The Sharpham estate has been offering guests an escape from the stresses of modern life for decades. But could it help our writer to deal with his anxiety?
We were sitting under a giant sweet chestnut at the top of a steep field tumbling down to the River Dart, like a rivulet of mercury winding north to Totnes and beyond to Dartmoor, whose crooked granite tors look like approving thumbs. Greenfinches chirred and a song thrush went through its dial-up modem repertoire. A lone seal lolloped on the estuary mud, lazily waiting for the tidal river to reclaim it.
“I come into the peace of wild things / who do not tax their lives with forethought / of grief … ”, whispered Frank, leading our group’s nature walk. “… for a time / I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.”
