Home is a place that doesn't existI have a dream of living in a house in a cool climate. I have a big kitchen where in my minds eye, a large earthenware bowl of fresh salad sits on an old wooden table before a late lunch. The shelves are lined with jams, pickles and preserves. There is half a loaf of bread bought that morning on a little indulgent trip to the local bakery. It sits on the table next to the salad along with cheese and pate. The scene is very provincial in a French kind of way.
The house is on a large property, bordered by woods and a lake. A few miles down the road is a village with a huge summer market filled with great produce including locals crops, free range chicken, grass fed beef. In the winter, a covered market takes its place.
The climate is warm - cool by my current standards but pleasant. In the winter the temperature drops but never far below zero. There are seasons. The trees shed their leaves annually waiting naked through winter days sometimes crisp, sometimes grey.
I'd love such a place. It's probably hard coded into my French genes. Or maybe it's a nostalgia for the Quebec countryside visits I enjoyed as a child.
But the reality of this country home in a temperate land, is that the people I love aren't there. That is the problem with having no roots. All you want and all those you love are scattered around the world. Choice of one always means loss of another. So the ideal home, the home where your heart is, can only exist in your imagination.