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"This is such a compelling book. It will make you want to abandon everything you know, move to the forest and commune with the trees and earth. A must read for any one harboring desires of creating their own magical space." Luisa Lyons, actor, writer and musician.
"I loved reading this book if just for the eloquent depictions of starting a homestead from scratch. You won’t get hippy-dippy tree hugging instead, you will be entertained and mentored on the trials and joys of building a homestead while bonding with and appreciating the nature around you." Thomas on Amazon "The way Atulya writes is captivating. Over the last two years, I had been struggling to concentrate for any length of time in order to read a book. I was so gripped by this book that I actually read it in a day!" J Bilton on Amazon |
These days I’m a natural builder and author, but it wasn’t always that way. Once upon a time I didn’t know how to bang a nail in. Once upon a time I was afraid of snakes and scorpions. In those days I was, like most of us moderns, completely disconnected from my wild side. Eight months camping alone on a Turkish hill without power or running water changed all that though. It changed me.
Atulya's writing is geniune and funny... My only complaint is that I want more! Christine Petty, The Free Her Spirit Podcast. BUY DIRT WITCH
PAPERBACK
Amazon.com Amazon.uk Completely Novel Barnes and Noble The Book Depository (Free world wide delivery) Bookshops: You can order my books from any bookstore in the UK, and many in Europe. All my books are also available in paperback from my favourite indie bookstore, The Wivenhoe Bookshop (it's a wonderful place, and I will be happy if you support it).
EBOOK
"Reality meets myth, dirt and poetry. I'm hooked!" Jodie Harburt, author of A Multitude of Ones.
"Be inspired by one who has lived and breathed dirt." Kim Fraser, The Hobbit Hideaway. |
Chapter One - The Meeting (excerpt)
After a minute or two of procrastination, I pushed the car door open and swung a leg out. It was the beginning of May. The Mediterranean sun was a straggle of hot fingers. They reached through the branches and clawed at the bonnet. The heat smote me. The forest was heavy with grasshoppers, and they throbbed against my eardrums. But what else was creeping about within that morass of untamed foliage? This was an alien place. A place I didn’t belong. Assiduously I checked the ground for critters with stings or fangs, or both.
The boot creaked as I opened it. I hauled out the tent bag, and it struck the earth with a jangle. It was a $50 nylon steal I’d found in the bargain bucket at Carrefour, and I wondered how it would hold up. Next I dragged out the pick, spade, and rake I’d just bought. With a groan, I slung the tools onto one shoulder and gripped the tent in the other hand. Then down I went. In every meaning of the word.
You can’t live up there alone. Even I wouldn’t do it and I’m a guy. The words were stones rattling down from a precipice where I had just lost my footing.
At the bottom of the hill, a small pathway veered to the right. It slipped through clusters of dog roses, fragile bonnets rocking as I passed. Then I drew sharply to a halt. Oh dear. Eyes popping, I sucked in a lungful of burning air. I was here. On my land. Unfortunately, it wasn’t what I’d expected.
My lower lip wobbled a little as I scanned the slope. It was engulfed in thorns. They were huge, taller than me. Insects buzzed within the morass of stalks, as though the land were a machine whirring to life, a Frankenstein. Something cold and heavy lurched inside me, because everything had changed. The hill was no longer the bucolic pasture I’d last seen in April. It was a hot, bristling wilderness. The only evidence of humankind was a small cottage the other side of a pomegranate orchard, and a sheeny row of polytunnels below. This was rural Turkey. And I was alone.
Gingerly, I picked my way through the tall stalks flinching at the possibility of vipers. I was terrified of snakes, just terrified. Staring at the huge thorn bushes – great monsters baring tough green claws – I started to feel nauseous. My mind became a city at rush hour. It flashed anxious thoughts at me like traffic signals. Had it really come to this? Bumming in a Turkish field?
And then it happened – the meeting that would alter my destiny within this patch of Mediterranean scrubland. The encounter that would change me. Forever.
“My land!”
I jumped. Swivelling about, I felt my heart punch into my throat. Good grief! Someone else was here!
“My land!”
I stood still within the dry grass, tent bag swinging in one hand, tool handles in the other, like hunter or prey, I couldn’t be certain. Then I saw her. And I swallowed very slowly when I did. My epiglottis squeezed the saliva down, but only just.
There, right at the edge of the forest, was a woman. At least I thought it was a woman. She might have been an animal. Yet she was familiar. Too familiar. A character that had clawed her way out of a dream. The back of my neck prickled as I took her in. Her head was a nest of brown matted hair. She had black wolf eyes, and was brazenly bare-chested. I knew her from somewhere. Where?
As I stared onto my slope, the strange beast-woman began beating her chest. Somewhere far off in the distance, I heard the thud of a drum. It spoke a language I recognised, but didn’t want to.
“My land!” She snarled again, even louder now. Then she stamped her naked feet on the earth and bared her teeth. I gaped at the bright white fangs, appalled. The outer layers of my persona raised disapproving eyebrows. Deeper within, guerrillas of dread peeped out from grimy subconscious holes.
And then without warning, the beast-woman was gone. Vanished. Into the shadows of the forest. And I was left staring, tool heads protruding over my shoulder, feeling more than a little disturbed.
The boot creaked as I opened it. I hauled out the tent bag, and it struck the earth with a jangle. It was a $50 nylon steal I’d found in the bargain bucket at Carrefour, and I wondered how it would hold up. Next I dragged out the pick, spade, and rake I’d just bought. With a groan, I slung the tools onto one shoulder and gripped the tent in the other hand. Then down I went. In every meaning of the word.
You can’t live up there alone. Even I wouldn’t do it and I’m a guy. The words were stones rattling down from a precipice where I had just lost my footing.
At the bottom of the hill, a small pathway veered to the right. It slipped through clusters of dog roses, fragile bonnets rocking as I passed. Then I drew sharply to a halt. Oh dear. Eyes popping, I sucked in a lungful of burning air. I was here. On my land. Unfortunately, it wasn’t what I’d expected.
My lower lip wobbled a little as I scanned the slope. It was engulfed in thorns. They were huge, taller than me. Insects buzzed within the morass of stalks, as though the land were a machine whirring to life, a Frankenstein. Something cold and heavy lurched inside me, because everything had changed. The hill was no longer the bucolic pasture I’d last seen in April. It was a hot, bristling wilderness. The only evidence of humankind was a small cottage the other side of a pomegranate orchard, and a sheeny row of polytunnels below. This was rural Turkey. And I was alone.
Gingerly, I picked my way through the tall stalks flinching at the possibility of vipers. I was terrified of snakes, just terrified. Staring at the huge thorn bushes – great monsters baring tough green claws – I started to feel nauseous. My mind became a city at rush hour. It flashed anxious thoughts at me like traffic signals. Had it really come to this? Bumming in a Turkish field?
And then it happened – the meeting that would alter my destiny within this patch of Mediterranean scrubland. The encounter that would change me. Forever.
“My land!”
I jumped. Swivelling about, I felt my heart punch into my throat. Good grief! Someone else was here!
“My land!”
I stood still within the dry grass, tent bag swinging in one hand, tool handles in the other, like hunter or prey, I couldn’t be certain. Then I saw her. And I swallowed very slowly when I did. My epiglottis squeezed the saliva down, but only just.
There, right at the edge of the forest, was a woman. At least I thought it was a woman. She might have been an animal. Yet she was familiar. Too familiar. A character that had clawed her way out of a dream. The back of my neck prickled as I took her in. Her head was a nest of brown matted hair. She had black wolf eyes, and was brazenly bare-chested. I knew her from somewhere. Where?
As I stared onto my slope, the strange beast-woman began beating her chest. Somewhere far off in the distance, I heard the thud of a drum. It spoke a language I recognised, but didn’t want to.
“My land!” She snarled again, even louder now. Then she stamped her naked feet on the earth and bared her teeth. I gaped at the bright white fangs, appalled. The outer layers of my persona raised disapproving eyebrows. Deeper within, guerrillas of dread peeped out from grimy subconscious holes.
And then without warning, the beast-woman was gone. Vanished. Into the shadows of the forest. And I was left staring, tool heads protruding over my shoulder, feeling more than a little disturbed.
“Engaging and thought-provoking. The act of reading this seemed to affect me on a level beyond the words,” Claire Raciborska, Growing Wild and Free.
Note for Readers of Mud Ball
For those who have already read Mud Ball, this is the prequel. It is a little different. Dirt Witch charts those eye-opening first months I hunkered down alone in the dust before I built my house. It reveals what was happening to me psychologically and spiritually, and has been described by some as a parallel mud world. So it isn’t simply a straight forerunner of Mud Ball, but something more multi-layered, something closer to ecopsychology.
I have written this book firstly because Grandmother Olive asked me to, and secondly because so many people over the years have questioned why I wasn’t afraid up on Mud Mountain (sometimes I was), how I managed to remain alone for so long, and how I dealt with the various creatures and challenges I encountered. I don’t feel I can answer those questions adequately without referring to another kind of reality, one some may think of as fantasy, but I personally perceive as the non-physical side of ourselves and our lives. The Other World, that whispers to us from the deep.
I have written this book firstly because Grandmother Olive asked me to, and secondly because so many people over the years have questioned why I wasn’t afraid up on Mud Mountain (sometimes I was), how I managed to remain alone for so long, and how I dealt with the various creatures and challenges I encountered. I don’t feel I can answer those questions adequately without referring to another kind of reality, one some may think of as fantasy, but I personally perceive as the non-physical side of ourselves and our lives. The Other World, that whispers to us from the deep.
