"One day you finally knew what you had to do..." So, will you come with me, out here, into the wilderness? It's just minutes away...

From Lands End Airport, 15 mins in a plane, 5 in a taxi, 10 in a boat- and there it was - Paradise. Anna picked us up from the quay, we got in her van. There was a song playing on the radio...

Tresco Abbey Gardens, February Flowering!

The Journey by Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.

(Recommend her collection, A Thousand Mornings)

On our last day I asked Anna, ‘SO, have you decided, or are you still thinking about it?’

She said, ‘Yes, I’ve decided…’ And then she said I was glowing; that in three days my face was transformed. I didn’t feel it, not a bit. I was a bundle of nerves. Was she perhaps trying to sell me the island?

This is the look on my face after writing my son’s name in the sand. 100 yards from the little shed we will soon call home.

Three Days Stranded - An Island Diary

No dog. And no laptop - what on earth was I thinking not bringing it? Finding stillness is not easy. I did not factor in the between times; moments at home I fill so easily with sweeping, washing on, kettle on, pottering. I am writing this by hand in my new Paddington journal, covered in sketches of the wonderful bear, red hat, blue coat, in various states of bewilderment: he’s reading a crumpled map/clutching his jar of marmalade/his briefcase/scratching his head. (I can see James trying to draw that case, over and over again… I could feel him smiling as I picked this journal off the shelf in Waterstones.)

Everything was organised for us: Skybus tickets, airport shuttle waiting when we arrived on St Mary’s, the biggest island. The driver, born and bred, gave us one look at said, Tresco? We nodded. The sun was shining all alone in a deep blue sky. Simon chatted, I could not speak, tears threatening, the relief at being away. Five minutes in a cab, dropped on a quay - jet boat waiting. Just us and a man with his co-op shopping. Approaching Tresco, the engine slowed, not a breath of wind, white sandy cove, clear water lapping, boats piled in a yard. A small row of cottages. Not a soul seen. The driver said, Someone will be along shortly… We sat on the sand. Speechless, feeling a million miles from the past, from anywhere. Minutes went by. Silence. A whisper of a breeze. The lapping. The sound of space, light and healing. It felt like a weird dream where nothing makes sense but you’re going along with it. We strolled, sat on the sand… we didn’t care how long she took. They say the Cornish do things “Dreckly” but maybe the saying comes from the Scillies? When Anna did arrive in an emerald green transit van, she was glamourous in her sunglasses and polo-neck jumper. I love her Polish accent, the way she says my name, ‘Jesseeeeka’. She hugged us both. As we got in, the stereo was playing George Ezra’s Paradise - James’ favourite song. In a flash I could see him dancing around the kitchen. TURN IT UP, MUMMY!

‘What a song to be playing,’ I said.

‘You’ve got to look out for the signs,’ she replied.

Seconds later, the song still playing—Paradise, roll on, roll on/Meet me there, roll on, roll on/If it feels like paradise running through your bloody veins/You know it's love heading your way —she dropped us off at a beautiful apartment called Seaflower, right on the beach. She said, ‘Don’t get used to it, the staff accommodation is not like this.’ She was gone, too busy to stop, cleaners off sick, she would see us tomorrow… We wandered around, stunned by how close we were to the shore. I took off my shoes and socks, walked out on to the decking, through a gap in the dunes, ten steps letter, breath taken, my feet in the turquoise water.

Back inside there was a jar of shortbread on the side. James would have dived in that jar. I am stuck inside the mind of a six year old boy: everything is treasure and treasure is everything.

This was how he enjoyed food:

Cream Tea Bliss, A well-earned break from Arts and Crafts.

A few hundreds yards from our apartment we found the island’s only shop, (Waitrose meets Spar). Next door was the bike hire. The South African dude, forever young, late forties, won’t take any money as we’re here for work. He’s got all the time in the world to chat, telling us he came for one season 20 years ago. ‘You can save money and have a peaceful life… You will definitely save money,’ he says, ‘there is nothing to do.’ Every winter he cycles around Europe chasing ambient temperatures. And every summer he returns. The people here remind of a childhood family holiday in the Bahamas; locals living in slow motion, time stretches out. It’s the feeling of existing without an urgent list in your head, without waking up in debt to the day. One thing at a time, not thinking of the next thing. I remember crying when I left the Caribbean, going back to our racing world.

Nothing to do? he said. My mind panics, my body welcomes it. Moving here is going to be an uneasy transition period, adjusting. But I have come to feel at home with discomfort; after four years of waiting for a brain tumour to decide our fate, discomfort is the familiar, comfortable place. (It’s lying around on a island that’s hard.) I wrote on here before about how my doctor explained fatigue; how you get addicted to your own chemicals, to the feeling of adrenalin pumping; you know you’ve got a fight on your hands, the body fires up, you’re ready for anything; it becomes a default setting. The problem is it’s not sustainable and the body lets you know eventually, in all manner of ways. It’s why regular visits to the pub have got me by the throat, it’s a safe space. The pub says, ‘Come in, sit down relax, hold your pint.’ But the pint holds you. For half an hour, it’s bliss. In all manner of ways, I say? Since James died grief has travelled around inside me: an ultrasound on my abdomen for a suspected stomach ulcer, a doctor out in the night for a terrifying episode of vertigo that glued me to the bathroom floor, vomiting, screaming for an ambulance (none available of course), I really thought I was dying. There’s been headaches, chronic jaw tension, panic attacks, you name it, trauma has served it up. I’m on life-time medication for tinnitus and vertigo, (Meniere's Disease). Next, an x-ray on my hip, mysterious agony, (resulting in physio with instructions to lie down, knees bent, feet on floor, breathe into pelvis, let go— cry like a wild animal searching for its mother in the woods). We store our emotions in deep places; shoulder blades are shelves, hip sockets are cupboards under the stairs. I bought a book on Trauma Release Exercises. You can look up TRE online, classes around the country. The body resists the release. A tug of war takes place but your muscles/joints will thank you. Grief is physical. You have to be proactive, you have to let it move through you.

The mix of precious and vicious memories in this house is confusing, I feel it like a tornado spinning me into a mess. I stand in the middle, pummeled by its force, holding everything down. Tiny island life will be a departure from that. (Because there’s only one pub and we’ll be too tired to cycle there.) I know this is what I need, to work hard, think less, lie down, read the books, and to get James’ paints out, stare at the landscape, make marks on a canvas; embody his fearless and playful spirit. I am hoping that coming here will stop the devil in my head chasing me in circles. I’m not saying I am an over-achiever, quite the opposite; the fact is I’m full of dreams and false starts; achieving little, ideas are like popping corks - I finish nothing. I long to concentrate on one thing at a time.

Can island life mend my brain, can it soothe fractured neural pathways? Will less choice and discipline heal my broken nervous system? I can’t feel any worse. There is nothing to lose. I said to Simon, Let’s not get too excited, we might not get the job. But it was too late, in his mind he’d already here; he couldn’t stop talking about all the fish he’s going to catch, cook and eat, how I will swim everyday, how Ernie will love it.

Norfolk Island Pine, Abbey Garden

A Different Pace — We set off on our bikes, all roads lead to white sand and open ocean. In seconds, a sign pointing to Abbey Garden, world famous sub-tropical botanical site est.1840’s. Riding free and fast, through and under giant nodding palms, towering scarlet-orange Crocosmia, we first meet Trudy, proper little Cornish maid, strolling, full of cheer. She smiles. We stop. She’s walking Dorien-Smith’s dogs (the owners of Tresco, on lease from the Royals since 1830.) She had white neat hair, face all aglow. She’s in no rush, the dogs sit down. We meet Fun, the ironically named wiry Border Terrier; he sat with his back to us, waiting in silence. Tail firmly on the ground. And Daisy - also over the hill but with a gentle wag asking for a good rub. I’m not sure what type she was; scruffy and grey, low to the ground. She’s keen to hear about us. Simon told her about James. Her eyes filled. She told us about her sister who died a year ago. They used to talk on the phone twice daily. She misses her. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. She said, ‘Oh, it’s nothing to your loss.’ I said, ‘Your loss is your loss, you can’t make yourself feel better by comparing.’ She told us how she came here for a weekend to visit her husband, (the woman, not the terrier). He was working on the island. She saw a job advertised for housekeeper, got the job but was told - You can stay but your husband has to go. The way she told the story, it seemed she’d made the decision in five minutes but I am sure it wasn’t that quick. Maybe half an hour. She weighed it up - Tresco? Or husband???? What to do? That was 18 years ago, she said, ‘Don’t know what happened to him.’ We laughed. Our voices seemed so small beneath the canopy. Cycling off, she wished us luck with our interview. She had a warm smile, her skin was shiny and rosy. ‘Hope to see you again soon…’

Aeonium arboreum 'Zwartkop' - Common name, Black Rose

Leaving our bikes by the gate we entered the garden—our jaws on the floor—where in the world are we? How are things in flower already? A red squirrel pauses at my feet. There are three more in the tree above us. A wall weighed down with Aeoniums. I have never seen them in flower. I can’t stop taking photographs. The plants seem relaxed, with no frost to fear, no rush to complete a lifecycle. Everything is bigger; leaves, branches, height, width. Giant hands of dark greens, soft bowing fronds of ancient ferns, swooping branches wrapped around us. Out of season, no tourists; apart from an RHS student making notes on a bench, not a soul to be seen. We wander, speechless. I can feel my body healing, the garden has taken me in.

We cycled on, around the lake, home to two swans, him and her, gliding like king and queen of the island. Then, down a bumpy track, past nodding daffodils in the meadow, climbing to the highest point, over the brow of the hill, I was surprised to see a field of burnt-caramel heifers, tufty scruffy winter coats, a little anxious by our arrival on wheels. Lumberjack Steve appeared, emerging from the trees as if he lives in them. He’s interested in where we’re from, why we’re here. We chat, he wishes us luck getting the job, hopes to see us soon. We cycled on, down hill, calm sea all around. Simon said, ‘Booty, he was!’ Local strong Cornish accents seemed so strange in a place that felt thousands of miles from home. Time now for an afternoon nap.

Our first night - We have just been to The New Inn for dinner. The girl on the bar was from Argentina. Lovely smiling face. Simon as usual chatting away. ‘We’re here for an interview…’ This is her second season. She’s teaching Anna Spanish. (If it wasn’t for Simon I’d have barely said a word since arriving. He forces me to look out and up and smile and say hello. It’s an effort. It’s a mix of shyness, laziness, a lack of nosiness.) We shared beautiful scallops. I ate hake with fennel and tomato. Simon had belly pork. he chatted to the couple on the next table, who, why, what? Been coming for forty years… how does he find the energy? I could barely hold my head up and couldn’t stop thinking about seeing Anna in the morning, wondering what our future held. A five minute walk and we are back. Simon is lighting the log burner and flicking through channels.

Next morning: I woke early, feeling the familiar ache of anxiety. What am I doing? Did I swallow butterflies as I slept? In the pitch black, between night and day, downstairs, I sit on the sofa, where am I? Where did my life go? I place my hands on my knees like therapy teaches; tap-tap, palms down, bilateral tapping to regulate breathing. Feel my feet on the floor… Everything is okay. I say this aloud, and then, with a lamp on, I pick up my pen. I write furiously, about how we told everyone we met about our son. Is this right? Are we letting our loss define us? How can it not? Once we have made James’ existence known - only then can I breathe fully. He must be brought into the frame. He is the invisible force pushing us onwards. We might look like a childless couple. And we are. And yet, we are not.

Later I draw the curtains, take in the sea. We are now sitting up in bed. Tea. Coffee. We are looking at the quiet lapping on the shore below. I have no woken up this close to the sea. The fattest bumble I have ever seen bounces off the glass. Round and fluffy, flying heavy like a Yo Yo. I hear the light tap of its body on the window. My heart calls out, strings tight and sharp, eyes still searching for signs, as if all that sits between James and I is an invisible pane; I can’t get through to that other world. There is a barrier I can’t see. No Ernie to walk. Another bike ride, collecting shells for his resting place. A beautiful perfect scallop shell.

For three days we explored, peddling like mad, unused muscles waking up, trying to imagine living here. I managed a dip, not even a minute, shrieking with the thrill of it.

View from James Richard West’s Bench

On our final evening, back on the bikes, we headed south, past the Abbey, uphill. At the top we found our new sunset bench, dedicated to ‘James Richard West’ who died in 2013, age 45. The last night, I spent wrapped in a blanket on the sofa, tearful, on the brink of change.

Monday - our flight back to Lands End was not until 5pm. Anna asked to meet us at 11 am for another chat, and for the gardeners to show us around. With four other gardeners we will be looking after 100 holiday cottage gardens. Some of them are big, jungle like spaces with enormous specimens, new plants to learn, strict pruning times waivered with no frost to bite. Everything an evergreen! Others are small apartment gardens, walls spilling with Agapanthus and Pelargoniums. There is also the communal areas, shop/pub/spa. She showed us our accommodation. It was less than half size of our home, roughly the size of a static caravan. Two small rooms - one a kitchen diner, one a small bedroom. I am not thinking too much about this, because no matter what, we need to do this.

So, what had she decided?

Answer:

‘I would like to offer you both the job. How does the 20th April sound?

‘Perfect,’ we reply, …and that was that. Next thought - We’ve have to tell our parents. Heart sinking guilt . (But of course, they are nothing but pleased for us.)

On the way home, the 12 seater plane all to ourselves, ready for take off, the pilot said it might take a couple of attempts to land because there is fog in Penzance. Simon grinned, excited, always the dare devil. ‘Definitely getting the boat over next time,’ I said, ‘I just wanted to see my dog.’ 15 minutes later we landed, the skies cleared, fog lifted, first attempt, no problem. Driving home I start listing things I’ll miss, ‘my fire, my bath, my garden—’ Simon says, 'JESSICA, we will be practically living on a beach. Forget about your bath. You are mental.’

He’s right. This is all about letting go. Allowing life to be different. I am starting a new life of showering. I’ve been desperately looking for an escape and now I have one the resistance to change is rearing up. But in my experience, getting out of comfort zones is transformative, nothing but positive.

Back home, I woke at 3 am - What about my house plants? 13 of them, older than James; I have cared for them all these years… and what about my roses? My Cherry Tree? The blossom? I will not see my garden in May, the garden that has held me in my dark. I will leave as my Forget-me-nots die back and the perennials emerge. I have allowed them to throw themselves about, to knit themselves a blanket of blue, (Mummy, my favourite colour is blue, what is yours? Green, my darling boy, green is my favourite colour…) I will my horizontal hour, soaking in bath salts. My heart is pounding, looking around, my stuff is my life. My attachment to 45 years of gathering runs deep. I am clinging on to my whole life - dining chairs I grew up with, mahogany backs with burnt-yellow velvet seats, not even very nice. Threadbare towels from my childhood home, an ugly leather foot stool from my Nan’s lounge, a Robert’s radio that doesn’t even work… I’ve got to let go, it’s all holding me down. What am I afraid of? What am I holding on to?

I’ve been home nearly a month. I assumed I’d come home and in a flash, type up these notes from my journal. Easy. But now that I’ve got to box up things, pack a life away, nothing feels easy — knowing I am leaving what we have made, where we brought home our new born son, (where we put the car seat on the kitchen floor and young Ernie licked James’ 22 hour old face) —the unravelling has begun. Every cupboard and draw is bursting with 45 years of accumulation. Since my return, weeks of trying to settle myself to write, like the shore after a storm, the grit and muck of the seabed has been kicked up, debris lies heavy, the water is murky. The rooms here look different now, fallen images from another life, evidence of battle, suddenly the beauty and the devastation, the reality, all of what has happened, has shifted into another time and with the shift comes the forming of something crystalised: the past in a frame, this all really did happen. And it’s over. One door closes. Another opens. As the water settles, a new clarity will emerge.

I think the fridge will be the last thing I undo.

Nearly three years without him, we have climbed a mountain everyday. And yet, right now it feels the hardest part is yet to come. The anniversary is looming, a week tomorrow, and it is nauseating and heavy. Spring will help. As the Daffodils fade, the tulips will rise. Beauty and death follow each other. I remind myself that Mother Nature needed James more than me. That I must accept. But somehow simultaneously remain in denial most of the time; hence his coat on the hook by the back door. I can talk the talk, be a good griever, sound sane enough, yet my hand cannot reach out for that coat. I went through the pockets two years ago and found a 2 pence coin and a mussel shell. I put them back in.

Clearing out the garage, preparing to rent the house, life lives on in cupboards and draws, and then, there it is, in the garage — his beloved scooter. He whizzed around the kitchen on it, along floorboards in the hall to the bathroom. Some of you may have seen him dashing across the bridge, into town he went, to the bakery. You might remember seeing him sitting outside Grandad's bakery, eating his pasty or Gingerbread Man. 'There goes that boy with the brain tumour, he's doing so well...' He really did do so well. My heart fell into my stomach when after three years I laid my eyes on that scooter. Simon has been to the tip five times. Now only his bike and scooter remain (and my first ever desk I bought on the Shepherd's Bush Road when I lived in London). Unable to leave the scooter, I picked it up and carried it into the house, feeling ridiculous, tears pouring down my cheeks, I remembered carrying it home from the morning school drop off. It sits now by the back door. I can see the handles from where I sit typing. I will not part with it, not ever. And after this cup of tea I am going to scooter around the kitchen like the lunatic I am. And so out to The Wilderness we go, followed as always by our Guardian Angel. Hard work will be our best friend. The beach will be our medicine.

Picnic by Pencarrow Lake. I can hear him shouting, ERNIE, STOP BEGGING!

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