A Journey Back to Nature: Slowing Down and Redefining Home
This week, we have a guest writer, Grace Kavanagh-Shields, who recently stayed at our Reconnect cabin with her partner, Izzie. They packed up their life and took to the road, living out of their van, Eugene. They’ve been on the road since January 2024 and visited France, Spain and Portugal before coming back to the UK for summer and Autumn. Read on to see how she has found nomadic, freelance life on the road.
Finding freedom
As a child I remember being utterly obsessed with VW campervans. In the backseat of the family car, I’d strain my little head around, eyes glued to the rear window as a rickety rust-ridden 1970’s VW Kombi trundled and spluttered behind us on the motorway. The proud owners always appeared so free, rolling along like something out of a nostalgic road trip movie. They carried the essence of the open road, independence, and the excitement of adventures beyond the horizon.
Later in my teens I’d print off photos of campers in varying iconic colourways and pin them to my bedroom wall. To me, they represented more than a 60’s flower power rebellion—they symbolised an escape from the sleepy town I was outgrowing, a ticket into the “real world” where thrilling possibilities awaited. Those images flickered throughout my teenage dreams and planted a seed that would stay with me, one that, I somehow knew, would eventually blossom into the life I’m living now.
Fast forward over a decade, I could hardly believe it when we set our tools down at the beginning of this year—our own camper was finally ready to hit the road. Nearly two years in the making, we’d moved out of our house share in Bristol and bunked in with my partner's family to achieve our dream of building a home on wheels. Rent surges and a post- Covid call to the wild gave us the final nudge to pile all the savings we had into Eugene, our Citroen Relay MOD minibus-turned-tiny house. With two tired but beaming faces, we admired the metal box we’d somehow transformed into a semi-decent haven—half cottage, half hobbit hole.
Whilst it wasn’t quite the vintage VW hippy van of my childhood dreams, it was our version of it. As we meandered down the slow lane through France, Spain, and Portugal, Eugene became more than just an adventure-mobile. It was a leap towards a slower, more intentional life.
Eugene, Grace’s home on wheels.
Beating burnout through seasonal shifts
What I hadn’t realised at the time was how much the build itself anchored me as I navigated the impossible waters of burnout. My career in travel marketing was fast-paced and varied—but it was draining me. Building the van gave me something tangible, something with real weight, a creative challenge I could pour myself into—one hand-sanded panel at a time. Through the bitter winter, spring’s showers and autumn’s russet blaze, I watched as the sleepy village around us shifted from grey to gold.
Our time on the road pushed us to slip into seasonal rhythms, grounding me in a way that I hadn’t felt since my early childhood. Through living almost entirely outside, we noticed things we’d simply taken for granted before—the subtle shifts in the winter air, the rich shades of autumn and the dewy promise of spring. I knew I’d savour these small moments and carry the feeling into the next chapters of our lives, wherever they may lead.
This time away from the city life I’d known through my early twenties was a homecoming of sorts. I began to find solace in simple rituals—bringing along my little film camera on walks. The slow, clunky nature of shooting analogue held me in moments long enough to discover new species around the garden—pushing me to be present. It forced me to slow down, to wait, to notice the small details in the landscape. I found myself mindful of every frame, aware of the limited shots in each roll, and I relished the process of finding beauty in ordinary places. On these walks, I started to forage, learning familiar flora—wild garlic, nettles, berries—and the migratory patterns of local birds. It was like reconnecting with an old friend, one who had always been there but had quietly receded into the background during the city years.
Once Eugene was road-ready, I knew something had clicked back into place. This reintroduction to nature felt like the beginning of my own rewilding journey. Inspired by this newfound clarity, I let go of my full-time job and stepped into the freelancing world, choosing to work with a handful of purpose-driven small businesses. Life in the van gave us the gift of lower monthly costs, and the freedom to travel across the UK and Europe without the weight of a 9-5, rent or bills that would have otherwise tethered us to a big city.
Slowing down
Slow living, and by extension, slow travel has ultimately been about choosing my own peace. It’s a peace where I can release the grip of hustle culture, abandon burnout cycles, and let go of the societal pressure to be "top of my game.” I no longer live for the weekend or scroll through others’ highlights late into the night, searching for a life I wished were mine. The relentless pace of modern hustle casts a shadow over moments that could be savoured, replacing simple joys with a perpetual, uneasy rush. This life, our life on the road, may not be fast-paced or glamorous, but it’s authentic, unhurried, and deeply satisfying.
Life on the road itself brings its own challenges. Unlike the muddled, often chaotic rhythm of my city years, van life forces a daily simplicity, a deliberate slowing down. When every resource is carefully considered—when the flick of a light, the turn of a thermostat, or even flushing the toilet isn’t taken for granted, you’re grounded in the moment. Running on solar power, we’re at the mercy of daylight, making decisions around parking, timing our stays, and even mapping out the next water fill-up or the safest place to sleep each night. For two women on the road, the rule of no driving at night has become a constant; security and self-sufficiency are our first priorities.
Though we’ve spent the year tracing Europe’s sunlit shores, the transition into autumn drew us northward on a September road trip through the Scottish Hebrides. Crossing the bridge into cooler months, we felt a quiet urge to root down again. Our recent stay with Re felt like a turning point in our year of adventure—a beautiful cabin nestled among amber trees, luring us from the crisp November air into its cosy, calming embrace. It was time to settle into a season of “wintering” in one place.
Throughout it all, my rewilding journey has sparked a growing curiosity for community-led action and sustainable practices. We’re heading to rural Devon for the winter. I long to sink my hands back into the soil, learn to cultivate and care for the land, to understand the seasonal dance at an even deeper level. My partner, too, is eager to delve further into building and crafting, inspired by our van build to explore sustainable, functional structures. Today, we both carry the awareness that when we rush, we miss out on meaningful connections.
I know now that this journey has been more than an escape from the 9-5 grind; it’s been a slow unraveling of old patterns, a return to nature’s cycles, and a reawakening to the simple beauty of living with intention. Whether you’re seeking connection to place, purpose or people, trust the earth’s quiet wisdom. It’s in those moments of stillness and growth that we begin to understand what this place we call home truly means to each of us.
Grace x
Written by Grace Kavanagh-Sheilds (guest writer) - 20th November 2024
