Time moves gently on. It’s been nine months since we sat outside on that first morning sipping thick black coffee and tucking into the full English breakfast I’d prepared as a celebration.
Well, that breakfast has been eaten, and it will soon be time to move on again. We have lots of options of where to go next. And while that doesn’t make the decision making process any easier. It certainly makes it interesting. As Voltaire said: Going somewhere different might not always be good. But it will certainly be new.
Saying that my favourite option is to simply stay here on the farm. Why? Because it doesn’t cost me anything and it’s nice. Yes, it’s isolated and another winter may drive us nuts, but the air is clean and there’s no traffic. I can cycle on the lanes and never see a car. I have more space than I could ever want. So the thought of going back to the city with its tight streets and overbearing traffic is not appealing.
Nevertheless, I miss it. It’s a constant war I have. The lure of the countryside and the city are so strong at times that I’m unable to enjoy either of them. I can’t enjoy the city because I want to see a meadow and I can’t enjoy the meadow because I want to see the city. I want to drink both of them in at the same time. It’s the reason I guess why people have two houses, so at least they have the choice depending on their mood.
On the other hand, I should stick to what Bruce Chatwin alluded to. In that man is happiest when he is on the move. Few of us are on the move these days, which is why we go on holidays. Not because of the destination necessarily, but because the mere idea of movement from one place to another ignites some primal instinct in us. That feeling of travelling, upping sticks, hitting the road, is incredibly deep rooted. It’s why we feel so gutted when we return home. The mind saying to us: hang on, I thought we’d left this dump.
My point is, while it’s nice to be settled – yeh, I like my kitchen here – there’s a burning desire in me to keep moving. A need as natural as it is to pick up a pen to write with, or a pebble to skim on a pond. It’s nothing big or extravagant. It’s just there. It’s part of me. So while decisions have to be made over the next few weeks as to what happens next, it’s just as exciting thinking about it as it was to arrive here nine months ago. Eating that fabled cooked breakfast and drinking that thick black coffee gazing over the silent plains of Vienne for the very first time.