Hosted by the Moor

View of Dartmoor taken by Jill Dimond

 Last month I wrote about being hosted by a sky of many blues. Perhaps it’s no surprise that January continued to invite me into a deeper exploration of what restores us.

A couple of weeks ago, I was fortunate enough to spend a weekend on Dartmoor, a place I hadn’t properly visited since training for the Ten Tors challenge in sixth form. My memory of it was as exposed and hostile: granite outcrops standing firm against relentless rain, spongy peat underfoot, uneven mounds of vegetation hiding rouged stones. A wild landscape that

demands alertness. The weather can turn in an instant, fog swallowing you whole or rain driving sideways across the moor. Carrying all your provisions for a weekend camping there was demanding, and not something I’d rushed back to do.

This time, I was curious. How would it feel to return?

We stayed at Bernard’s Acre, an amazing bunkhouse on the edge of the moor near Okehampton, a welcoming building surrounded entirely by open land, with a stream running through the grounds. The retreat was carefully crafted and lovingly held by fellow spiritual director Nicky Temple, showcasing the very best of what this precious work can offer.

Surprisingly, the weather was fine on our first day. I sprang out into the sunshine, eager to stretch my frustrated legs after a very wet week at my desk. Though I hadn’t walked the moors for over thirty years, my body remembered. The ground felt familiar. My eyes scanned the horizon for changes in the sky. Almost unconsciously I noted the wind direction and the position of the sun. I left without a thought, no map, no water, no waterproofs, confident I wouldn’t be gone long and would find my way back.

Over the three days, I went out in all weathers. Stripping off layers when the sun appeared, pulling down my hat and zipping up my hood in defiance of the wind, wrapped in waterproofs as the rain lashed down. It was glorious.

Dartmoor's a place where the boundaries between earth, sky, and water blur. Water seeps from everywhere. When it rains, it doesn’t only fall, it rises vertically from the ground. Rivulets find passage in every direction. You are no exception. The moor seeks to assimilate you into its peaty bogs.

I arrived on retreat conscious of a lot of internal noise. Christmas had been full, and since then I’d been working hard to complete several projects. It wasn’t just my legs that arrived feeling disconnected.

To step outside and be surrounded by wilderness was pure joy. I meandered through the valley, my feet finding the driest steps before climbing the slopes and scrambling up granite stacks. As I walked, Silence accompanied me and my mind emptied. The moor absorbed all my attention, filled every sense. I paused, becoming as still as the rock beneath me. My body glimpsed a geological way of measuring time, slowing my rushing attention.

I paid attention to the plants beneath my feet, the vibrant colours of the landscape, the shifting light. I walked along the stream, noticing its changing voice. It murmured, babbled, gurgled, glopped, and sang. Its presence quenched something deep within me that hadn’t realised how parched it was.

Time on the moor was deeply, deeply restful and restorative. I felt connected and held, emptied and filled, human and whole.

It was also a joy to be with other women, strangers at first, but through courageously sharing our stories, over nourishing food, around the crackling fire and in shared quietude, we formed deep connection. We marvelled at each other’s gifts, resilience, and compassion. Retreat reminded me how transformative it is to be listened to, by land, by silence, and by other human beings.

Such a rich and precious time. On retreat I felt fully human, fully alive.

A couple of weeks on, I find myself wondering how I can walk into 2026 with more connection to the earth, to silence, and to others. How can I feel more human and more alive back home, in the life that I live?

I’m missing the silence and space of Dartmoor. Being on the moor made me more aware of how rare this kind of restoration is for many.

Coming home, I’ve been struck by how rare this kind of restoration is for many. This week I read that only one in three people in the UK have easy access to a green space. Sobering. I’m fortunate to live in one of the most biodiverse areas of the country. Even so, I still need to get in the car to find a soundscape free from road noise, a place where nature’s voice can do its deep work. It’s easy to forget that just fifteen minutes in nature can improve mood, reduce blood pressure and heart rate, and help us focus. And yet even this is out of reach for many.

I’m also missing the women.

I live in a small town where, when I leave the house to run short errands, I’m likely to bump into people who have time for a brief chat. I wonder how many people live with that sense of community. In this age of technical connectivity, many feel deeply isolated and ashamed of how they’re responding to that inhuman state. As a lone worker I get glimpses of it. Loneliness is as damaging to our health as smoking twenty cigarettes a day. It’s life‑threatening.

The more I sat with this, the more I realised these aren’t just personal struggles, they’re collective ones. Many of us are struggling to feel healthy in mind, body, or spirit. Personal development offerings abound. Psychological, physical, nutritional, and spiritual wisdom are out there. We can learn how to work with our thought patterns and behaviours to implement the change we want in our lives. But for change to take root, we need human support. Both spiritual direction and coaching offer such connection and encouragement.

And yet individual action is limited. Jesus called us to love our neighbours as ourselves because, having spoken the world into being, he knew how interconnected we are. It’s foolishness to believe some can flourish at the expense of others. Retreat reminded me of the preciousness of time with the land and time in community. Returning home has reminded me how limited access to both has become. Land access and community participation are systemic issues requiring collective action.

Even in the midst of these realities, the turning of the seasons reminds me that hidden growth is always at work. Today is the Celtic festival of Imbolc — “in the belly.” A time when ewes are typically pregnant. It marks the start of spring. Though winter may still be visible, the earth’s energy has shifted from rest to hidden growth.

Underneath it all, I realised I was longing for a more human rhythm, one where land, silence, and companionship weren’t rare gifts but daily nourishment.

At the start of Spring 2026, I’m full of longing for restorative access to land and community for myself and others. I wonder what life it will give birth to this year.

As the seasons turn, why not take some time to pay attention to what you experienced and noticed in January. What longings are you full of?

These are the questions of spiritual direction. Together we can hold a precious incubation space for our hearts and imaginations to meet.

If your own longings are beginning to stir with the turning of the season, and you’d value a quiet, attentive space to explore them, you’re warmly invited to reach out. I’d be honoured to listen with you.