Home, in Pelluco

Andy happy to be home

What is home?
It must be a feeling, not more or less.
Where my family is? No, not that, they are not here though home is where I’m at.
Where my friends are perhaps? Again, really no. There are people here I’ll smile to see but my dearest friends are miles away.
Then what is home?
The place of my belongings? Not even that. The things most dear to me were stolen not long ago, and the rest can all be replaced. Mostly books and clothes.

Home must be the space where you can be.
Alone, with a partner, with friends, or with tea.
Home is the place where I can be me.
Indeed, home is the place where I must be me, for what a sad misuse of space if even here I cannot see, or try to be, what I need most.


It’s twee, I accept, and just a doodle that I scribbled when we got back, but glad I was to be [back]. Indeed. Christopher Robin and wellington boots, we are back on the land where we stomp in puddles and mud and go on long tromps with dogs who think we are theirs. It’s good to be back, we have a lovely cabana, a wood burning stove, and a glorious view of the sea. This is our temporary abode while Zephyrus is overhauled and it’s delicious.

The day after I burbled the above we were burgled, for a second time. Now we truly have nothing of value left in our home except the kind of equipment only appreciated by those who love mountains, a lot. Needless to say it was fairly rubbish but the outpouring of rage amongst people here who we barely know has been quite moving. People of all walks and connection to us are not only upset by the break-ins, but also have a sincere wish that we leave here with positive memories of the place and the people. Which we shall. There are good and bad folk the world over but if the good keep feeding me donuts I’ll leave here smiley and happy and raving about the South.

walking home from the bus