Scene: A prefab bungalow on the edge of Brattahlíð Rewilded Settlement, Greenland. Brenda, early 70s, from Cleethorpes, now tending moss beds for the Anglo-Scandinavian BioConsortium. She speaks directly to the audience, a mug of rehydrated nettle tea in hand.
Well it were never my idea, obviously. I’d have settled for a nice greenhouse on the allotment and maybe a wind chime from the garden centre—not plasma heaters and moss reclamation in what used to be an iceberg.
They told me it’s like Florida now, only with Norse runes and dietary fibre.
I didn’t like the idea of Greenland at first. Sounds cold, don’t it? And I said to them—what’s wrong with Grimsby? But my daughter, she’s a thermal ecologist now. 'Post-carbon legacy modelling,' she says. Which is apparently Latin for digging holes and measuring puddles.
They gave me a bungalow. A “zero-emissions module” they call it. I call it a shed with pretensions. Last month, the moss made its way through the laminate flooring. I told Erik at BioControl, but he just said, “It’s all part of the rewilding arc.” Arc, he says. Like Noah’s. Only with fewer giraffes and more compost.
I went outside yesterday to scatter the nutrient powder over the bryophyte beds and it were so warm the drone started sweating. Not that drones sweat. But it hovered a bit awkwardly, like our Des when he’s eaten too many crumpets.
Thing is, I never saw myself in the Arctic Circle. But here I am—queen of the lichen, guardian of the green. Brenda of Greenland. They even made me a badge. Real biodegradable felt.
It’s all very modern, very ethical, very green. But sometimes, just sometimes, I miss a proper brew and the sound of rain on a bus stop. And Geoff from the corner shop who always sold you the stale digestives first so he could clear the stock.
Still... the moss glows now, at night. Like fairy lights. That’s nice.
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