Rebecca Smith is a writer and a radio producer. She was brought up in the wilds of Cumbria and now lives in Central Scotland. She has work published for the Dangerous Woman Project as well as in Northwords Now, Dear Damsels, and Glasgow Review of Books. She has two children and a very soppy silver cat.
The Estate
When I was four we moved to a private family-run estate in the Lake District. Dad was employed as the forester and we were given a small house with no central heating but with a view most people would sell a kidney for. We lived on the edge of the forest, on the brink of the lake and under the shadow of the hills which grew into mountains in the distance.
My memories of childhood are grounded in nature. When I think of it now, I remember a never-ending expanse of dark green branches and slate grey waters. The soft brown undergrowth of the woods in autumn and fields of sheet white snow that we would score sledge marks down until the winter sun set. I was free to explore this landscape with my family, my friends and–as I grew older–on my own. On this land, I grew into the person I am today.
I spent a lot of time walking as a teenager. After doing my homework, ringing friends or writing in my diary about my latest crush, I would go for a walk. I spent hours walking, exploring. Often I would go across the fields opposite my house, past the sheep with straggly wool and down to the river with the ruin near one of the local farms. I would sit on the slate wall of the old house, legs swinging, dreaming of the boy I wanted to miraculously appear. What would I say to him? What would he say to me? What would we do…? It was all very Brontë–esque. Of course there was never any chance of seeing him, or anyone else for that matter. There were only a couple of houses within a few miles’ radius and when you were walking–back before mobile phones, before GPS–you really were alone. I loved it. The tourists in the Lakes tend to be confined to the villages and towns, with the pull of tea rooms and beer gardens, or trudging up the winding paths to the mountain peaks. I was lucky enough to enjoy the privacy of the private estate, experience its emptiness, its wilderness, its space.
This landscape, this beautiful privacy, spoiled me.
I now live on a new housing estate in Central Scotland. These box houses with the latest central heating sit side by side along a new avenue of tiny baby trees, not full enough to cast a shadow. It’s peaceful; it’s safe; my son can play with his friends on the street. The walls of the living room don’t crumble when I hang a picture. There isn’t a family of mice living under the skirting boards. The carpet isn’t peppered with burn holes from a spitting open fire.
And yet. I avoid looking out of the front window at number 24, a kid’s picture-perfect drawing, the house that mirrors our own. I can see its inhabitants’ silhouettes when they stand up in the living room against the light of the window at the other end of the house. The street light shines in through the cracks in the curtains. All the way up the row, the front lawns are so neat, so clipped. I plant daffodil and bluebell bulbs in odd places around the garden to make it look less uniform, less like next door’s. I line the walls with bookcases and old postcards. It’s a blank canvas after all.
I have tricked myself into liking it here as I don’t have a choice right now. Circumstance states that it’s easier to live in a house like this, without the chopping of wood, without constant driving to get anywhere to see my friends or go to the supermarket. From here, it’s easy to go into the city and see a play, or to do some shopping and have a fancy meal. It’s easier to maintain contacts and, to some extent, a career. It’s close to my son’s school and close to the motorway. It’s affordable. Yet I miss the expanse of green. I miss the chopping of wood and the driving on winding roads at dusk, spotting the family of deer in the field by the river.
I still need an injection of wilderness every now and then. I don’t holiday on city breaks, but find the most remote place to stay. I go back home (the Lake District will always be home) as often as I can, to the corners of it only my family know. For quick fixes, I drag my seven year old to the woods. There are some great council-run forests near us. It’s not too hard to find somewhere resembling a summer evening when I was fifteen. But it’s not the same–the paths are always worn thin, the dull groan of the B road or a motorway never far away. And there will always be someone else looking for that peace and quiet, walking by you, pushing away your own magic of being alone.
If I could, I would make it so everyone had their own piece of wilderness when they wished for it. A tree swing, a rocky bay by a loch, a den in a rhododendron bush. It’s all out there, waiting to be explored. I still live by the belief that fresh air and freedom works wonders for the soul. Go and explore. There’s nothing better.
You can find more of Rebecca’s work via her Twitter, @beckorio.