The Orthodox Camp in Dartmoor

Or How God Gathered a Few Orthodox Christians, a Crate of Icons, and More

There are places where one goes to rest.

There are places where one goes to pray.

And then there are places where one goes for a spiritual retreat and comes home smelling of wood smoke, slightly sleep-deprived, with mud on one’s shoes, and with serious unresolved questions about which Orthodox brother is capable of snoring loudly enough to be heard through two layers of tent fabric and across twenty metres of meadow.

Our place was Dartmoor. More precisely, it was a deep, beautifully cut valley somewhere in the hills of south-west England, with a little brook running along the bottom.

It was very sparsely populated, with narrow roads on which driving faster than about twenty miles an hour would have been an act of optimism. Whenever a car came towards you, both drivers had to start looking for one of those mysterious wider patches of road where, by the grace of God, two vehicles might actually pass one another.

The organisers gave a rather grand title: DARTMOOR HOLY BROOK RETREAT. The name sounded impressive. It sounded like the sort of place where a person might expect to encounter God. Nobody had mentioned the wind. Or the rain.

The retreat had been organised by Iwan the Belgian, our singer, and Douglas from the Exeter parish. The idea was simple and, in its own way, rather beautiful: Orthodox Christians from the two parishes would spend two nights and nearly three days together in prayer, fellowship, food and the great English spiritual discipline of trying to stay dry.

It was the August Bank Holiday weekend. After Sunday Liturgy, everyone set off separately by car. From Torquay it was roughly twenty-four miles — about fifty minutes by road, assuming the road was willing to co-operate. There were no motorways. There was Dartmoor. And there were the roads.

The English Summer

By the time I arrived, some people were already there. Iwan and I sat down and drew up a rough timetable for the next couple of days. I say rough because this was an Orthodox retreat. We generally managed to follow the timetable, allowing for the usual Orthodox delay. Which, of course, is not really lateness. It is simply liturgical time.

As for the weather, I would rather not discuss it. I am not English.

We had enjoyed about two and a half months of glorious dry weather and sunshine, and naturally decided that this would be the ideal moment to go camping. So, naturally, we chose the most unstable weather imaginable.

Storms came and went in shifts.

As I drove towards Dartmoor, the windscreen wipers were working overtime.

I looked at the rain and thought:

Yes, of course. I am definitely not going to sleep in a tent in this. Absolutely.

I had already decided that I would sleep in the car. Then, naturally, the rain stopped.

The Accommodation

Matthew had promised me a tent. The others had already begun setting themselves up. One couple had a van converted for sleeping. Another lady had brought what could only be described as a van chapel. Behind the front seats was a metal partition covered with icons, arranged almost like a little Orthodox chapel. At the very back she had made herself a bed. It was rather impressive.

The rest of us had tents.

Matthew immediately suggested that we open mine — a new tent he had recently bought. We opened it. Then we read the instructions. Because, after all, we are English. There is a certain dignity in refusing to assemble anything until one has first read the instructions. Eventually we worked out what went where and managed to put the tent up. It was a one-man tent.

Just as we finished, Iwan looked around and announced: “I don’t want anyone near me who snores.”

It was an innocent remark. At the time. We moved my tent about twenty metres further down the field. I was also given an inflatable mattress. Proper priestly luxury.

In the middle of the meadow stood a large, fairly tall marquee. Underneath it was a long dining table with chairs.

At the side was a rough wooden shelter with no doors, but it had a sink, electricity and gas hobs.

Outside, nineteen-year-old William, the Hungarian, was keeping the campfire alive, chopping wood and generally doing the sort of things young men are useful for at camping trips.

Chloe and Mia moved between the cooking pot and the tent, helping with the meatless soup and offering Matthew and me advice on how the tent ought to be assembled. Whether all the advice was consistent? Of course. I had a proper tent.

A Chapel in the Meadow

Then Douglas arrived. He brought an entire crate of icons, crosses candles, a vigil lamp. And of course, plenty of bottles of milk — he works in a dairy farm, and sausages. And he began turning the marquee into an Orthodox place of prayer or a chapel.

For an altar table, we adapted a large plastic drainage drum. It was not exactly Byzantine. But Orthodox ingenuity is a wonderful thing. If you have enough icons, candles and faith, almost anything can begin to look ecclesiastical.

The wind, however, was unimpressed. Keeping candles alight became an engineering discipline. One lit. The wind blew. It went out. We lit it again. The wind blew again. At some point you begin to understand why perseverance is considered a Christian virtue.

Around 6:30 we began Vespers for the Feast of the Placing of the Precious Cincture of the Most Holy Theotokos. The whole thing took place beneath the marquee, with the wind blowing around us and the candles fighting for their lives. I asked Michaela to help as reader and singer. But then Serena surprised me. She had remembered the melodies and parts sung by the church choir better than anyone. A few months earlier, when I had asked her to sing, she had modestly replied that she could not sing.

Clearly, one must be careful with the Orthodox definition of “I can’t sing.”

Sometimes it means: “I cannot sing loudly enough to be heard from the other side of the parish.” But in Serena’s case, she could. And she could sing very well. I realised that I had probably been overlooking a gift simply because the person who possessed it was too modest to display it.

Our Lord says: “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.” (Matt. 5:16)

And that evening, there really was light. The candles were flickering. The wind was trying to extinguish them. And somehow, despite everything, the Vespers was beautiful. A little church beneath a tent. Icons surrounded by Dartmoor hills. Prayers carried into the evening air.

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After Vespers we put the food on the table. There was the meatless soup. But there were also chicken drumsticks. Because spiritual retreat or not, nobody had said that we were required to go to bed hungry. Did I write ‘bed’? Ha ha. By the time we finished eating, it was dark. William revived the campfire and we gathered around it. The rain had stopped. The wind had not. We sat on the benches, talking and laughing. For a few hours, the ordinary world seemed very far away.

“Where Two or Three Are Gathered”

At around ten o’clock we went into the wooden shelter, where there was some light, and began reading the evening prayer rule. We took turns. Everyone read a prayer. Mia and William are not baptised, yet they told us that this was an extraordinary spiritual experience for them. And there was something deeply joyful about that. It is one thing to say your evening prayers alone. It is another thing to say them with a group of people. Twelve people, perhaps, all turning their hearts towards God together. Christ Himself gives us this promise: “For where two or three are gathered together in My name, I am there in the midst of them.” (Matt. 18:20) That night we were certainly more than two or three. But the point was not the number. The point was that He was there.

After the prayers, we went back to the fire for a little while. We smoked ourselves gently over the flames. At the time I did not realise that the smell of the campfire would become one of the souvenirs of the retreat.

One by one, we eventually headed towards our tents and vans.

The Night of the Full Moon

I normally sleep like a rabbit. Very lightly. I am accustomed to complete silence. Dartmoor had other plans. First there was the rain. A light drizzle tapping against the tent. Then the wind. Sometimes it rose suddenly, making the tent swell. Then it fell away. Somewhere on the hills, the trees were constantly whistling.

At one point I began wondering whether I was hearing the wind or the brook. I had deliberately pitched my tent further away from the water, but apparently sound had not received the memo.

Oddly enough, I was neither wet nor cold. It was actually quite comfortable. I simply could not sleep. I felt as though I had drunk several energy drinks. So I lay there listening. One sound. Then another. Rain. Wind. Trees. The brook. The occasional movement from somewhere in the camp.

I found myself trying to identify every sound. Eventually, I must have fallen asleep. I woke up.

Ah. It must be nearly morning. I checked the time.

1:40 a.m. That was a disappointment.

My first call of nature got me out of the tent. And then I saw the moon. It was enormous. A full moon, very bright, like a lamppost with strong light above. The whole meadow was lit up so brightly that it looked almost as though dawn were about to break. Only the trees near the brook cast shadows, together with the marquee. Everything else was visible.

I was just about to get back into my tent when I noticed someone walking from the direction of the toilet. No torch. He entered the shadow of the marquee. A little later, the figure began walking in my direction. I decided not to say anything, lest I wake RR, whose tent was only five to ten metres away. I thought it was Iwan because the figure entered in his bright orange tent. I went back into mine. And once again, I could not sleep.

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Then I heard it. Snoring. No. I listened again. Surely not. It was impossible to hear someone from that distance through two tent walls. Then:

Hrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Yes. Definitely snoring. I remembered Iwan’s earlier announcement: “I don’t want anyone near me who snores.”

His orange tent was quite away of me, so it must had been RR. He had started a chainsaw in his sleep? I started to worry about Iwan.

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Eventually I fell asleep again. Then I woke up because of the light. Right. It must be after six now. My second call of nature was not negotiable. I got out of the tent. The same scene. The full moon had moved further west. I looked at my watch.

3:50 a.m.

Oh dear. Back into the tent. Another struggle to fall asleep. Another round of timber being sawn somewhere in the darkness. But at least it was no longer raining. There was only a light breeze, which briefly muffled the sound of the snoring.

Morning

I got up at about 6:50. The girls were already awake. As I passed RR’s tent, I took out my phone. Some things need to be documented. This was one of them. The snoring was magnificent.

Someone struck the makeshift wooden clapper, rather like those used in monasteries, and gradually everyone began getting up. We gathered in the shelter and started discussing the night’s sleep. On my personal Sleep Scale, I rated my night:

3 out of 10.

Nobody seemed to know how the ground had absorbed so much rain without turning the entire field into a swamp. Yet, remarkably, nobody’s tent had leaked.

RR eventually admitted that quite a few people had already told him about his snoring. So the mystery was solved.

Mostly.

Iwan insisted that there was no way he could have been awake at 1:40 because he had been deeply asleep. Unless, he suggested, he had been sleepwalking.

And so another Dartmoor mystery entered the annals of Orthodox camp history:

Was I imagining things, or had Iwan been sleepwalking beneath the full moon?

We may never know.

Morning Prayer Under the Sun

Around 7:30–8:00 we moved the plastic drum altar outside the marquee. The sun had come out. Under its rays, we gathered again and said the morning prayers. Once more, we took turns, so that everyone read at least one prayer. There was something very simple and beautiful about it. No grand building. No elaborate arrangements. Just people standing together in the morning light, praying.

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Breakfast was almost a collective operation. I positioned myself near the fire in the important role of someone who gives advice. It is a highly respected camping position. It requires almost no physical effort. The sausages, however, still had to be cooked. Only when I got home did I realise that I had been completely impregnated with the smell of smoke. Apparently one can wash one’s clothes. But campfire smoke has its own theology.

The Valley of the Theotokos

After breakfast we celebrated the Matins for the Feast of the Placing of the Precious Cincture of the Mother of God. At the end, Matthew read about the meaning of the feast. I suggested that, if we organised another camp there, we should call the meadow:

“The Cincture of the Theotokos.”

Michaela suggested something more poetic:

“The Valley of the Theotokos.”

I agreed. And somehow the name fitted. A piece of Dartmoor which had previously been nothing more than a field had acquired a memory. And a name.

Back to Reality

I had to return to Torquay because I was due at work in the pizza shop. There is one thing I have never quite understood about the local mentality. Saturday. Sunday. Monday. Three days without going to work. Three days at home. And instead of cooking something delicious… They order junk food.

I have been delivering food for thirteen years and I still cannot understand this particular mystery of British civilisation. How can someone have three days off and still arrive at the conclusion that the best possible use of those three days is to order a pizza?

Anyway.

We were only four drivers. And we were absolutely hammered. By the time I was finally released at about 9:30 p.m., I felt as though I could fall asleep at the wheel.

Meanwhile, back in the Valley of the Mother of God, the others already had a plan for the day. We had prepared it the previous day.

At one point they went up to the top of one of the hills (‘tor’ in local dialect). I received a video. Fr Brandon from Exeter was also on the tor. They were being battered by the wind. They were carrying icons. Later I learned that they had read the Akathist to the Guardian Angel there. In Orthodox tradition, Monday is dedicated to the Holy Angels and the bodiless heavenly powers. So while I was driving around delivering junk food, they were standing on a tor with icons and praying.

Different kinds of nourishment.

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Before I left, I had promised them: “I’ll be back in the morning.” I had said that we would celebrate the Matins for the beginning of the Church New Year.

After finishing work, I was exhausted. But a promise is a promise. And some promises are made not only to people.

1 September

At 5:40 in the morning, my friend the prostate woke me up. This particular friend has never been especially diplomatic. I lay there for a moment thinking:

Should I stay in bed?

Should I get up?

Can I really get up?

Would it be wiser to sleep for another hour?

Eventually, the second option won. I got dressed, got into the car and headed back to the Valley of the Theotokos.

At 7:00 a.m. I was there.

On the narrow road, during the final 2.3 miles, I met Nadia, Lyubo and their children. Lyubo was rushing off to work. Life was already returning to normal, according to the secular understanding of normality.

On the meadow, only the heroes remained. Iwan. Douglas. William.

And Matthew from Plymouth with his two children. Unfortunately for Matthew, his three-year-old daughter had been sick until about two in the morning. He was getting them ready to leave, so he could not stay.

And so there were four of us. Four people. One meadow. One new Church year.

A New Beginning

The four of us celebrated the Matins for the beginning of the Church New Year and commemorated the saints of the day. At the end, we read their lives. And somehow, as we stood there, the whole retreat seemed to come together.

The tents. The rain. The wind. The full moon. The snoring. The campfire. The plastic drum. The icons. The children. The people who were not yet baptised but had joined us in prayer. Those who had climbed the hills carrying icons. Those who had gone home to work.

All those seemingly ordinary moments had somehow become one thing. A memory. A blessing. A small piece of Church life lived outside the church building.

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The men began packing everything away. The tables. The equipment. The icons. The candles. Gradually the meadow returned to what it had been before. Just the marquee in the middle of the meadow. Just Dartmoor. Just a little brook running through a valley. But it was no longer the same place to us. Because places where people have prayed become part of the people who prayed there.

What We Took Home

When we began the retreat, I do not think any of us knew exactly what it would become. There was no luxury. There was no perfect weather. There was no guarantee that we would sleep. But there were people. There was prayer. There were icons. There was food. There was fire. There was wind. There was laughter. There was tiredness.

And there was God.

Christ did not say: “Where there is a magnificent church, excellent weather and perfect organisation, I will be there.”

He said: “For where two or three are gathered together in My name, I am there in the midst of them.”

And we were sometimes thirteen. Sometimes four. Sometimes two people sitting around a fire. But we were not alone.

Perhaps that was the real retreat. Not the tents. Not the walks. It was the attempt to remember what it means to be together. To pray together. To eat together. To carry icons up a hill. To protect a candle from the wind. To help someone put up a tent. To discover another person’s hidden gift. To give room to someone who is still searching. To keep a promise when you are exhausted. And sometimes simply to sit around a fire and talk.

There are things that cannot be learnt from books. They have to be lived.

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We are often waiting for better conditions before we do something good. A bigger church. A better choir. More people. More time. Better weather. More money. More equipment.

And sometimes God simply says: “Give Me what you have.”

And a meadow becomes a place of prayer. A plastic drainage drum becomes an altar table. A marquee becomes a church beneath the sky. A group of people becomes a community. A weekend becomes a memory. And a memory becomes thanksgiving.

As the Psalmist says: “Blessed are those who dwell in Your house; They will still be praising You.” (Ps. 83:5)

And perhaps one day, when we drive down those narrow Dartmoor roads again, we will see the same valley. The same stream. The same hills. The same trees. But for us it will no longer be merely another field somewhere in Dartmoor. It will be the Valley of the Theotokos. The place where, for a few days, we left behind the noise of ordinary life, no phone signal so that we could hear the silence a little more clearly. And in that silence — prayer. And in that prayer — God.

If it is according to God’s will, and if the Most Holy Theotokos helps us, there will be other camps.

Perhaps it will rain again. Perhaps the wind will return. Perhaps we will once again have to read the instructions before putting up a tent. Perhaps someone will snore. Perhaps someone will walk through the meadow at 1:40 in the morning under a full moon. But there will be prayer. There will be icons. There will be people.

And there will be that unseen Presence for whose sake it is all worth setting out.

Amen.