06/02/2026
Iām lying on my belly on the rug I bought on sale for way more than I ever thought Iād spend on a rug. The cats are very fond of this rug and have clawed at it over the years so itās now āboho by accidentā.
In the month Iāve been away our chickens have gone from teenagers to fully grown. They are always together. When one finds some food or an interesting pile to peck at the others will run over to find out what theyāre missing out on. In the heat of the afternoon they sit and bathe in the dirt underneath the Cedar tree. At night they sleep together on their perch, cooing and shuffling as I go down with the torch and lock them in. The constant supply of eggs is wonderful but no means my favourite thing about them. I could watch them for hours.
The property has changed since Iāve been away. Rod has been hard at work planting and mulching and building the foundations for a cabin that I call a writing cabin and he calls a musical instrument cabin on the flat at the top of the hill. For years, huge wooden door frames that remind me of church doors have sat on the balcony. Now heās sanding them back to reveal light wood carved around intricate curves. The tamarillo trees are growing and will hopefully soon produce their tart, succulent fruits. The orange tree is full of fragrant blossom and tiny balls of promise. All around me, life is doing her thing. Growing, expanding, contracting, dying.
I arrived back on Monday from India, and then England which I casually told myself was āon the way backā, but was actually a 16 hour journey - from Trivandrum via Bangalore to rainy Heathrow. I spent many uncomfortable hours squirming in impossibly small aeroplane seats, dreaming of lying flat, listening to The Covenant of Water through my crackly headphones and falling in and out of disturbed sleep. My tactic on long haul flights is, again, a really good eye mask and earplugs. I also choose a seat in the back row.. My theory is thereās more likely to be spare seats at the back as everyone chooses the front, and having the space behind me where the air stewards stand and the āfoodā is prepared makes me feel a little less claustrophobic.
On the Bangalore to London leg as I was standing near the toilets stretching, I had a very interesting conversation with a man who lived between India and England. We spoke at length about his home country of India, how much he misses living there, how much he struggles with the dreary English winter but how settled his family are and how difficult it would be to move them back to South India where his heart is. I told him about my family living in rural Herefordshire and the extreme distance between the home Iāve made for myself and my birth home. In this age there are so many opportunities to travel. That travel has caused many of us to spread out around the world, away from family and friends. āI just want to move all my family out to Batemans Bayā I told him. ābut even if that was possible, itās not up to me.ā
When the plane touched down at Heathrow the sky was dark. Sheets of rain lashed against the small windows. Iād insisted on only taking hand luggage, refusing to lug winter clothes around sweltering South India. Now I was regretting my decision. Everyone else on my flight was wrapped up in jumpers and puffer jackets with sensible closed shoes. I was wearing all the clothes I had. Flimsy sandals I bought in Chennai for 200 rupees. Loose cotton trousers. A t-shirt. Light scarf and a silk shirt.
One of the most painful parts of air travel is the very last bit when the plane has stopped, the fasten seatbelt sign has been switched off and weāre waiting for the doors to open. Everyone is half standing, half crouching, trying to grab their bags from the overhead lockers without hitting someone in the face. Weāve been cooped up for hours. It seems to take forever for the doors to open and for us to be released. Eventually we are let out into the cold, wet London night.
I got a few strange looks as I pounded the pavements to the Heathrow Express train, my sandals clicking like high heels on the pavement. I got the train to Paddington where Iād sensibly decided to book a cheap hotel for the night, rather than negotiating the huge mission to Hereford by train or bus, another five hours at least. Google maps told me the hotel was a five minute walk from the station, but I didnāt count on the confusing pedestrian underpass not being marked on the map. I walked around in circles for a while in my summer clothes, freezing and exhausted. Eventually I asked someone, made it into the central heating and collapsed on a comfortable bed.
My train was at 7:30am the next morning. Iād forgotten the sun doesnāt rise until past 8am. I got dressed in the same clothes Iād been wearing for days and stepped out into more darkness. At Paddington station I ordered a āFlat Whiteā from Pret that was strong and delicious. āSince when did England serve flat whitesā I thought. I bought another notebook at WH Smith and in my tiredness a novel that Iād already read. I found a seat on the train that was forward facing with a table for writing. I settled in, crossing my legs now that I had the luxury of a spare seat next to me.
As the train rumbled through outer London the sun started to rise behind steely clouds and buildings gave way to fields and rivers. āItās so greenā I said to myself as I always do. England was dealing with an abundance of water. Rivers had broken their banks and were spilling out into the fields turning them into silver platters. Pretty but devastating.
Thereās a lot of mud here, Mum warned me.
The countryside started to get more familiar as we moved through Bristol, Newport and Worcester. At Hereford station I caught a glimpse of my Mum standing outside the gates in a knitted hat, looking smaller than I remember. She drove me the final half an hour back to āPool Cottageā my quirky childhood home that my Dad built 45 years before. I walked in the door, had a cup of tea and started to run a bath.
The next few days were filled with appointments, walks up the road with my Dad who is regaining some strength after months in and out of hospital, painting and sleeping. On Tuesday morning I woke up early to the sound of rain. Here in Batemans Bay Iām always praying for rain. There never seems to be enough and the flowers I plant always seem thirsty even after standing over them with a hose for what feels like hours. My first thought is āhow wonderful, itās rainingā. I lay out my mat and twist and stretch in the darkness. When I go down to make coffee my Mum is already awake. Sheās darting around with a torch, peering out into the freezing dark.
āIām afraid the water level has risen dramaticallyā she said, worry set into her face. āItās been raining heavily all night and itās not stopping. I hope it wonāt come in the houseā.
I open the front door and shine the torch into the dark morning. What should be land is now water. The rain is relentless. Only the very top step can be seen, the entire driveway and bottom steps up to the house are submerged.
I message my brother. āFlooding. Itās pretty bad. Dont know what to doā.
āI think I should come downā
āYes. Pls! Xā
My brother lives four hours away in Leeds. He has two little kids and itās difficult to get away, but I know we all need to be together at this time.
In the summer my parents had some work done to prevent water coming in the house. A family friend dug a trench for the water to escape. It wonāt come in, I said.
Minutes later dark, ominous pools of water start to appear in the study. I text Robin again āitās in the house!ā.
The water has risen past the damp proof course and is now soaking the carpet. The pools merge and soon the entire room is flooded. I run around desperately lifting files and papers from the floor up onto shelves and carrying cabinets out into the hallway.
āGet the de-humidifier!ā My dad shouts. āAnd the wet and dry vacuum!ā
The de-humidifier is up in the attic. I climb up the narrow ladder and manoeuvre it down. what would they do if I wasnāt here I keep thinking. But thereās not too much time to think about that. I run out into the pouring rain to the shed and wrangle the vacuum into the house.
Theyāve been here before. The house flooded for the first time a year ago.
My Dad gives me instructions.
āStart sucking up the water. When the vacuum is full it will stop. Then you empty it outsideā.
I get on my hands and knees and start pulling water from the carpet. It feels like an impossible job at first. The more I suck, the more water rises. My parents assure me it works so I keep going. Eventually the rain eases but the water is still rising. Mum and I have to get Dad to a blood test in the village of Weobley at 9am. We abandon the clean up job for now and half carry, half walk Dad out into the flood. Thereās only two pairs of wellies so I pull my Mums trousers up around my knees and wade out in bare feet. The water is shockingly cold. We get him in the car and I drive cautiously through the floods, having to turn around once to go a different way. When we get to the surgery the nurse isnāt there. āSheās stuck in the floodsā they say. We tried to contact you. Youāll have to go to Herefordā.
We sit in the car for a few moments, wavering. Should we go back and look after the house? Or should we continue to the next town? In the end we decide my Dadās treatment is more important and set off again.
In the Fred Bulmer cancer treatment centre the nurses are kind and familiar. They take his blood and within a few minutes weāre done and on the way back to the flood ravaged house. The water levels are dropping, leaving thick mud with the consistency of melted chocolate coating every surface. I get back to vacuuming the water. amazingly it appears to be working. After a few hours and countless vacuums full of water emptied out the front the carpet is damp not wet.
My brother arrives late afternoon. Heās driven the borrowed car through flood water and the engine is smoking ominously. he jumps out, jovial and enthusiastic as always. āI probably shouldnāt have driven through thatā he grins. āBut I just thought f*&k it, Iām here nowā. I raise my eyebrows. āI think you should drive it up and down the road a couple of times, just to checkā. I know nothing about cars but this seems like a logical way to fix a flooded engine.
I go back into the warm kitchen and keep chopping onions for the simple fish curry Iām making. I feel rather powerless against the forces of nature, but what I can do is cook and clean. I wipe down surfaces and bake endless āhealthyā jam drop cookies that Dad devours. Heās developed a sweet tooth in recent months.
Itās been a long time since weāve been together, just the four of us. We sit down and start to discuss the hard realities of Mum and Dad living in such an isolated, increasingly flood affected place. This house, Pool Cottage that was built brick my brick by my Dadās hands holds a huge amount of sentimental value for us all. Everyone agrees that eventually, a move is imminent. We sit around the carved oak table. Thereās nothing like a natural disaster to bring us together I think.
In the morning the water is much lower again. The next arduous task is to shovel mud from the driveway into a wheelbarrow and then dump it away from the house. Again, it feels impossible. I feel like the princess in Rumpelstiltskin whoās given the task of spinning a room full of straw into gold. My brother and I grab shovels and get to work, laughing at the ridiculous-ness of it all. As tiring as it is, it feels good to move. After a while my back is sore and my shoulders are burning. Iāve got mud everywhere, even up my nostrils.
I survey my work. Nothing has changed. Everything is still covered in mud, itās just less thick.
I give up and go back into the house and eat the cookies I made.
The sun has come out and is streaming through the windows. the skeleton trees cast dramatic shapes against the rarity of a blue sky.
In the evening we play Pictionary and my dreams are filled with water.
My life in Australia suddenly feels a long way away.
Now Iām back, listening to the Kookaburras herald another steamy day on the south coast. Iām finally sleeping at night, after days of jet lag that feels like the hangovers I used to get after drinking vodka and red bull and smoking ci******es all night.
The sweetness of arriving back to the studio that looks even more beautiful than when I left, smiling faces, warm hugs, cacao, the ocean, sunlight and nights spent in the arms of my favourite person in the world is almost too much to bear.
My time away was electrifying, heartbreaking, emotional, cleansing, tiring and rejuvenating all at the same time. Every time I go away Iām even more eternally grateful for where I live and the life Iāve created for myself.
Thank you for being part of it. A friend of mine told me that coming to class at the studio was like getting therapy but much cheaper and I have to agree. Thereās something so comforting about being in a room with other people, not talking but communicating in the energetic realms. Breathing, moving and singing together with a shared intention to live a meaningful life. The studio is the āthird spaceā. not home. Not work. A space to hang out, drink tea in the courtyard, meet friends, nurture yourself. Iām so grateful. Thank you for being part of it. Without you, Soul Tribe isnāt here!
I cant wait to see you all at the studio soon.
You also might be keen to join me on a 4 day retreat on the far South Coast in March, a Yin immersion in April, a yoga mythology training in Far North Bali in late May or a hiking, whale shark swimming and canoeing adventure in Ningaloo in July.
All my love, Clare
