Porridge in a wok
by Kendra Futcher
Who participated in The Murmuration, a Dark Angels online writing programme in 2022.
The spaghetti roads twist and turn into deepest Dorset. A slice of land so prehistoric, you just might see a velociraptor on the horizon. We arrive at Trill-on-the-Hill greeted by a cheery sign and it’s time to slow down, open the gate, and abandon the car in the long grass.
The air is damp and fresh, and a smell of herbs and gorse fill my nostrils. We fill up our wheelbarrow and make our way to our yurt. This is a magical pocket of wild woodland and meadows, abundant in wildlife and just a hop, skip and a jump from the gloriously unruly Jurassic Coast. As we wobble our way through the wilderness to our home for the weekend, there’s a strong sense that nature is our host. In fact, we’re also hosted by the wonderful people of Trill on the Hill – Lara, one of the founders and Chris, our wise wild living teacher.
Life here is glorious. Badgers, owls, bats, and a small flock of Gotland Sheep call it home. Yurts are dotted thoughtfully about in little nooks, with several communal cooking areas, a community gathering circle with a roaring fire pit at its heart. Composting loos come as standard and wash-if-you-dare bucket showers complete with Trill’s natural products, scented by the landscape. It’s a heavenly decision-free zone.
We’ve arrived unprepared so hit the nearby farm shop for provisions and equipment. Armed with a wok like the one from my student flat, we cook everything in it and learn a few lessons along the way. Note to self: porridge in a wok works a treat.
We spend our days being woken by the sun’s gentle reveal, chatting with new friends, eating simple food by the fire and exploring the wild woodland. Lara and Chris are there to guide, but it feels soft and pressure free. Join the walk and learn about the creatures around us, tag along to the foraging session, master the ancient art of whittling or just sit and soak up this special place. Kids have a riot. Chopping wood with wild abandon, listening intently to the didgeridoo fuelled fire stories, spotting bats, and playing games by moonlight. This is the stuff of childhood, untethered.
The sun shines just enough, and the rain keeps us on our toes. It pays to take clothes for every season. An early morning dip at Lyme surrounded by calm sea, smiley faces, and powered by posh coffee wakes us from our camping haze. Time passes. We sit cross-legged and warmed by the sun on the yoga deck, learning to weave Gotland wool into rugged dung-encrusted wall hangings. We talk, sharing snippets of our lives, experiences, and ideas. It’s real, unpolished, and ancient.
Home time. Wood smoke lingers, infusing itself into every nook. We cram what feels like twice the amount of stuff back in the car, and the minute we get on the A35, feel bone-tired and resistant to real life. We return to the rigid structures and routines, but dream of whittling, stories by firelight and porridge in a wok.
Until next time Trill.