Life in Lockdown - Living in an Unintentional Community
By Philippa Battye
When friends ask how I’m doing in the midst of the Covid crisis, my answer ‘fine, no complaints’ is said with a touch of underlying guilt. This is because amongst the considerable difficulty which some are enduring, I feel fortunate to be getting by relatively unscathed. This is due to different things; my parents good health, the nature of my work, lack of dependents, and accommodating landlords, but most importantly, I think it is the surroundings and situation in which I’ve found myself living.
After 9 years in London of intense house share living with a very demanding work life, I left and spent 18 months roaming freely, mostly by bike, rarely staying in any one place for more than a month. Then by chance, good timing, and a serendipitous collision of bikepacking races and architects (in a petrol station forecourt on the West Coast of Ireland), I ended up where I am now - living in rural South Gloucestershire in what you might call an UN - intentional community. Twelve of us live within the fragmented remains of a former grand estate, hemmed in by cow-fields, sheep and woodland. Some have been here for decades, myself on and off for 15 months. It seems we all - families, couples and I - were all drawn here by the compelling setting of the place, with no promise or intent for it to be anything more. However, shared values, common creativity and willingness have led us all to live collectively, in a communally supportive place. There are no territories or private gardens across the site and woodland; everyone's door (often literally) is always open. During lockdown, this has meant for most of us our day to day interaction with the world is relatively unchanged, as we are mostly self-employed and already choose to work from home. Of course, being a freelance creative (there are 3 musicians among us) comes with its own challenges and considerable uncertainty. As an architect I am fortunate that my bread and butter project is also where I live, and during Covid I have evolved from architect to sometimes woodswoman and cowboy builder (turns out cycling endurance doesn’t transfer as well as I hoped!).
Photo credit: Philippa Battye
So, when Covid hit, we all sprung into collective action, the apocalypse we often joked about preparing for (one couple are obsessive foragers, fermenters, brewers, and sometimes squirrel shooters) seemed to be upon us. It was established who fell into the vulnerable category, and some reshuffling of living arrangements meant those in need could be isolated. One neighbour (mechanic and lover of all things engines) got his tractor on site to plough a small field, which if the intermittent frosts don’t kill the wee tatties will yield 2500 spuds! The chicken house which had been a work in progress for a few months got promptly finished where 9 chucks now happily reside. Our existing shared vegetable garden and polytunnel was prepped, potting sheds added and the composting is now a military operation. (I should add that I am far from green fingered, more often found unknowingly trampling over parsnip seedlings than nurturing them through life).
So, our normal modes of activity were boosted by a sense of immediacy, which seems commonplace among many streets, villages and communities across the country. In many places neighbourly support has had a heart-warming resurgence from days before my lifetime. My sister, having lived on the same street in South London for 8 years, is now on a WhatsApp group with her neighbours, introducing themselves, looking out for each other, sharing seedlings, and telling stories of ‘I remember when this street...’.
Beyond the day to day though, a spring and summer of plans have of course been put on ice - I’d be on my way to Spain right now by ferry, train and pedal power for a cycling race. Exploring on my bike and long-distance races have increasingly become a core part of what I love to do. Forces seemingly outside of my control compel me to move, seek the unknown, and more recently to find limits of what and where I feel comfortable and capable. But for now, like everyone, being asked to sit still has had a more positive impact than I might have expected. This constrained existence has quietened my restlessness. I have been given permission to stop - stop pushing, seeking, striving, just be still.
Photo credit: Philippa Battye
This has left my mind free from intermittent thoughts of planning and preparing for something in the future. Instead my present mind is liberated, and I can better appreciate where I am and what I have to be grateful for now. This is the longest I’ve stayed put since I quit my job. So instead of coming and going, packing up and vacating my house each time I leave, I’ve made myself a little more at home. I am experiencing the joy of seeing seeds I sowed turn to saplings, planting them out and watching things grow. It turns out there is great joy in the familiar, and extraordinary in the everyday. Plus with some extra time and shifting perspectives I’ve been able to give more thought to my longer term housing solution by designing my own ‘lighter touch’ home - an off grid cabin in the woods, which now I just need to get on and build! However, alongside the settled-ness of my current situation, my thoughts still wander to past moments etched on my mind which evoke that sense of limitlessness - a remote Pyrenean moon rise shared with friends, the elation of being whipped along in a tailwind through a Scottish glen, blinded by heavy rain, or simply cycling day after day with nothing more than basic needs to worry about. These moments shared with fellow wanderers allow me to feel more connected and alive.
Photo credit: Philippa Battye
Aside from a novel sense of calm, and the goodwill and connectedness that many are now experiencing, I am acutely aware that there is still considerable suffering as a result of the pandemic, heightened by the inequality that exists around the world. It is an unfortunate truth that those with less tend to suffer more in difficult societal and economic circumstances. The obvious injustice is that the lower paid workforce tend to be exposed to most risk, yet without them our basic infrastructure that keeps the wheels turning would fall apart - binmen, bus drivers, cleaners and carers, shelf stockers and delivery drivers. All those who provide for our basic needs - food, education, health, care - who’s rewards do not match the fundamental necessity of what they do. Pangs of guilt niggle, knowing I’m having an easy time of it while others are not. But, of course, suffering and inequality is not new, these are not a result of Covid, and my conscience should not be cleared once the pandemic blows through. Covid shines a light on the differences that exist across society all of the time. While at the mercy of the same force it is harder to turn a blind eye, and I feel those injustices more keenly.
There are, however, so many things to be thankful for, and Covid also illuminates what is good, and what could be great. Bicycle sales are booming, while car sales plummet and planes stay on the ground. Streets are emptier of cars, air is cleaner and safer, cycles begin to rule the road. Local exploration is the new big adventure, as we discover what is and always has been right outside our front doors. Plus the necessity and benefits of daily outdoor activity is being given the airtime that has been long overdue. As I pedal through Bath's deserted city centre (reminiscent of wobbly 4am walks home as a student), I am reminded what a beautiful city it can be. Normally, on any given Tuesday, it is hard to move through the throngs of visitors, while the Georgian architecture which Bath is renowned for goes unnoticed, lost behind soulless shops, and franchised eateries. But now the streets are empty, with diminished opportunities to spend and consume - instead the fields and lanes around where I live are full of walkers, runners, cyclists - more than I’ve ever seen. I reflect on these silver linings when things seem a bit bleak - what longevity might these Covid enforced changes have... Nice to imagine what the impact on long term health and wellbeing could be. There will of course be a cost to life, but we can find some solace that lives might be improved or saved in the future if individually and collectively we recognise the potential for positive change.
Photo credit: Philippa Battye
Through all of this I have waves of immense gratitude. For my health, the support and love of friends and family, my surroundings, but also my freedom. To have your physical freedom restricted makes you remember how lucky many of us are in the western world to have autonomy over how we chose to roam and navigate our worlds. I feel for those whose ability to move and explore is limited, either physically or by the expectations and pressures put upon us - which can be difficult to overcome.
So, this novel state of mind and renewed appreciation for all I have and am at liberty to do has left me feeling a bit like a coiled spring, or maybe more of a slinky? Latent energy ready and waiting to be released. For now I’m in no rush though, I’m taking great pleasure in the stillness. We won’t be compressed forever, and all the potential and possibility is still there. When things do return to normal, I’ve no doubt our enjoyment and appreciation for all we’ve been deprived of, will be amplified by this fleeting time without. Because, as my late grandmother told me, in the words of Rabindranath Tagore:
“no one lives forever, and nothing lasts for long”
Photo credit: Philippa Battye
Philippa Battye
Philippa is an architect, maker and long-distance cyclist. Currently most of her energy is directed at trying to keep a happy balance between all three, in order to maintain passion for and meaning in the things she loves to do.
Find Philippa on Instagram @philippabattye and check out her website here.