Years ago, after I’d been living in my condo in Mississauga for about 3 or 4 months, I remember walking in the front door one evening after work and thinking, “Ah, I’m home.” I remember thinking the same thing after a few months in Milton. I’m very much affected by my surroundings: it’s not unusual for me to be sitting on my sofa reading a book in front of the fire back home and look up and think, “Life is good.”
I got the same feeling from the countryside here in Orkney almost immediately. Even on a dreich day, one where I hadn’t talked to anyone other than via What’s App messages, going for a walk in the country would make me feel better. I’d look around and think how lucky I was.
The last two months have been fantastic: LL was my first house guest, and we had a blast touring Scotland, drinking gin, and eating local delicacies (yes, a good black pudding is a delicacy, thank you very much). It was great. And spending 10 days with an old friend whom I had only seen one hour/year for the last two decades (she lived halfway across the continent and we’d have lunch at Christmastime; it wasn’t like I saw her only on visiting days at the prison or anything), was so nice. I loved our trip together; we can still make each other laugh over the stupidest things. And I really do like driving around the highlands, in spite of complaining about the length of the journeys.
When I walked in the door last week, coming home from York, I dumped the bags in the closet and the groceries in the kitchen, and sat down on the sofa with a cup of tea. It was just me, alone (well, with Scout), in my peedie wee hoose. And I thought: “It’s good to be home.” Home, with all my stuff. I hadn’t not felt at home before, but this week seems to have been when the penny dropped and I feel truly At Home.