I would be here if I could.
Dartmoor is within sight of my house, yet it is still out of reach. It is tantalisingly close, and a painful reminder of all I have lost to this condition. I long to roam free and explore, to walk with ease and abandonment, and without fear of the debilitating consequences.
In one word, Dartmoor is for me, freedom. The fresh air in my lungs, wind in my hair, wide expanse before me. Here I am free. Here I am alive.
Dartmoor gives to me in ways that no other place does. It feels familiar, and is a place I can be still, a place for reflection. It is also a place of exploration, discovery and joy.
As I lie in the dark, trapped by my symptoms, I close my eyes and imagine myself climbing the rocks, fingers gripping the coarse granite, feet searching for a foothold, and then the joy upon reaching the top. That is living. Having severe ME is not.
One day I will return to Dartmoor. I will absorb everything. The song of the skylark, call of the stone chat, and the hum of insects in the undergrowth. The herds of cattle, fluffy flocks of sheep, and iconic Dartmoor ponies. The carpets of yellow gorse and purple heather humming with bees in late summer. The weather-beaten trees, granite tors and stone walls peppered with ferns and mosses. With each breath on Dartmoor I will fill myself with the joy and life it gives me.
For now though, I wait and dream.
I would be here if I could.
