Station House’s stone facade in the tiny village of Findhorn — how I loved it! — contained some wonderful old-timers in 1983-84. I was extremely fortunate to acquire a lovely large room with a fireplace and kitchenette there, it was a refuge in every sense. Rosie and Ian Turnbull anchored our group, parenting three utterly charming children under the age of eight. Living in an upstairs suite was Roger Doudna, across the courtyard were James and Debbie Hill, with Gillian Emslie in the far upper corner.

They were loving friends, used to the sturm und drang of community, who eased the life of this new member, age 48, and brought me cake for

my birthday, etc. Roger generously allowed me to run upstairs to use his bathtub every day or two, which supplied only about four inches of barely warm water, but that bath was a life-saver. Debbie dubbed my sparely-furnished room my cell, and we had a weekly meditation there around a chunky candle flanked by a few weeds, gathered outside. Those weeds, which would never last more than two hours anywhere else, often lasted two or three days afterward in a dry saucer …

I remember loving the mile-long peaceful stroll home from The Park every day along Findhorn Bay, two or three sailboats anchored there enhancing the view, delightful even in the snow and ice of winter. At the end, remote, charming Findhorn Village — a whole different world. Once in a while, of an evening, two or three of us would drop into a pub nearby for an hour or two, and decompress with a good warm ale. Station House, its surrounding village and my friends there were God’s gift to me for 14 months.

Sheila Madden