What happened when I stopped filling the silence

A self-confessed chatterbox in an increasingly loud world, Angela Garwood swapped conversation for stillness at a device-free silent retreat, hoping to discover what lies beneath the noise “It’s OK,” a fellow bather mouths with a reassuring smile. I squeal slightly as the water hits my waist before plunging in. It’s perfect. Refreshing without the usual razor-sharp iciness of British waters. I emerge feeling awakened and alive. A group of us bob around, admiring the stunning white chalk cliffs of the Seven Sisters. Others sit on the shore. No one talks, as this would be breaking the rules. It’s a glorious Sunday morning and I haven’t spoken for more than 36 hours. I’ve come to the Sussex coast to spend the weekend trying something I struggle with at times: keeping my mouth shut. As a performer, the notion of a silent retreat goes against so much of what brings me joy: using my voice and a love of words. I’m a talker. I revel in a witty exchange or an outrageous story. Doubts aside, I’d arrived at Gayles, a beautiful converted family farm in Eastbourne, on a Friday afternoon, in the midst of a particularly full-on summer. Hoping to find stillness amid the chaos, I’d opted for something more radical than a spa day. “It’s essential,” says Roz Robinson, 66, yoga teacher, former psychotherapist and host of the Walking, Yoga, Meditation, Silence retreats at Gayles. “You wouldn’t expect to drive your car for a year without having an MOT, and I don’t think we should be allowed to carry on without having, if you like, our own reset.” “It’s such a precious space to be able to step into,” she continues. “To give yourself time to reflect, because there is so much noise in the outside world now.” I’m shown to my room, a spacious double with views of the sea in a converted 1930s stable. Then the group, all 18 of us, mostly women, are given a tour of the grounds, which include a pool, tennis courts and cosy corners for quiet contemplation. Surrounded by 11 acres of rolling downland, there’s a comforting and unassuming family-home feel to Gayles, which has been in Robinson’s family for generations. Poolside, Robinson requests “no bombing”. “Who bombs on a silent retreat?!” we ask. “Oh, it’s happened …”. We chuckle. Other rules include no alcohol, no Apple Watches – it’s device-free – and no aggressively strong perfume or deodorant if you’re sharing a room. Electric toothbrushes are allowed, but I later refrain from using my hairdryer. A small wicker basket sits on a side table with a note inviting us to hand our phones in. It’s not compulsory, but we’re encouraged to do so. I place mine on the pile. We are, for the initial meal, allowed to talk. Munching on our delicious, home-grown vegetable lasagne, I enjoy getting to know my soon-to-be-mute companions. We’re mostly first-timers and ages range from 30-something to 60-something. “I walk away from here like I’m walking on air,” says Fiona Lomas, 54, a Brighton-based creative director on her 10th stay at Gayles. Having the burden of small talk removed was refreshingly liberating. Food came alive After dinner, we head to the cow shed, a tranquil yoga space converted from the original farm building. Candles are lit and I feel a child-like sense of ease, like I’m being taken care of. We each share why we’ve come. The reasons followed similar themes: needing to switch off, wanting to try something new and seeking a connection with nature. One young professional in sustainability finance admitted “I’m not all that comfortable with silence.” A woman in her 60s just said: “I’m here … for me”. I’m not alone in my desire for stillness. After taking a 68% hit in 2020, wellness tourism in the UK grew at an annual rate of 79% between 2020 and 2022, according to the Global Wellness Institute, more than twice the global average of 36%. The institute’s 2026 wellness tourism trends include ‘The Nervous System Reset’ and ‘In Search of Deep Rest’, reflecting growing demand for restorative escapes, nature and time away from digital overload. Condé Nast Traveller, meanwhile, named ‘silent travel’ one of its top travel trends for 2024. “If you need anything, I’m always here,” assures Robinson. “If you need to cry, or scream even, you can scream. Crying is a release. It doesn’t matter!”. There’s talk of resetting our autonomic nervous system, getting closer to our true selves, and healing. While the retreat isn’t religious, there’s a spiritual undercurrent. We’re led through a relaxation exercise, before a momentous yet subtle declaration: “The silence has begun”. I leave the room elated by the challenge. A space opens up in my mind. “I love that there’s no pressure to make conversation,” says Rebecca Hastings, 46, an international charity fundraiser. “I come for that deep quality of silence that happens in community, when people are together”. We quickly found our flow as a group. In the kitchen the following morning, we dance around each other, waiting to stack the dishwasher or boil water, as if previously choreographed. Occasional smiles are exchanged, but interaction is minimal. I enjoy a smoothie before we embark on a five-mile sunny coastal walk. In the silence, I was confronted, head-on, with my thoughts, which was unnerving yet empowering “You will have some rubbish to work through,” says Robinson. Indeed. While my thoughts were louder than ever, so too was the aliveness of the nature surrounding me. I found the pattern of trees mesmerising and noticed when a flock of tweeting birds flew overhead. I felt held in the presence of everyone else and over time, a harmonious group synchronicity became apparent. We moved almost as one, stopping together and turning away every time someone left the line for a bush wee. “The walks are always really interesting because you just see and hear things that you wouldn’t normally,” says Lomas. “It’s a totally different way of experiencing nature.” We’re encouraged to rest, so I indulge in a two-hour nap, followed by some tea and cake. Yoga and meditation, which I’d grown fond of by this point, came later, then a temporary invitation to break the silence and share how we were finding the experience. Most stayed quiet, myself included. The silence ends shortly before lunch on Sunday and I have mixed feelings. I was enjoying our peaceful cocoon, but welcomed getting to know the others. “It’s amazing how connected you can feel to a group of people, even when you’re not talking,” I said in our final circle. We’d shared a unique experience and I’d miss their familiar faces. Together, we’d created our own silent bubble, and I’d come to appreciate existing within it. It was, as Robinson described, a ‘warm silence’. “At our source, we are quiet, loving, joyous communicative beings,” she reflects. “Donkeys standing in a field are all connected, they’re not chatting all the time.” Having the burden of small talk removed was refreshingly liberating. Food came alive. There’s a depth of stillness that’s hard to reach when you’re constantly making conversation. We think of silence as being empty, a void that needs filling, but I learned there’s a richness to that space. A palpable, yet peaceful energy that sits within us, always. In the silence, I was confronted, head-on, with my thoughts, which was unnerving yet empowering. It wasn’t easy. Huge life uncertainties surfaced, including big questions I had no immediate answers to. I noticed everything: my mind drifting from the past to the future, or simply being unduly self-critical. I felt tension in my body as I moved between yoga poses. There were moments I briefly broke the silence, alone in my room, to give myself the odd pep talk or cry. I surrendered to whatever came up. The silence created space to hear what I already knew deep down. I needed to come up for air amid my frantic life; to stop, and breathe. “We look for answers out there, when really the answers are in here,” says Robinson in her closing lesson. “Be kind to yourselves, each and every one of you.” I left Gayles reenergised, determined to build stillness into my days and commit to the practice. One breath at a time. Main image: Laurie Griffiths