A cosy corner of the Järvsöbaden Spa Hotel we stayed at in March, which funnily enough was very homey indeed.
Before I get into this month’s issue, I just wanted to give a warm welcome to new subscribers, including anyone joining me from Anna Myers’ excellent newsletter, Where The Light Is, for which I did a Q+A earlier this month. If you’re an existing subscriber and would like to check out that Q+A, you can catch it here.
Thank you all so much for reading!
It’s a common misconception, I think, that cities are places where anonymity and isolation live large. They can be, of course, but they can also be many other things: community allotments, libraries, supper clubs, neighbourly WhatsApp groups, trade swaps. As much as I am a country-living convert, and as critical as I can be about London and its problems, I refuse to be a city cynic, because they have so much potential for connection, care, culture and community, all components of any home worth its salt. All components that, since finding home elsewhere, have felt further out of reach.
A funny thing happened when we first found the listing for the house we now live in. It felt immediately, strongly, like home to me, even though we didn’t know if we’d be able to jump through the necessary bureaucratic hoops to procure it. Months later, I saw it for the first time in person about an hour after signing the contract to buy it. It was being used as a holiday cottage and we’d go on to change just about everything about its appearance but still, it was home. And in the first days after we arrived, with barely any personal belongings and the terrifying uncertainty of the early pandemic days, it felt, straight away, like the only place I could be.
But what about the home outside the home? The home made up of people and places outside of your own four walls? In London: the Indian and Pakistani buffet I used to go to once a week with my work mates, and where my mum first met my new-boyfriend, now-husband over a decade ago; the coffee stand in East Croydon that would take my KeepCup from my hands every morning without having to ask what I wanted; the pubs along the river where getting an outdoor table on the first warm day of Spring made me feel like I’d won the lottery. Sometimes, I can’t help but feel like I took this intimate connection to place for granted.
It takes a lot to make me feel lonely, but I have wandered to its borders. I have felt far away from people and culture, disconnected by my lack of language skills and inability to drive. I’ve accepted the trade-offs that come with rural living: quietness like a comforting hug; forests and lakes in walking distance; space to grow our own food. I have told myself, and it is true, that I don’t mind not knowing where does the best coffee in the nearest city, that there are no indie bookshops whose works I could read, no libraries housing English-language releases. Trivial things, but things that hold weight; anchors to keep me in place.
And there are the not-so-trivial things, too. Climate-action groups and protests in cities over an hour’s drive away seem counterintuitive to spend the fuel on. Opportunities to meet like-minded people are fewer. Access to language learning, driving school, and health services are that bit further away than they used to be.
But anchors are everywhere. People and community and culture are everywhere. I have had to swim deep but I have found them. Online, through writing courses connecting me to international kindred spirits. In neighbours, who’ve invited me to yoga classes, made me homemade pizza, shared their mushroom picking spots with me (no small thing for Swedes), even translated one of my stories and had it published. In nature; in the birds whose names I know in both languages, the trees whose silent company I mourn when they’re cut down. In the a-thousands-times-better-than-that-clown-place fast-food chain, whose vegan chicken burger is the best I’ve eaten, and where the fries are always oversalted for takeaway customers. In the seasons and their rituals, the home outside my home has built itself and invited me to fill its rooms.
The Bookshelf
In this section of Home Comforts, I share a reading recommendation for a book or piece of writing that touches on themes of home.
The Food On Our Table - Stories of Family, Home and Community by various authors
This short anthology–a project led by writer Carinya Sharples, supported by the wonderful Spread The Word and funded by Lewisham Council–journeys through the South London borough and features poems by local creatives ‘inspired by residencies at local independent restaurants and cafés.’ I loved the stylistic differences in each piece and how these artistic expressions managed to capture the essence of sensory experiences and fleeting moments, the ‘at-homeness’ we feel in our local eateries. It felt so fitting for this month’s theme, and made me wish that when I lived in Crystal Palace I’d ventured more frequently into its bordering areas.
Do you have a recommendation I might like? If so, I’d love to hear from you!
My short story collection, Tools For Surviving A Storm, is out now.
Thank you for your post! It's very nice to read someone with an honest point of view about the country life ! It's a very peaceful way of living despite the isolation and loneliness we can feel. I'm happy to be a new suscriber ! I'm french, so it helps me to read and write in english.
See you soon in my mailbox !
Auriane