“The difference between a house and a home is a plump veggie garden”.
Okay, so I may have just made that up, but it sums up my current sentiments exactly. Two long months after arriving in country, I have finally moved into my new home. A quick walk to town and to work, with a pub and pilates studio around the corner, my new abode features three bedrooms and a whole lotta space for any willing visitors (…..Sarah Fulton, Liz Giles, Peter Johnson, Louella Vaughan…..).
Oh, and did I mention that it has its own wood-fired pizza oven, a solar cooker (which I’m yet to try), and a nice little verandah with hammocks overlooking mango, papaya, orange, banana and cashew trees, and, of course, a plump vegie garden (at least, for now).
My first weekend at home was spent revelling in these simple delights. Friday night I made a mess in the kitchen as Manyoni and I attempted some home-made soy milk, okara vegan “chicken” nuggets and wilted chinese cabbage fresh from the garden. The following morning, I was hit by a truck in the form of my first pilates class in months. That afternoon, Joshua and I sipped tea on my balcony (using lemongrass from my garden), and then that evening I joined Leke for a night out on the town. Just when I thought life was getting too good, Manyoni pulled out some paints and we got creative on some abandoned straw hats, which now form the feature artwork in my lounge. As I write this, I am nibbling on the latest crop of strawberries.
Yes, life can land you in all sorts of funny places, but with friends and a good veggie patch you know you will always find yourself at home. Or, in the words of someone other than me, “A house becomes a home when you can write, ‘I love you’ on the furniture”.