Irishman Mark Boyle does nothing halfway. Exhausted by industrialized, well, everything, he lived without using money for three years. Craving an even more elemental life, he bought land near Knockmoyle, hand-built a cabin, and spent a year with no modern technology of any kind (electricity, plastic, transport, nada). Thoreau might come to mind, but Boyle’s mom wasn’t around to do his laundry: The “way home” meant living with dirt, shit, blood, deer brains (to tan leather), and backbreaking work. His move cost him dearly in relationships, and small things still nagged him, like the mass production behind the pencil he used to write (next time: a quill and mushroom ink). Romance? Not a lot, but he remains thrilled with his choice and more committed than ever.