It was 11pm when I checked my email for the last time and turned off my phone for what I hoped would be forever. I had just put the finishing touches to a straw bale cabin that I’d spent the summer building on the three-acre, half-wild smallholding where I live. The following morning I intended to begin a new life without modern technology. There would be no fossil fuels, no running water, no electricity or any of the things it powers: no washing machine, internet or phone. Not even a light bulb. 

Having lived entirely without money for three years previously, I was under no illusion that the so-called simple life was going to be the Romantic, bucolic idyll it’s all too often portrayed as. So I woke up the next day with mixed feelings. On the one hand I felt that sense of liberation that comes from no longer having any bills; on the other, that feeling of apprehension that comes from burning your bridges to modernity. Would unplugging from the industrial world mean I’d lose all touch with reality, or finally discover it? I was about to find out.

I don’t write much these days about the reasons why I’ve rejected tech. This is in part because, deep down, we know them too well already. I could name a few: the mass extinction of species; climate catastrophe; widespread surveillance; the standardisation of everything; the fragmentation of community; the automation of millions of jobs; the stark decline in mental health; and the addictiveness of the hollow excitement that exists behind our screens, the goal of which seems to be the monetisation of our distraction.

These concerns all still matter greatly. Yet, surprisingly, over time I found my reasons slowly change. They now have less to do with saving the world, and much more to do with savouring the world. The world needs savouring.

Since quitting social media and the news, my world has become smaller, and more intimate and detailed. Sometimes I overhear conversations about Trump or some political scandal, but I understand little of it, and it feels abstract and remote when there are so many concrete things in front of me every day: planting trees, fishing pike, making cider, carving spoons and a hundred other things modernity had once done for me. People often remark that this approach is selfish, that I’m turning my back on the world’s problems, and perhaps they’re right. But I’m not sure how my tweet about Trump’s latest antics would help the world more than rolling my sleeves up and doing something that’s useful here and now. This immersion in the world directly around me has done wonders for my mental wellbeing.

It’s not all been evenings reading by the fire, and blackberry wine in hot tubs – far from it. Hauling wood from the forest, and sawing and chopping it with hand-tools, is hard work, believe me. With no stupidphone, there’s no chatting to faraway family and friends.

But I’ve learned that this way of life has its own solutions. These days I write letters, a process which elicits an entirely different quality of language and thought. Instead of getting endless emails, text messages, and calls, I receive one or two letters a day, affording me more time to be in the company of those I really care about. 

Giving up tech has also meant rejecting ‘clock-time’. This has had a dramatic effect on my relationship with time. In one sense, things do take longer. There is no chainsaw to zip through logs, no electric kettle or gas for a quick cup of tea. But here’s the strange thing: I find myself with more time. Not having any bills or mortgage, I don’t have to do the 40 hours a week required to pay for them.

Writing with a pencil, I can’t get distracted by clickbait or adverts. In doing so, I’ve become more in tune not only with seasonal rhythms, but my own body’s rhythm too. It has taught me to ‘be here now’. I’ve never slept better. There’s more diversity, less repetition. Mindfulness is no longer a spiritual luxury, but an economic necessity. This may not be the most profitable career path, but it’s good for my own bottom line: happiness.

What you eventually learn is that the sidekick of loss is gain. Take music, for example. The day I rejected the immortalising world of television, radio and the internet, it was as if all the world-famous artists I loved died at once. Suddenly there was no more Joni Mitchell or Leonard Cohen. Initially I felt a genuine sadness about that. But quitting electronic music prompted me to start going to live trad sessions, which I’ve come to love. I’m even learning to play myself, albeit badly.

People often call this ‘the simple life’. But that’s entirely misleading. It’s actually quite complex, made up of a thousand simple things, like foraging wild food or making rush-wick candles. By contrast, my old life in the city was quite simple, but made up of a thousand complex things, like laptops and plastic. 

I don’t romanticise the past. But I don’t romanticise the future either. I’ve lived with tech and without, and I know which one brings me most peace and contentment. This way of life may not be for everyone, but it is for me. Now I want to feel all of the emotions and elements in their entirety. The rain, the joy, the wonder – all of it. In that sense, and that only, is this life I live simple. 

Mark Boyle is author of The Way Home: Tales from a Life Without Technology, published by Oneworld, and filed this article via letter.

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