By: Blonde Two
I am seriously considering rewilding myself.
I am not a conservation expert or a hill farmer, so while interested, I am quite happy to leave the countryside rewilding debate up to those who are.
I do think however, that I would benefit from a bit of rewilding myself.
I remember a time (and this is the selective glow of memory now) when my life involved wandering barefoot around the garden with a baby on my hip and an older one toddling along behind. It would seem to this woman that at times when I was at my most bodily useful, my default state was growing my hair and vegetables at equal rates.
The most ‘wilded’ time that I can remember was at the sweet age of sixteen. O Levels complete, I was sent to stay with my Guernsey Aunty (I must have been a worry because I was sent to stay with my New Zealand Aunty after my A Levels). My memories of the Guernsey trip include a ferry strike and ringing poor Mum from Weymouth to tell her that I was, “Fine and in a pub with a man.” Nothing wild happened there but later in the trip (and I may have got times muddled up now) I spent a blissful few weeks camping on Herm during which I ate cake and cucumber, and wore only knickers (I think there were knickers) and what can only be described as a table cloth.
No doubt the wearing of a table cloth would be less than acceptable now. But maybe I could give it a go. It would look great, I am sure, with a pair of walking boots and a rucksack.
So how else could you rewild a Blonde? Information from Rewilding Britain suggests that my ecosystem might be ‘broken’; probiotic yoghurt doesn’t float my boat but I could possibly live on lichen and purple moor grass. Apparently rewilding requires my communities to ‘thrive’; most of my community have left home but they seem to be doing well and enjoying a bit of rewilding themselves (one in hammocks, another in a caravan). I also need to ‘prevent flooding’ (something that I understand can become tricky as you get older) and ‘store carbon’ (I preferred Pot Noodles to coal when I was pregnant).
I think I am forming a plan here. It involves Dartmoor, faded clothing and my bivvy bag. See you soon, I am off to find my inner wolf and grow my body hair!
Have you read: Steppenwolf – Hermann Hesse?
No, just had a look, it has the appearance of weirdness!
In my recollection ‘wild child’ started when you were about 15 (remember those birthday events of yr 10 and yr 11?) and went on until you were a late teens bride / early twenties Mum. It was entirely your Dad’s idea that we sent you packing off to his sisters. Not sure of either example!! The tablecloth eventually died a mouldy death at the bottom of the laundry bin! However, you did come back having gained as much life experience as you would have done if we had persuaded you to sow oats at university! It’s just that some folk do things a different way round in life! Love, B2GM
A table cloth and knickers? Well clearly you needed an extra large wooden spoon for a walking stick and a couple of enamel plates for flippers. I’m surprised no-one recommended it at the time.