Reflections on Vision Boards – Woodfire Camping at Firle

It seems the humble vision board may have fallen out of favour in recent years, crowded out by charismatic manifestation gurus plugging online courses and retreats at £000s as the pathways to fulfilment. But just as a quiet vote for the power of a vision board, made just by myself in my room at next to no cost, I thought I would share some of the stories that have happened since my latest one was created:

When the worst happens and to paraphrase Dr Joe Dispenza, you must create a compelling future or be doomed to relive an unsatisfactory past.

This is how I came, in January 2022 to be creating a new vision board. My now wasband had stated his intention to apply for a divorce the previous year and left in the October. Shockingly, devastatingly. Recently returned from an inspiring Christmas in Naples and Dr Joe ringing in my ears, I contemplated what my ideal life could look like. The one that was now to be without him.

I collated some photos - my cherished children, my recently arrived “new life” grandson and his beautiful mother, friends that mean the world, Pinterest clippings of places in the world I wanted to visit, my dream home and, taking me a little by surprise, pictures of a campsite\homestead, complete with campfires, games, runner ducks and goats seemed to want to be part of it too.

We had been enthusiastic campers, the wasband and I - travelling all over the country in our beautiful brown and cream 1978 campervan, Bertie bus, at first with the children and as they grew up and left home, just the two of us. At each site we would sit by our campfire discussing the various merits of the site and its location, wondering what would make the best campsite. Gradually we had narrowed it down to something along the lines of two particularly wonderful campsites we had visited. As I sat contemplating my completed vision board, I promised myself that were the funds ever to land, I would contact these two and ask them for advice, their top ten – things they had done that worked, things they would not do again.

Some time later, I was meditating by my vision board when the thought struck me, as intuition can, that I should not wait for funds, but as William Whitecloud would put it, undertake the “obvious next step” and find out what running a campsite actually takes – making this a vote in favour of my future. So, I reached out to both and one of them came back. Taking over an hour to outline all that they had gone through to get their site up and running – the planning implications, the neighbours, what sites they had joined to advertise, all the things, Stella lived up to her name and was a real star. Hugely helpful and enthusiastic, Stella ended our call with a challenge: if you would like to dip your toe in the water, we have a site that will only open at weekends this year.. you could consider running that for the Summer if you like? I was stunned. What a thought. What an opportunity. And the suggested site was just outside Brighton where my daughter was at university.

Now firmly one of the great loves of my life, Olivia had been only 5 when I had met her through family friends.. charming, delightful, she had burbled enthusiastically about her love of axolotls and desires for a toy kitchen for Christmas as we rocked on the swings together in the local park. Her mother had been gone a year by then. Christmas came and went and her father and I had started dating in the Spring...those nervous first dates gradually turning into a loving and stable family that included Olivia’s brother and my two sons. That was until 14 years later, when her father had left. Whilst my own devastation was huge, alongside it ran my concern for the effect this would have on the children that had come to depend on us being there as the parental unit…and for Olivia and her brother, with me as potentially now an ex stepmother. I was determined that this was not to be our story, I could not, nor would not, abandon my post just because he had. “How do you fancy your summer job being running a campsite with me this year?” I had offered, tentative but hopeful - to my delight, she had agreed.

And so it was that a corner of my vision board came to life. We spent that Summer amongst bell tents and campfires just as in the pictures, running belongings up and down a very rough hill track between the campsite and its car park in a battered, borrowed four by four truck.

Each Friday I would take the afternoon off work and drive to Glyndebourne station to collect Olivia. Together we would then drive to the campsite and, having deposited our own belongings in the camp tent, would set about cleaning the sinks, showers and compost loos, filling the buckets with sawdust, checking fairy light batteries and laying the huge campfire basin with logs. Stella’s husband, Gryff would have left us the most enormous pot of beef stew and a container of flat bread dough earlier in the day, in the supply tent cold box as guests were able to vote for joining a camp dinner on the Friday night if they chose.

The campsite was a smallish field, circled on three sides by the rolling hills of the South Downs and surrounded by trees, giving it the appearance of a welcoming, protected, green glen. At its entrance, just inside the gate was the most enormous mama Beech tree.. her magnificent branches creating shelter for the sinks, showers and toilet area as well as across the entrance itself. The electricity for the boiler that ran hot water to the showers was created by two large solar panels, the water in the taps came from the land, treated at a small facility in the grounds of the Estate and other than these and four black bins, there were no obvious signs of the frantic, tech driven, grocery shopped, M25 navigated on a Friday, life outside.

As each weary but excited camping family arrived, I would ferry all the belongings that would fit in the truck up the hill, the family following behind with children and\or large green wheelbarrows stuffed with the rest whilst Olivia rolled out and cooked the flatbreads , frequently stirring the stew which was by now cooking on the roaring campfire. Once they had pitched camp and settled in, dinner was at 8. Not all would join us, but those that did would sit gratefully at the long tables near the campfire and tuck in, chatting happily, passing flatbreads and pouring drinks…tension visibly retreating.

It was one of the many delights of that Summer - watching the families unwind and relax.. their tight, grey faces on arrival turning pink and smiley in the fresh air and summer sun. It was before, and still remains, one of my favourite things in the whole world – that golden hour, when the sun is low in the trees and the sounds waft across the campsite - adults murmuring and laughing outside their tents, whilst children shriek and laugh, calling to each other as they play in the woods. The undeniable benefits of green energy I would call it, when our children had complained at being torn away from screens and devices to go on walks, or to camp and as with them then, I could see the tangible difference made by full immersion all that Summer.

We didn’t talk much about what had happened to our family, Olivia and I. It was too painful. Instead, we showed up, worked alongside each other to create a great vibe for our visitors and on Saturdays either lay lazily reading books under the big hawthorn tree or ambled down the hill to either the little café offering the most wonderful sandwiches, cakes and tea on tables dotted around its spectacular cottage garden, tall with foxgloves and rose covered arches or the local pub complete with an orchard housing a pizza oven. Olivia has long been a fan of a good margherita pizza.

On Sundays, the process was reversed.. guests striking camp, fees collected, joyful farewells as we ferried them back down the hill to their waiting cars. Olivia and I tidied the field, cleaned the facilities under the beech tree, stored the bins for collection during the week and then, with a satisfied, happy sigh, took one last look at this beautiful place and jumped into our own car, the irreplaceable Steve, taking the bumpy, axel threatening lane back to the station.

I hugged her so tight those Sunday afternoons/..heart grateful for the time we got to spend together the weekends of that Summer and she hugged me right back. Both of us, in our own way, reaffirming what held true amongst the wreckage – our promise to each other - I love you. I will always be here for you. We still belong to each other.

You can’t put a price on an experience like that… and it all started with some photos, a rather large piece of paper and a wish.

What would you put on your vision board?