“I been thinkin' about the time before...and the pictures that keep playin' in my mind” – Firehose

Written by Adrian, May '23

After 9 months living here, negotiating the travails of winter and emerging into a blossoming spring full of multi-shaded greens, cricket-serenaded evenings, and loud and proud bright flowers, we have been engaged in decision-making about our next step. This has coincided with entertaining and life-affirming visits from friends and family, ones that remind you of the shared experience and outlook that imbue relationships that traverse distance. But visits also identify the environmental and interpersonal structures that enable these relationships to resume with ease, both in terms of the way things are said without words, the physical comfort of presence and the shared orientation around activities. It is these things that remind you of what was left behind, not all of which have been replaced.

Some of this has been obvious for a while. Being up a mountain and down a track restricts and denies aspects of day-to-day existence that I have increasingly missed, despite being surrounded by bird song, rustling trees, gliding birds of prey, night-time owl hoots and pet geckos. Having to drive to or for everything, even for a run, isn’t how I wish to live, and so easier accessibility to some of those things left behind has become a conditional necessity for where we go next.

So, what are they?

I could start with the simple pleasure of wandering around a bookshop, perusing, enquiring, picking up books next to ones I had already read reviews of, finding a surprise, exploring the history and political rabbit holes, slowly flipping pages on a vacant stool and reading some pages – this is how I discovered Ta-Nehisi Coates – deciding and buying to add to the pile. Sizing up clothes after coffee, lazily thumbing CDs and discovering a new friend. Perhaps the simple chatter about nothing with the people you bump into. Running fingers over a linen shirt, caressing the cloth between finger and thumb, a soft All Saints top. The half-expected not expected spot of a familiar face serving behind the counter of a town centre cafe, or re-arranging the clothes you have disturbed in the Fat Face sale. Window shopping the latest Spanish shoes, hoping for discounts. Simply people-watching without having to drive somewhere. A diversity of culinary choice when it comes to vegetarian food. Actually seeing the people that can now only be communicated with on WhatsApp.

Perhaps a potter to the pub for an early pint that became more. Down the local to meet the son, the oiled wooden floors, dogs scuttling for attention, a selection of ales and banter, murmured chatter that would always gradually get louder. The clink of pool balls and slamming twists of table football. Known faces, acknowledging connection in unremarkable and easy existence. Unexpected conversations with unarranged meetings, a gentle pat to the shoulder. Or cycling down to the quay for beer and swapped impressions of current affairs with other ageing men, getting cold as the alcohol and dusk winds bite. The grass is always greener approach to the next unknown, untested pint of ale.

Maybe the lack of difficulty in buying halloumi cheese, or sourdough bread. The eating of a bloody decent curry, out and in with all the paraphernalia. The puffy, slightly buttery delight of a garlic nan, the dried crispness of poppadums dipped in lime pickle, a chapatti used to spoon up and consume a dollop of vegetable Rogan Josh, or the devouring of sizzling tandoori paneer shashlik. A Masala Dosa. Crisp, warm, spicy samosas, the pea escaping the lips. Bombay potatoes. Easily obtainable almond croissant, crunching through the flaked surface to the warm ooze of almond paste. The casual hunting for Christmas presents as you stroll through town, shop-hopping and eyes alert.

Riding my bike along the river tracks to river mouth, down to tourist-driven Dawlish Warren, passing estuary settlements, stately homes, flanked by rustling reed beds and fields of deer. A quick stop at a bird-hide, perhaps alighting at a pub around a half-moon harbour, or the wide swooping bend in the Exe where the swan’s nest and otters appear. Past the gardens of The Turf Locks where the river opens, broadens, slows in its approach to the coast. Watching the waters fight as the tide turns, the slowly turning curl of the tidal waters, birds wading to feed and the boats bobbing. Pubs as staging posts marking your progress along the undulating route, breeze-blown and salty air, the sky expanding as the coast appears. Glasses on to avoid insect-battered eyes. Or perhaps through the meandering lanes of Devon countryside past streams and inlets, cow herds on the move and being encouraged into the hedge rows by tractors trundling towards me.

Running the paths of Haldon Hill (deer prancing across your path), Woodbury Common (soldiers on training exercises, camouflaged in bushes) or the Killerton Estate. The dappled heat and mud-hardened paths of ancient Ashclyst Forest in the summer. All with the dog sprinting ahead, hand-brake turning, testing my awareness and agility, and covering twice the distance I do. Or just leaving the front door to jog the streets, through the cemetery, across the park and along the green route to the riverside.

Some of these things then need a presence in our move, a counterbalance and contrast to what we have experienced so far. Another information and environmental context to help us decide what kind of mixture and balance of place, opportunity and routine sociability we need, something perhaps like the estuary edge of the Douro. And yet, there will be so much to miss here. Although the friends we have made are sorely mistaken if they are getting rid of us!