Niamh smiles. ‘I kinda like it. But tell anyone and I’ll deny I ever said it.’
‘So no sneaky bottles of Fanta in your pocket on our walk, then?’ Becca asks.
Niamh bristles but she’s not sure if it’s because she feels judged by her best friend, or because she feels judged by herself. She cringes when she thinks of the show she made of herself arriving here last night. ‘No. No Fanta. You can check if you want.’
‘No need,’ Becca replies. ‘I’m only teasing, as well you know.’
But Niamh doesn’t know, she realises. Or at least every time she thinks she has a proper idea of what’s happening something happens that makes her question it all again.
Just then, Niamh spots Deirdre carrying her tray of food and looking all around the room for a spare seat. Now that she thinks about it, she hasn’t seen Deirdre talk to anyone else. It’s possible she might just be here on her own, and if Niamh Cassidy is good at anything, it’s at picking up waifs and strays.
‘Deirdre!’ Niamh stands up and waves until Deirdre notices her and smiles. ‘Do you need someone to sit with? Come and sit here!’
She’s rewarded with another bright smile and all three women sit and wait while Deirdre makes her way to their table. ‘Sorry, I don’t want to intrude. I can find a seat somewhere. Sure, I’m only wee,’ she says as she sits down in the empty seat beside Niamh.
‘Well, you found one here and that’s good enough and no, you’re not intruding. Isn’t she not?’ Niamh asks.
Becca and Laura immediately jump in with a wealth of reassurance.
‘So do you three know each other already?’ Deirdre asks.
‘We do. We’ve been friends since school. A very long time indeed! This is Becca and this is Laura. Full disclosure, Becca here is working on an article forNorthern Peopleabout this retreat. She dragged us along for the craic.’
‘Don’t hold it against me!’ Becca says. ‘This is my first gig forNorthern Peopleand my nerves are wrecked over it all.’
‘No need to be nervous,’ Deirdre smiles. ‘Tell me this. Have you ever seenHigh School Musical?’
26
LEAVE COLIN FOR PENELOPE
Becca
I am successfully managing not to worry about my mother, Daniel, Adam or Saul. Or Simon’s reaction to the situation. Or whether or not my article on this retreat will be up to Grace’s standards. I am blocking all negative thoughts – or at least most of them – and focusing on making the most of this experience.
The meditation at the end of the yoga class had been something else. I’d come dangerously close to doing a full, noisy ugly cry sob during it. And not just because I was sure I was about to expire from the heat. I don’t think I have ever sweated so much in my life. Eimear made sure to tell us all to hydrate as much as possible and that had made me nervous. I feared when we had showered and gathered for lunch we would be ‘treated’ to another variety of smoothie, or something that was 70 per cent edamame beans, 15 per cent quinoa and the rest a mix of chickpeas and seeds.
It was, as my mother would say, ‘far from chickpeas and quinoa I was reared’, and as much as I have tried to embrace healthier eating, my idea of a salad still mostly revolves around lettuce, tomato, spring onions, a boiled egg cut in half and a slice of ham. A good old Irish salad.
Thankfully when we arrived for lunch we were greeted instead by the smell of a delicious leek and potato soup, complete with freshly baked wheaten bread right out of the oven. I don’t think I have ever tasted anything quite like it in my life before. Although I’m willing to accept my appreciation for it might be heightened by the experiences of the morning. In the space of a few hours we had been almost frozen to death, fed lumpy smoothies and then parboiled in our own sweat for almost two hours. We were hungry, a little achy and desperate for carbs.
But I don’t regret coming here. I’m drinking in this experience. Trying to consign it all to my memory, which is no easy task given the brain fog that was swept in with the menopause. Yet I am determined to not only write a kick-arse article but also to hold on to this feeling. Being surrounded by other women, all of whom are here making each other feel like we are superheroes, is quite intoxicating.
Negative self-talk is verboten, but I’m also finding I’m just not in my usual self-deprecating frame of mind. I feel as if we’re all in a big bubble of sisterhood – a maxed-out version of the ladies’ loos in a nightclub after midnight. The vibe is all mutual appreciation and support. But with no worries about a hangover in the morning.
Even Niamh seems to be in better form than she was yesterday, or even this morning. She’s chatting animatedly to her newfound friend, Deirdre, and it’s nice to see her smiling and laughing. I’m coming to realise she’d been doing less of that recently.
I find myself thinking it would be amazing to do thiseveryweekend. Or live in a community just like this full time. A place that can pull us out of our low mood. A community of women of a certain age, celebrating ourselves just as we are, being creative and open to new friendships. A communing of spirits.
A bit like a cult, I realise.
Maybe I’m getting a little carried away with myself.
Then again, are cults always bad? Surely there must be some good ones out there?
‘Penny for them?’ Niamh asks as she and Deirdre come level with me. We’re walking uphill towards Glenevin Waterfall, and we’re now on the final stretch, having hiked up from the glamping site, along the twisty country roads and now into the woods. The rumble of the waterfall in the distance lets us know we’re close and I can finally stop calling Niamh and Laura ‘Papa Smurf’ and asking them ‘how much further’.
‘Oh, God, they’re not even worth a penny.’ I smile. ‘Mostly thinking about the Smurfs and where they came from.’
