Dear Passenger,
We lowered ourselves slowly into the icy river water, first giggling excitedly as it hit the backs of our knees, before allowing it to meet the stretches of our hips, and then finally dropping quickly to let the cold wash over our hot shoulders.
Never before had I been in such a setting — queer women and people of colour only, set against the backdrop of a softly turning river. Soft R&B snaked through the air as we chattered playfully about the little slice of space we found, away from the world and all to ourselves.
"For four sweet days, I wrote, hiked, drew, ate, danced, foraged, meditated, tanned, and laughed with people I felt safe with."
On the first afternoon, we settled into the campground, sharing a mallet or two that drifted from tent to tent. A small village of 50 or so, we helped each other secure flaps and ropes and metal pegs to hold our temporary homes in place. Most people I spoke to hadn’t camped before, or only recently camped for the first time. This setting was new for many of us.
I turned off my phone that first day, tucking it away in some backpack pocket. For the rest of the weekend, I asked the people around me for the time if I needed to know it. I woke up each morning unsure whether I was early or late, looking up at the sky and trying to guess. I journeyed back to my tent each night when my body told me it was time to close my eyes and rest.
"Most of us were strangers to one another, and we sought each other out, learning in a short time where a person called home, what brought them joy, and how they existed in their world."
Most of us were strangers to one another, and we sought each other out, learning in a short time where a person called home, what brought them joy, and how they existed in their world. We conversed in the nature air — over the sparkling campfire, through the purple fireweeds of a walking path, or across the glimmering riverbank.
I grew so quickly accustomed to the small Eden of Reverie as we shared meals, stories, opinions, and jokes. Within that stretch of land, I held my body in a way that felt unusually loose, dropping my usual self-awareness. For four sweet days, I wrote, hiked, drew, ate, danced, foraged, meditated, tanned, and laughed with people I felt safe with. They uplifted and held me. I felt both challenged and understood by them, invigorated and revitalised.
It hit me hard after being emptied back into Paddington Station. Like a fish out of water, I had the jarring realisation that I’d just left utopia, that that space was sacred. It was new for so many of us, yet I feel hopeful that it’s something we will all get to experience again and again.
Speak soon,
Sunny
We're proud to have been able to support Touch Grass' Reverie Retreat earlier this summer, a joyful weekender of laughing and meaningful time spent outdoors. Queer joy at its finest, and the film snaps say it all really... Look out for more of their Camp Letters, seeing us through the rest of summer.
Touch Grass is a London-based outdoor community for queer women and non-binary people of colour, born from “a need for community, at a time when people felt lonely and isolated”. They bring people together through thoughtfully curated gatherings and retreats—acts of unity, creativity, and intention.
