Let it Grow, Let it Gather

Letting the land breathe, and finding space to do the same

I was driving west toward Ballydehob, hedgerows thick with green, wildflowers nodding in the breeze, woodland paths opening into the shade of woodlands. May in Ireland — a season in full voice. The Bank Holiday weekend that has brought sunshine, a warm sky, and the hum of possibility in the air.

As I drove, I found myself thinking about No Mow May, this quiet but revolutionary invitation to let our gardens go a little wild. To allow the dandelions, vetches, plantain, clovers and other so-called “weeds” to thrive — not because we’re lazy, but because we care. Because this is when the insects are out, the pollinators searching, the birds darting low to catch the buzz and movement of life.

It takes a kind of courage, you know. To let things be. To allow your lawn or verge to look a little unruly while your neighbour is out with the mower twice a week. But what if wildness is beauty? What if our need for control is strangling the very life we say we want to protect?

I passed a man strimming a small patch of grass beside the road. He was dressed head-to-toe in protective gear, whirring through a healthy sprawl of grass and wildflowers, reducing it all to stubble. And I didn’t feel angry. I simply saw someone doing what he thought was right — what we’ve all been taught: tidiness equals care, and order means responsibility.

I considered stopping, starting a conversation. I’ve done it before. And often, once the idea lands — of letting things be for the sake of bees, of balance — people soften. They listen. They even change.

That turn in the road led me to a deeper one — from weeks of full-throttle yurt building into this moment of pause. For the past month I’ve been flat out constructing a 6m yurt, one of the most intense builds I’ve taken on.

Will, a young man with a big vision, rang me on April 6th and asked if I could build him a yurt by May 2nd — just under four weeks. Half the time I’d normally take. But I heard something in his voice, something in the shape of what he’s trying to create — and I said yes.

And we did it. We finished the yurt in time, and I was invited to the event it was built for — a weekend gathering on land he inherited from his aunt: 86 acres of wild and open possibility near Dunmanway, in the heart of West Cork.

There are therapists, musicians, artists, conservationists, tech folk — a kind of cross-pollination of humans, sharing food and stories, hosting workshops, walking through the woods, lighting fires, dunking in the sea after sauna. This morning began with a holotropic breathwork session — which, for those unfamiliar, is like mixing a strong coffee with a plunge into the Atlantic. I feel alive, cracked open, connected again.

I built my first yurt at a festival, because I understood even then: these structures call people in. They create a circle. A hearth. A held space. And even now, years on, that’s still what I see — that’s still what I build for.

Today feels like a harvest — not just of the physical effort, but of the deeper intention: to build spaces for connection, to honour land and story, to offer shape and shelter to what wants to grow.

So I leave you with this thought: let your home — your garden, your field edge, your window box — go a little wild this May. Let the bees buzz, let the wrens forage. Let the grasses bend high with the breeze. Let yourself loosen too, if even a little. Rest. Return. And celebrate whatever is blooming in your world, just as it is.

Some photos of the recent yurt……