My fantasy escape is a writing retreat in the African bush. I sleep in a large double bed with white linen and a mosquito net, and have a view of a waterhole where elephants come to drink, bathe and cavort with their babies. There are monkeys in the trees and warthogs snuffling in the shrubbery.
Silent staff bring me meals – exactly what I require, when I require it, without my ever having to ask – and are available take me on game drives should I wish it.
My family are permitted to make short visits. When they leave they do not cry, but cover me with kisses and wave cheerfully. I feel no guilt when they leave.
There is also yoga, but after the class all the other participants must melt away, unless I like them, in which case they may stay for dinner and be highly entertaining.
I swim in a pool that is the perfect temperature, and take outside showers.
There is a library of books and fat, comfortable sofas in which to read.
There is a verandah, with views, for contemplation.
The temperature never rises about 28° Celsius, and never drops below 18.
I write, and dream, and wake, and sleep, all to the rhythm of the bushveld. I watch sunsets and stars, sunrises and morning mists, but sleep through the heat of the day.
I live in the moment, meditate to the sound of beetles and birds, and write and write and write.
Can I go there now?
Thanks to YogaMum for the inspiration.