Oz

It was time to leave the tipi and find out which of our university friends had already arrived for the reunion:  it had been drizzly, but as we emerged apprehensively, the sun had broken out and I felt like Dorothy arriving in Oz.  Everything was in Technicolor – the new leaves on the trees, the drifts of bluebells.

My heart lifted as we strolled down.  I had a slight wobble as we passed the “composting toilet”.

“Never mind, I don’t mind walking a bit further to use a proper flush toilet.”

We could smell wood-smoke and cooking.  Then, one by one, our friends appeared from beneath the trees.  It was reminiscent of one of those scenes when a stranger penetrates Robin Hood’s camp and everybody is welcoming and hearty, except at our age, we were all wearing something more substantial than green tights.

And that was how it was:  we took long walks through endless beautiful countryside bursting with flowers and butterflies.  We cooked fresh food in the communal kitchen and caught up with each other, and shared wine round the campfire at night.

I discussed with Jenny why it was more relaxed than previous such events and we concluded that perhaps, at fifty, we were more secure with who we were, more content with what we had and what we didn’t.

And the flush toilet –  I never did find one.

 

Drolls and Weirds - Robert had heard stories of beautiful fairy children reared by humans - they were called changelings - But of course, he did not believe in them. Read the latest chapter of my story of love and mystery set in Cornwall by clicking here. Or read from the start.