THE WILD, COMMUNES (THAT AREN’T REALLY COMMUNES) & FAMILY (THAT ARE REALLY STRANGERS)

By Lian Brook-Tyler

I’d lived in 11+ places (some of which weren’t houses) by the time I was 11.

All of those places made their mark in some way, left a wound or a soft spot in my heart, but perhaps no more so than The Old Smithy, a converted black smith forge owned by an uprooted Canadian artist called Allen, in Exmoor, North Devon.

Despite, or maybe because of, its solitary position, there was a gentle trickle of humans seeking refuge there... from things that 8 year olds know not.

We lived with Allen and others who were staying for a while, finding their place in bedrooms, mezzanine perches, or caravans.

The Old Smithy was generous... there was always space for more, even if it meant building your room with your own hands, as we did.

I guess it was the closest to a commune a place can get, without it actually being a commune.

And we were immersed in wild magic... precious found bird eggs, moles with improbable black velvet for fur, toeless frost-bitten chickens, and the ancient warmth of wood fire.

Here I am now, decades older and I can see how the smithy has weaved its way into my life.

My love of the wild, of the simplest of pleasures, of art and artists, of new friends who become family-for-now... they were all formed in its forge.

The King sang ‘Home is where the heart is’ but perhaps sometimes... your heart is where the home was.

Where’s yours?

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