Alfred Millan, London
After a classic London renting situation, where my partner and I had to live with a leak just above the bed for a month, we finally got the savings together to get a shoebox of our own. No leaks yet, thankfully. It was on the first or second day, while we were eating on the floor over a sheet (with a bit of wine in tumblers), and were laughing and looking out of the window, surrounded by an endless pile of boxes and bags, that I felt a sense of calm I had never experienced before.
Alison, Cardiff
Lying on my swing seat in my garden, the sun shining and a gentle breeze through the leaves of the birch tree above me. My swing seat was the best purchase I ever made: I’m on holiday whenever I sit on it. Whatever my mood, it answers to it, whether I’m happy or sad, elated or exhausted, with friends or on my own, for breakfast, dinner, lunch or tea. It is the best thing.
Rozelle Bentheim, London
In the middle of a small barn, in May 2012 at the end of 48 hours of lambing, while sitting on a low hay bale; the only human in a barn full of sheep. I am no farmer, and in that barn I was no more than a nursery maid. Sheep mums being mums and lambs being lambs. The nursery had a rhythm: when the skipping and eating stopped, there was a calm that absorbed me. At that moment, life was good, and I was a part of it. I was one of the flock.
Matthew, Toronto, Canada
Social media has some great benefits, but it can easily become mentally and emotionally burdensome. So, when we went to Havana in Cuba we made the decision to stay in a casa particular, essentially a private home, that had no access to the internet, a phone signal or any of the other trappings of modern life. For two days, in a small farming town called Viñales, we truly switched off. In the months since, I have deleted my Facebook account, closed email accounts and use my phone only for keeping in contact with close family and friends.
Gabrielle, New Zealand
In the minute after my second daughter’s head had crowned. The midwives were chatting, laughing and taking care of everything. It would soon be just me and my baby, in a secluded newborn ward, where I could just breathe and see the changing light through the window. No criticisms, no complaints, no office politics, no prioritising other people’s moods, no factoring in bills to pay, no existing for others. Only this most real thing that we were still doing together. This was the start of our conversation, the one that will continue all our lives.
Caroline Ellis, London
Sitting on Pentire Head, near Polzeath, north Cornwall, on a sunny October day in 2013. Tucked out of the wind, feeling the sun on my face and listening to the waves crashing against the cliffs below. The sea was almost turquoise and I felt a moment of complete calm; all was well with the world.
Colin Taylor, Exeter, Devon
In July 2016, I tagged along for a day on my friend Ralph’s fishing boat, hauling lobster and crab pots for him around the Eastern Isles of the Isles of Scilly. The best bit was halfway through the day, when we were sitting there on the water in the sun, a mile out to sea, eating our cheese and pickle sandwiches, drinking a flask of tea, and lobbing the crusts and the odd bit of crab bait to curious fulmars that had joined us. Marvellous.
Jill Strong, La Drôme, France
An afternoon in hospital in Montélimar in 2009, after having had all four wisdom teeth removed. They had been growing horizontally and should have come out when I was a teen. One day, at 40 years old, with my first ever real toothache, I was told by a dentist that they had to come out straight away. I was waking up from the anaesthetic and staring out of the window at the intense blue sky, watching huge clouds of steam floating up from the nearby nuclear power station. I am self-employed with two children, and moments like that are incredibly rare. For once, I was without a care in the world.
Sue, Somerset
I had been having relationship difficulties for some years, and one day snuck away to visit my daughter at university. It was the first time in a long time that I felt free. I didn’t have to watch what I said or did, as I knew my daughter loved me unconditionally. Every minute was precious: we talked, laughed, ate out, shopped and hugged. That day was my first taste of what our life could be if I had the courage to leave, which eventually I did.
Vic Leeson, Epworth, north Lincolnshire
My first ever wild swim as an adult was September 2012 in a tarn in North Yorkshire, hunting for a friend’s lost mobile phone. However, I didn’t embrace the joys of intentional outdoor swimming until October 2017, and I’ve been addicted ever since. The impact of the water meant I could think of nothing else but what was happening to my body: the numbing of the fingers, the sense of needing to gulp air but attempting to slow myself down to regulate my breathing. The sense of foreboding that I woke up with that morning has gradually faded, and has been replaced with a sense of wonder at immersing myself in the elements.
Susan Pearse, Stroud, Gloucestershire
September 2016, lying on a sunlounger at night on the terrace of a hotel on a hill outside Fiskardo, Cephalonia, with my husband, Richard. Every night, we would sit there and look at the beautiful sky, with no light pollution, and watch the shooting stars. We did this for an hour, chatting or sometimes just staying silent. Sadly, Richard died suddenly from a heart attack the following April. Perhaps understandably, I haven’t felt as relaxed since as I did on that holiday.
Kahina Chillaoui, Brighton
It was a bright, clear day in September in a sleepy part of northern France, and I had stopped with my family at a lake. The water was gloriously cold, and I felt alive. Treading water, I turned to look at my family on the empty beach, waving and laughing at me, and I felt absolute contentment at being somewhere so beautiful with the people I love most in the world. The sunlight created an almost perfect reflection of the surrounding arc of trees and I realised that I was miraculously happy.
Nic Woodthorpe-Wright, Dubai
Being off-grid with no phone, no people, no food, books or noise (other than the occasional breeze and a few flies) in Rub’ al-Khali – AKA the Empty Quarter – one of the most beautiful, harsh and huge deserts in the world. Every year, I get dropped off deep in the desert and stay alone for three days, with enough water and shade to survive, and without any expectations on me or my time. There is no experience like it that has this level of silence and peace.
Heather Grant, London
Walking the Camino de Santiago in September to mark the end of four years of study. Two girlfriends and I walked the Camino Inglés, and the freedom from anything else other than the walk each day was incredibly liberating. Every morning, we convened at 8am, had breakfast and set off, walking steadily to our destination, pausing occasionally to take in different sights and appreciate the landscape as it unfolded before us. The feeling of release from our cares was amazing, and we are already planning our next walk, along the Portuguese coastal path.
Joanna Dale, Lewes
I recently started an oil-painting course. The first week was landscapes, and I spent three chilly hours in a field painting the view. It was the most relaxed and carefree I had felt in a long, long time. My painting was pretty dreadful, but it didn’t matter: I had tried something new and felt proud of myself.
Poyraz Yapali, İzmir, Turkey
In October, I went on a school trip to the Turkish resort of Kusadasi. After a long day of studying, my friends and I were free for the night and went swimming together. Maybe it was the lack of adult supervision, the scent of the sea or the general comfort I had from being with my friends that made me feel so relaxed. We were as free as a bunch of 16-year-olds on a school trip could be, which isn’t much, but at least I felt as if I could do what I wanted.