Life On The B-Road
What three years of village life have taught me about time.
Like most of you, I spent a good twenty-something years trying to make something of myself - by which, I mean working on a career and trying to be successful™. And like many of you, I never found what I was looking for. And I suffered over it for most of that time.
I’ve lived in cities for most of my life, with Prague being the most recent. In the seven years I spent there, it could be said that I achieved many things, but all of them were driven by money. What I mean is, I ran businesses with a fair degree of commercial success, played live music with a reasonable proportion of paid gigs, worked with friends on their projects for a bit of cash, did a few office jobs (when times were tough), and worked... well, you get the idea.
But one thing I never had time for was myself. In the seven years I lived in that pretty, diverse city, my main goal was to keep the rent paid. Even feeding myself, unfortunately, took a back seat. I never had time to work on my musical development, learn to paint, to read German, or to sit by the river and watch the ducks. And on the odd summer occasion, when I might have found a moment to enjoy the day, my head was constantly swimming in business ideas - things I could do to make more cash. It was an unbreakable cycle. Despite the people and places I grew close to, living in the city was always hard work.
In my last year as a Prager, home was on the outskirts. It was a huge improvement over the bustling central district, and there was parking at the house. The back yard was a big forest with two lakes, where you could do a bit of swimming, boating, wake-boarding and naked sunbathing. But city life remained city life, and I was tired. By the end of the summer, I’d finished rebuilding my van, Burt, for the third time, and I was ready to get away from the trams, the cars, the dirt and the noise. No more commuting. No more Prague.
The following soundscape was created for this post, to help immerse you deeper into the vibe of the story. If you like this soundscape, I’d appreciate a comment.
Changing Down A Gear
Over the following months, Burtmanwoman, Byron and I lived in Burt, exploring small towns, and as the summer drew to a close, we took up residence in a variety of AirBnB apartments, scattered far and wide across the country. I enjoyed the movement and the changes of scenery, but the cost was double that of renting an apartment, and the constant packing and unpacking was starting to take its toll. We needed somewhere to settle in. And that’s when we found Ostravice, a beautiful, tiny village in the mountains, just shy of the Polish border.
We settled in quickly, establishing a simple routine that revolved mostly around long walks in the forest and a weekly shopping run. It was bliss.
After a few months in the mountains, I was ready to retire. I’d found a remote job, and, despite its unsocial hours, it gave me plenty of time to do my own thing, and I never even thought about rent. My mind was starting to clear, and my body was responding. I was sleeping like a log, waking up refreshed, excited about my day, and in the time between work and sleep, I’d learned to live in the moment.
Some days, there would be sheep in the garden. Other days, goats, deer, moles or birds of prey.
At the bottom of the mountain was the central hub of the village - the business district; a small cafe, a wood mill, and a single train track that carried rickety carriages from village to village, at a snail’s pace. It felt like Twin Peaks, and reminded me of days in childhood, when we would go the beach in an old wooden train that clunked and shook all the way there and all the way back. On busy days, you might see a tractor.
With no tower blocks, no bars, no drunks, and no roadside video ads, the attractions were: a stream, a little store that sold fireplaces, a vegetable shop selling produce from the field behind it, and a tiny post office, from where I would occasionally communicate with the world. The air was sparsely decorated with the sounds of bleating sheep, wood saws and passing trains, and it smelled of wood smoke and fresh forest pines.
I started to write, with time to think and edit and try things out. I picked up my camera, again, after many neglectful years. What on Earth had I been so busy with, before now? What had I been rushing for? I started to wonder if I had ever really noticed the blooming trees, or acknowledged my neighbors in any meaningful way. I started to wonder about a lot of things I’d previously considered normal (or not considered, at all).
Silence Became A Need
Time has passed since Ostravice. We moved on and lived in other villages, and we took a few months to see the country. When we finally settled, again, we found the perfect pitch, just outside the place we’d called home for all those years. The rent isn’t unreasonable, space is available and friends aren’t too far away. I can take a break in my garden, pluck an apple from the tree and play with Byron. I’ve had time to pick up a couple of new instruments, several new languages and more, plus a deep appreciation for time and space.
In the village, I have no telephone. Nothing to carry with me, besides my door key and a tennis ball for Byron. I have nowhere to be beside present, and I like it much more than you’d expect.
Three years in, the village life has become the only possible way for me to live. I no longer feel the need to occupy every moment with noise and distraction and false productivity. I only play music when I feel like listening to an entire album, not just to fill the pockets of space between jobs. With no need for a diary, my day starts when it starts, and becomes what it will become. I don’t even have a clock in my house. People visit, from time to time, and I sometimes make the effort to travel into the city. Most days, though, I just work on my hobbies, play with Byron, and enjoy my extensive collection of teas. I live in the middle of nowhere, there’s nothing happening, and it’s everything I hoped it would be.
Today, I watched a man plough a field for twenty minutes, because I have an attention span and time to ponder and be curious.
I’ve found peace.
You Should Try Offline Living
Now that I’m here, on substack, I’ve been enjoying reading what other creative people have felt the desire to share, and in a piece I was recently recommended, shared by my cousin and ex-creative editor, @cousinray, I came across the wonderful term ‘analog nights’. They’re nights when you make an effort to disconnect from your digital personas and do things that make you feel like you exist in the real world. I like the term, and I like what it means, and since I’ve been living it for the last three years, I can thoroughly recommend it.
You just stop scrolling and put your phone down. And then, as if by magic, you suddenly have time to do other things. You can try cooking a new recipe, for example. Surprise yourself. Bake some bread. Read a book. Stare out at the sky and think about the day. Write something. Smell the air. Take your dog out and come back muddy. It’s all there to be discovered.
I think it could be just what you need.
