Home

It began in the summer. We set ourselves the task of exploring the places we lived as we travelled on our narrowboat. We decided that after eighteen months of the same four walls in a 65ft boat we would show our son the world we lived in. And so we set off through the Staffordshire, Shropshire, Cheshire and Denbighshire countryside, stopping wherever we pleased and making the most of family time; me, my partner and our son.

We explored trails and monuments, ruins and stately homes, paths and forests. It was on one of these explorations that we found what we were looking for but never realised.

The river was low, so low that crowds of people were gathered out on the rocks that usually cascaded with whitewater, nearly shoulder to shoulder with the few kayakers left dancing on the last eddies. There had been no rain in weeks, the sun was high in the sky and the air was permeated with the smell of sun cream, a welcome change to the unnatural smell of fake tan that frequented my pre covid life.

The pubs were full, full of life, full of people seeing people, getting out and experiencing life again. The parks were also heaving, gorgeous green spaces surrounded by trees that overlooked the horseshoe shaped waterfall. It was here that our new adventure began.

You see, 18 months on a 65ft boat had shrunk it to a solid 42ft... or it hadn’t but our family had grown by a third. The boat was as stifling as the hot sun, the air was sticky and thick, like moving through custard. The freedom we had experienced the past few months, travelling and exploring; it had lessened the itch, stretched the muscles in my wings but it hadn’t soothed me completely.

We walk the canal, and off the canal we see a bridle way, no horses, it’s too hot for a hack at the moment. It’s overgrown with nettles and lupins, poppies and dock leaves. We’re laced into walking boots, legs encased in walking trousers, babe held high in a carrier. We bat back thistles and nettles and stingers with the backs of our arms and wayward branches, dodge 3D hoof prints so hard they work like animal traps to your feet, and eventually we round a corner and enter a meadow. The meadow is beautiful, waist high grasses rolls like a wave, golden like the sand. It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here for a while. We meander through it as it laps languidly at the baby’s feet, tickling him and making him giggle - the sound is melodic.

As we reach the middle of the field we see a copse of trees, harbouring bricks and mortar. We grow ever closer to bricks red as postboxes, strong sturdy timbers, a beautiful overflowing garden fragrant with wild garlic, roses and apple blossom. My partner looks at me with wonder in his eyes. We nod our heads simultaneously in approval. I remove my sunglasses from the bridge of my tanned nose and rest them on top of my curls. I hear a tapping and notice the branch of an overgrown pine tree rapping the stable door which is partially open, I take this as an invitation and I enter. The floor is muddy, there are no tiles or carpet, the windows are tinted with mud and dust. Cobwebs drape the ceiling like voiles. The room is an empty cavern containing nothing but an old basin sink and a set of stairs up to the loft, but when I close my eyes, I know. I hear my son chasing his siblings through the hall in my head. Picture them in the garden, racing bicycles, building a treehouse with their daddy. I am certain. I am home.