December 7th: An Englishman’s Home is his Castle.
I have been away for five days and I can’t wait to get home. The more often I travel and the longer I commute, the greater my appreciation of time spent at home. The decision to live in Broadstairs full time was not entirely my own, but throughout the transition I kept an open mind. I concluded that if commuting to London was going to be insufferable, I would soon know about it. Almost two years later I have almost forgotten any hardship, although in July when I have buy a new season ticket, the pain in my wallet brings reality into sharp focus. As commutes go it’s not the easiest, but nor is it impossible. Plenty of other folk do it. I fill the hours on the train, 4 of them on a good day, with emails and writing blog posts. (This post is actually being written on a plane from Düsseldorf to London, which takes exactly half the time my 88 mile commute does.)
The point I am getting to is that I love being at home. I love arriving at the threshold, filling my lungs with humid, salty, sea air and then shutting the door behind me. Never do I consider moving closer too work. This is where I am happiest. At the entrance to The Watch House there is a mighty gate, constructed twelve years ago when the garden was built. Pictured above, it has a large stainless-steel number 7 positioned in the middle, hence my decision to write about it today. The gate closes with a satisfying clunk on a calm day, and with a force that could send a dozen weightlifters flying on a windy day. It’s unnecessarily large but I love the sense of privacy and protection it affords. My home is my castle, and the gate is my portcullis. TFG.
