Living alone, according to Roger Deakin
Nature writer and wild swimmer Roger Deakin lived on his own for three decades, in an ancient, half-moated, timber-framed house in Suffolk, which he found in ruins and rebuilt himself. I've been drinking in his notes on his life there, and in particular his thoughts on solo domesticity. 'Doing all the usual lonely-man things tonight, ringing up friends all over the world and hanging on the phone for hours. Reading alone, eating a big plate of spaghetti alone.' Sometimes he found himself missing the sociability of cohabitants, sometimes he missed sharing practical tasks (even though he had been married, and found himself deeply unsuited to living with others).
I need someone to fold the sheet; someone to take the other end of the sheet and walk towards me and fold once, then step back, fold and walk towards me again. We all need someone to fold the sheet.
What chiefly captivated me, though, was how most of the time Deakin did not feel lonely. Profoundly romantic, he was capable of deriving an extraordinary sense of companionship from the non-human world. 'I am not lonely here because I feel so connected to the trees, the house, the meadows, the birds, the insects'.
He was obsessed with the fabric of his home, its old, creaking timbers a living presence to him. He always had a cat, and often several. 'They are full of love, and they engender peace. They are household angels.' He left his doors and windows open, except in the depth of winter, taking pleasure in the company of spiders, the lone newt trekking over his study rug, the ants that marched across his desk. ('My Lilliputians. To them a pencil is a mighty tree and I have to be careful not to sweep them away accidentally.') Paradise, for Deakin, was sitting writing in his outside W. C. with the door standing open, his cat Alfie hunting in the tall grass just outside, 'the first gnat flies aimlessly about'. Just revelling in his surroundings.
Deakin taking a bath at Walnut Tree Farm
The three 'Parade' paintings above and below are from an ongoing series dwelling on the loveliness of children experiencing the seasons. Each is set in the the same patch of landscape, something the staunch localist Deakin might have appreciated – a man doggedly, microscopically interested in the place where he lived, prowling his home along with his cats, swimming in his moat, anxiously searching for a spider whose nest had been destroyed by a day's harvesting. Is there a lesson in the pleasure of paying attention here? Maybe. Or maybe it is just wonderful to think of the many different ways in which people choose to live.
This November marks the first anniversary of my newsletter. It is such a joy to write – thank you so much for reading, and replying, and being part of this blissful community.
This November also marks my going freelance with my painting and book-writing as the history fellowship I've been doing for the past four years has come to an end. It's an exciting, but also nerve-racking moment. (If you are thinking about Christmas, remember there are cards, prints and original paintings in my shop, and that I have commission and mural slots open for next year!)
Best wishes for a November filled with connection – with people and with the natural world,
With love,
Anna xx
