little at first. Or even a lot. I still have moments when I look in the mirror and expect to see myself at thirty looking back at me. That jumpscare can be real.’ She laughs. ‘But what I hope this weekend will help you realise is that most of our fears and worries about growing old are because of what we have been fed by society for decades. We’ve been led to believe that old can’t be beautiful. That older women have little to look forward to apart from becoming invisible. There’s been a lack of representation of us on TV and in books and movies and it’s no wonder we associate ageing with disappearing. What I want this weekend to do is to help reframe the ageing process. Embrace it even. Celebrate our positives and our strengths and show that “women of a certain age” have a lot to offer.’ She pulls a face as she says ‘women of a certain age’ – one that screams of thinking the world who would write us off can go and take a long jump off a short pier.
It’s hard not to feel warmed by her positivity. Or at least I find it hard not to feel warmed by her positivity. Niamh has other things on her mind.
‘Peggy, this is all very lovely,’ she says. ‘And I’m very excited by everything you’re saying but is there any chance you can say it a bit quicker and then direct me to the nearest loo before my pelvic floor is tested beyond its limits?’
It’s only then I realise she is standing with her legs crossed. ‘I may have had a little drink or two on the way down and, well, I’ve had four children and…’
‘Say no more!’ Peggy says with a smile. ‘Let me direct you to your accommodation!’
‘And there’s a toilet there?’ Niamh asks. ‘Because I don’t think I can hold this much longer.’
‘Don’t worry. All the yurts come with their own bathrooms,’ Peggy says with a smile as she starts walking along a pathway away from the gazebo and meeting house and towards the yurt signposted as ‘Danu’.
‘Danu is the mother of the Irish goddesses, and is associated with wisdom, regeneration and prosperity. So I think this will be perfect for the three of you.’ When we reach the entrance to the yurt, she pulls aside the tarpaulin and directs us inside – and Niamh directly to the bathroom which, to my surprise, is through a proper door at the right-hand side of the tent.
I don’t have time to think about it too deeply, though, as I take in our accommodation for the weekend. It might be a tent in a field, but it looks relatively cosy. It helps that we’ve walked in to find lamps lit and a fire already burning in a small pot-bellied stove close to the bathroom door.
‘Okay,’ Laura laughs. ‘I’m already thinking I’m moving here permanently. I’ll claim squatter’s rights! This is gorgeous!’
And, I think, it’s warm and there is a proper bed – iron framed and king-sized at that, strewn with luxury throws and crocheted blankets. At the foot of the bed there is a wooden blanket box on which sit three soft, extremely fluffy cream robes and three pairs of slippers.
‘Grace said you were okay with two of you sharing the bed?’ Peggy asks. ‘And one of you on the sofa, which of course pulls out into a bed. I’ve slept on it myself and I can vouch for its comfort.’
I don’t doubt her. Everything in this room screams comfort. There are cushions, and deep-pile rugs underfoot. A dresser complete with a kettle and selection of teas and coffees is accompanied by a small, buzzing fridge – just big enough to store milk and maybe a bottle of wine.
I didn’t expect there to be electricity, or a stove, or what looks like a proper bathroom. This really is impressive.
‘Peggy, this is all just wonderful,’ I say, surprised to feel a little emotional. This place is absolutely exceeding all my expectations – and then some. Surely Grace must’ve known how fabulous this place is? That she so willingly offered this opportunity to me suddenly feels a little overwhelming. But, I think, overwhelming in a good way. Still, I don’t trust myself to say any more. It’s bad enough that our first impression to Peggy has been a drunken Niamh and a mad rush for the toilet. The last thing she needs to see on top of that is me in emotional-meltdown mode.
‘I’m happy to take the sofa,’ Laura says. ‘Or whatever suits. It all just looks amazing.’
‘It’s more than amazing,’ Niamh says, walking back in through the door. ‘There’s a proper loo in there. Like a proper bathroom. With walls. And a proper shower. I was terrified we’d be piddling into a hole in the ground and wiping our bums with leaves. This is unreal!’
‘We found that people like certain home comforts,’ Peggy explains. ‘That’s why we have the fridge, and the kettle, for example. And, of course, the toilets.’
This is all starting to sound a little too good to be true. My inner pessimist starts whispering in my ear that something is bound to go terribly wrong any second now. That’s how life is for me. There cannot be good without the bad.
‘Right,’ Peggy adds. ‘I’ll leave you to it for now. The Fire Starter ceremony is at eight. We’re starting at the meeting house for a quick health and safety briefing before we go down to the beach. I’d definitely recommend wrapping up warm. If the notion takes you to come meet the other attendees before then, some of them have gathered at the gazebo, as you might have seen. There’s hot chocolate there, or tea or coffee if you don’t have a sweet tooth. We’re asking everyone to drop any devices they may have with them in our lock box in the meeting room before we go to the beach tonight, so don’t forget to bring any phones, tablets, laptops or whatever with you later. They will be secure until home time on Sunday when they will be returned to you.’
Peggy turns and leaves, and the three of us look to each other, slightly stunned.
‘Did she say we had to hand our phones over?’ Laura asks.
‘I think so,’ I say, anxiety settling in my stomach where it will no doubt stay for the weekend.
‘Did you know about this?’ Niamh asks, her tone blunt and accusatory.
‘No!’ I tell her. ‘I didn’t know. It didn’t say in the brochure.’ I start to mentally scan the pages in my mind. Had it said something? Had I not seen it? Or ignored it? It did say this would be a chance to ‘unplug, unwind and escape’ but I didn’t take that to mean unplugging our phones. There are other things here clearly very much plugged in.
And how can she expect any of us to unwind without our phones? We’re mothers, for God’s sake. We need to be contactable. My mother is elderly and lives on her own. She needs to be able to reach me. And what about Saul, over there in England without his brother to deal with whatever inevitable crisis he will pull onto his shoulders? No. This can’t happen.
But it’s work and I agreed to do it. I agreed to give it all I have.
‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter meekly.
‘Well, that’s just perfect!’ Niamh snaps, and storms back off to the bathroom while I find myself looking at Laura and just hoping she doesn’t hate me right now too.