Even the nine-hour drive by myself to the beach house near Adelaide was just what I needed. No stopping because someone else wanted a coffee or a wee. An entire podcast series of my choice.
No talking, other than the voice in my head: “How good.” Knowing I had a book deadline and lingering pneumonia, my friend Pies offered me her place in a South Australian town with a long beach and no shops. The house is a 1960s time capsule where our families have spent memorable holidays over decades.
This time, nobody else would be there. It would be all mine. Pies’ beach house.
Credit: Kate Halfpenny The idea of 12 days to write and recover with only myself to look after was intoxicating. I packed two pairs of tracky dacks, my wetsuit and boogie board, a tin of lemon slice, an electric blanket and a leopard print fake fur coat. Hit the road.
At the house, I made a pot of chicken soup and ate nothing else but that and chocolate every day. Without a TV, at night I listened to the second season of the podcast and did tapestry. Went to bed early, got up early to walk.
Wrote and read and bought old band t-shirts at the op shop two small towns over. In a world that often bombards us with the notion that happiness lies in constant connection, I’m discovering something surprising and profound: the joy of solitude. In midlife, being alone feels like the ultimate luxury.
It’s not about loneliness or withdrawing from the world. It’s about actively reclaiming time for myself and relishi.