The Creative Retreat: Why Time Is the New Luxury

Nothing Beats Compounding

Humour me with the very notion of: how did my life become so scheduled? How did I become quite so responsible? And at what point did my creative soul start drowning in an online world of subliminal messaging telling us how we should live, what our life should look like and, presumably, what we should be doing while we’re living it?

I sat on a balcony a few hours south of the French border and mused on this. I was looking out at the sea, with zero pressures on my time or finances, no need to be rushing somewhere and, ultimately, no need to make the time useful.

My very existential thoughts, which I appreciate may have been aided by the view, started to become less about what am I doing with my life? and more about how do I get more of this feeling into it?

Not Mediterranean views necessarily. Although, obviously, those always help. It was centred on the feeling. That moment when your mind realigns itself because you’ve finally given it some space.

And then came the more difficult question. How do we translate elements of this into our meticulously scheduled lives? Because I don’t think the answer is selling everything, moving to Spain and spending our days gazing thoughtfully at the Mediterranean. Lovely in theory. Slightly problematic when somebody needs picking up from school at 4pm and your client base is deeply rooted in London.

And, as I sat there, this idea obviously got completely out of hand. I started thinking about what would happen if you could step out of normal life for several days. Not a retreat where someone confiscates your phone, feeds you chia seeds and expects you to discuss your inner child before breakfast.

My version…

And once I started thinking about it, I could see the entire thing.

A calm space surrounded by large mature trees. Seating gathered around circular tables, with art and craft areas dotted between them. Nothing too perfect or overly designed. Just somewhere that immediately makes your shoulders drop slightly when you arrive. The day would start with yoga and, ultimately, meditation in the Mediterranean peace and quiet. Followed, importantly, by a proper fresh buffet breakfast rather than three almonds and something involving kale.

This is the part that really lit me up: the focus on community. Everyone comes together for a communal skills session. Each day, one participant talks about a skill they have and how they could help someone else learn it. Nobody needs to be an expert. That’s rather the point. It’s simply learning through shared experience.

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Maybe one morning everybody works on the communal garden together. Learning what grows there, how it’s looked after and picking ingredients that will later appear at lunch. The next morning might be completely different, because I think part of this is about remembering what it feels like to be curious. To learn something because you’re interested in it, rather than because it makes you more productive.

Lunch is served in the garden, using ingredients grown on the land. BUT ( and this is important) nobody is forced to be communal.

There are two places to eat. A quiet zone, where reading and eating happen happily in tandem and nobody thinks you’re antisocial because you’d rather finish your book. And then the family zone. The place where you pull up a chair, join a table and share lunch family-style with whoever happens to be there.

After lunch, perhaps we walk. A trail around the local coastline with a guide who knows the local flora and fauna. Not an app. Not Google. An actual person who lives there and can tell you what you’re looking at. If the sea looks too tempting not to swim, part of the group breaks off and swims. If you don’t fancy it, you carry on walking.

As you return to the retreat for the afternoon, a selection of local artisans and makers arrive. A local artist one day. A potter another. Someone working with a craft particular to that region. They guide your hands into actually making something, perhaps something that has lived in your head for years.

You might paint using local materials or pigments. You might work with clay. You might learn a technique that has been used in that part of the world for generations. And, crucially, you don’t have to be good at it. You don’t have to turn it into anything. You can simply make a slightly questionable pot and move on with your life.

The walkers return to the quiet zone in the afternoon. Some read. Some sleep. Some do absolutely nothing. Then afternoon tea. Local cakes, jams and pastries, obviously. And as late afternoon arrives, the whole atmosphere changes.

Everyone disappears to their rooms for a while. Showers. Casual clothes. That lovely end-of-day feeling when you’ve been outside for hours and have slightly lost track of time. Then, as you wander back down through the garden, the sparkling light of candles leads you through the olive grove towards a pergola-style dining area. Smaller tables this time rather than one enormous communal table. A Mediterranean-inspired menu. Local food. Family-style plates being passed around. Music starts.

The tables are eventually cleared and what was dinner becomes an evening of dancing and laughter. And, importantly, nobody asks what you do for a living within the first four minutes of meeting you. And tomorrow? We do it all again. A different maker. A different walk. A different person sharing something they know. Another meal. Another conversation. Another afternoon where time has no real boundary. Just enough structure to make you feel held, but enough space to allow your brain to wander off somewhere it hasn’t been for a while.

Because I think that’s the bit we’re missing Space for our minds to wander.

We’ve become exceptionally good at filling time. Meticulously scheduled lives, colour-coded diaries, work, family, appointments, weekends planned three months ahead. Even our downtime has somehow become another thing to organise. Perhaps the real luxury now isn’t the hotel, the handbag, the house or even the holiday. Perhaps it’s having absolutely no pressure on your time.

And I keep coming back to that balcony, where my mind finally had enough room to catch up with me. Would three or four days like this fundamentally change your life?

Probably not. But maybe that’s not the point.

Maybe it’s a circuit breaker.

And perhaps we don’t have to wait for three or four days in the Mediterranean to create one.

Imagine going through your diary and booking one random day off each month. Actually book it. Pre-arrange childcare. Block it from work. Don’t fill it with the dentist, a haircut and returning parcels. Get a ticket to the theatre. Go to an art gallery. Visit the showroom you’ve been meaning to see, find the wallpaper you’ve had saved for six months, or finally sort the bedroom that doesn’t quite speak to the rest of the house.

It almost doesn’t matter what the day contains. It’s the interruption that matters. A deliberate 24-hour break from doing the same things, in the same order, week after week.

One day won’t dramatically change your life. But one day every month? That’s twelve days a year that didn’t exist before.

Twelve little interruptions to the noise. Twelve opportunities to remember what you’re interested in, what you like doing, what you want more of and, perhaps, what your creative soul has been trying to tell you while you’ve been far too busy to listen. And then you go home and perhaps you do one thing slightly differently. Then another. Then another.

Because nothing beats compounding. Perhaps the most dangerous thing about giving your mind space to wander is that occasionally it comes back with an idea you can’t quite leave alone. This one seems to have followed me home. So, while for now the olive grove, questionable pottery and long Mediterranean lunches exist largely in my head, I’m not entirely sure they’ll stay there.

If the thought of a few days like this makes you want to immediately clear your diary, drop me a note. You never know we might just find ourselves around that table sooner than you think.