Images tumbled into her head:The White Lotusand 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 whocharged 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.
SEVEN
‘A retreat? At the farm? Reet, it’s only ten o’clock, don’t tell me you’ve been on the sherry already!’
Rita smiled at the familiarity of her best mate’s Cockney accent.
‘One sec, Kel.’ Pushing in her earbuds, she continued to scrape burnt soup from the bottom of a pan. She’d meant to soak it last night. She’d meant to do a lot of things.
‘I’m serious, Kelly.’ Rita sighed, throwing the pan back in the soapy water and wiping her hands with a tea towel. ‘I’ve got the peace, I’ve got the quiet, the sea air, two beautiful beaches down the road, mud, plenty of mud. You can’t move online without being lured to survive on just fruit juice in some fancy resort for the joylessly thin, or someone sobbing into a mug of cacao saying it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to them.’
‘But you hate yoga, and the one and only time you did Pilates, you couldn’t walk for a week.’
‘I don’thateit,’ Rita replied, defensively. ‘I’m just suspicious of any activity that makes me fart involuntarily.’
They both laughed heartily.
‘Rita Jory, née Brown’ – Kelly reverted to the tone she reserved for both her husband and her particularly maddening beautyclients – ‘I’ve known you since we were eleven years old. You’re grieving. You’re lonely. You can’t just have a load of random strangers sleeping under your roof.’
‘I’m not talking about random strangers. I would be selective. Hopefully, the sort not to steal the towels. Maybe even a bit… woo-woo. Saying that, they can bring their own towels. And they won’t be under my roof. I was thinking more of yurts in the High Meadow than a deluxe double with a courtyard view.’
‘Oh God, yes.’ Kel sounded excited now too. ‘That would mean having to clean. And you don’t want to be doing too much of that. And I guess if they are a bit woo-woo, as you say, they won’t care about luxury.’
Rita put on an affected voice. ‘The natural world can become their temporary home.’
Kelly giggled. ‘Look at you with your yurt talk. And what the deuces do you mean by woo-woo?’
‘You know. Crystals. Meditation. Ecstatic dance.’
‘Ecstatic dance? That sounds a bit pervy, if you ask me.’
Rita sat down on one of the mismatched wooden chairs at the kitchen table. Henry had been on one of his regular wanders around the farm, and barked at the window to be let in. She got up to open the door for the old labrador, while continuing to think out loud. ‘Maybe I can invent some new activities. How about a bit of naked star and moon watching out in the fields? And I’m sure that there was a programme on the other Sunday showing goat yoga too? YES! That would be free to run as well! I just need to gen up on the universe and teach the girls how to balance on the back of a downward dog and we’re sorted. No one ever need know they are coming to the Fawlty Towers of fitness.’
