Listening to the Voices

Ten years ago, closing the restaurant almost broke me. So I went to walk in the mountains. It is my meditation. Somewhere that nothing is asked from me. Where I can listen and see clearly.

I am sitting at my kitchen table in London, a map of the Brecon Beacons spread before me. Its paper smells of fresh print. On the stove, a pan of fennel and prawn risotto bubbles gently, the scent of aniseed curling into the air. Around me, wooden wine boxes are stacked high with the remnants of another life—cutlery, dishes, plates, glasses, pestles and mortars from my restaurant.

Today I signed the lease away to a younger chef, full of ideas and nerve and the kind of energy I once thought would last forever. I wish him well. I knew it was time to let go. Moving to Covent Garden had been a mistake, but my pride fought to keep that dream alive. Beneath the pride though, was disappointment and fatigue. The sensual, instinctive joy I once felt cooking in our wonderful garage restaurant—the pleasure of shopping each morning in the markets for our no-choice, daily-changing menu—had given way to spreadsheets, tax returns, and invoices. I was no longer creating; I was managing. The restaurant had had lost its meaning for me.

Months before it ended, old ghosts had begun to stir—memories I had kept buried for decades, the familiar whisper speaking of failure. With the exhaustion came despair and an increasing sense of alienation. I was fifty, and it felt as though that old story was closing in on me again. I had a good enough life. Perhaps it was time.

After the doctor prescribed antidepressants, I was able to navigate these feelings better. The medication steadied me, but it also blurred the edges, separating me from myself. Don’t get me wrong—it helped. Sometimes there were moments of elation. Like taking a running slide down a long corridor of polished wood. My mind cleared. Soon enough, the negative thoughts dispersed. I was breathing clear air again. But it was like an oxygen mask, not a mountaintop. I knew that to properly heal, I needed something more elemental. A way to listen from within.

So I threw some gear into a pack and took the train to Wales. I went to walk in the mountains there. Walking is my meditation. The mountains ask nothing from me. Among them I can listen and see more clearly.

I camped in a stand of birch trees beside a hidden river deep in the valley below the summit of Pen-y-Fan. The air smelled of wet bark and moss. I built a small circle of stones, lit a fire, and watched the smoke climb into the trees. When morning came, I jumped naked into the water. It was cold, catching my breath—but soothing too. I sank deep into the pool. The water closed over my head, and for just a moment, the world went perfectly still. Surfacing, my skin felt raw and clean. I lay on a flat rock to dry off in the September sun. The river gurgled around me like laughter, falling into the pool below. I lay there, feeling part of a world bigger than myself. Something that does not require willpower or judgement.

That night, as the embers of my little fire dwindled and the stars came out, I heard it—a whisper, soft as breath: You belong to us. You are part of the world. You are loved. It wasn’t a voice exactly, but something older, woven through the sound of water and wind. A breeze in the birch branches. Tears came before I could stop them. Years of shame and endless striving washed away, carried downstream. The river laughs—or maybe it was me. Ridiculous but alive.

Now, back home at the table, my husband looks up and asks quietly,
“So, what did you learn from your weekend in the woods?”

“That I need to listen to the right voices,” I say.

He reaches across the table and takes my hand.
“The man I love.” And smiles.