CHAPTERS on a 'forever home'?

Things I've learned from moving lots 🏘

Photo by Valentina Locatelli on Unsplash

In the space of ten years I moved house ten times. Flicking through the mental images of all the places I’ve lived, I’m trying to remember their addresses. Some were whistle-stops for a few months and I’d be hard-pressed to tell you the postcode. Others felt more like home. But, looking back, I enjoyed the whole nomadic vibe for a long time. With each move I reassessed my possessions, slimmed down on souvenirs and packed all the things that made me, me. Whatever car or van I could borrow would be packed full with boxes, suitcases, bin bags and excitement for the next chapter. I loved trialling new areas, new cities, meeting new neighbours in new neighbourhoods. I lived in flat-shares with strangers, alone, with family and, had the best of times, living with friends.

Now firmly into my 30s I am putting down roots. But, the concept of a 'forever home' still seems alien to me. How can you know where you want to live, for the rest of your life, when there is so much world out there to be lived in? In some ways I envy those who confidently believe they are in exactly the right place. There’s a woman in her 80s who has lived on my street for over half of her life and told me, ‘this is the place to be, you will be very happy here.” If you have found the perfect place to live, I salute you (tell me where it is please). Perhaps my neighbour is right, I am happy here, maybe I will stay put. I’m not against that. However, I like to entertain the idea that I might shack up in a beachside bungalow in Bali one day. Or, find myself in a pent house apartment in New York with a floor to ceiling bedroom window, overlooking Central Park. Why not dream big. They may just be dreams but ones I’ve found comfort in. I like the thought that you can pack up your troubles in an old kit bag and leave town.

Recently though, I was unwell and found myself confined to home. For a couple of days I didn't leave the house at all. I can't remember the last time I spent a full day without venturing beyond the doorstep. Even in lockdown we went out once a day! I moved from room to room in search of comfort and started to tune in to things I'd never noticed before. It reminded me of a childhood book called ‘Peace At Last’ - the story of a bear struggling with insomnia, wandering from place to place trying to catch a few zzz’s. I sat in the kitchen and heard buzzing noises from the lightbulbs, the drip of the tap and random clattering coming from the freezer. I lay motionless on the sofa and noticed where the light comes in through the living room window at different hours of the day, how it highlights dusty corners, before hiding them again in the secrets of shade. I started to clock the daily routines of the neighbours, the comings and goings of their guests, which house receives the most parcels and who is frequently walking their dog. At the risk of glamourising the lifestyle of a 90 year old curtain twitcher, it's been surprisingly nice, comforting. I've connected to the idea of home in a new way. As a place of safety, stability and recovery.

With time on my hands and a history degree in my locker, I decided to do some research into the story of the walls surrounding me - their existence stretching back a whole century before I was born. I currently live in a building that has stood in its foundations since 1890. Something about that fact alone feels reassuring. The house was built as part of the construction of a new road, paid for by a pocket book manufacturer and the work of a local builder living a few streets away. First, it was leased to a widow named Hannah for six pounds and seventeen shillings per year. The equivalent of about £650 in today's money. She had previously been living in Holmwood, Surrey. I am desperate to know, why did she move to London? Did she like it here? Was she lonely and bereft without her husband? Or, freed from his grip, embracing a new life on a new path (literally and metaphorically.) Sadly the census doesn’t pry into the personal details but I think we can safely assume she wasn't watching Netflix and ordering Deliveroo.

In the early 50s the house was rented by an artist who only stayed for a year. Then in 1952 a couple moved in just after their wedding and stayed until the mid-70s. What tales would these walls tell if they could talk? Without the presence of Facebook profiles to stalk, the memories they made here are left to the imagination. Unlike that of the previous owner who’s mail still comes through our letterbox - a reminder that lives move on faster than mailing lists. Aside from that, and the scant smattering of archived paperwork, there is no trace of any of the previous inhabitants here. It’s amazing, the transformative power of a lick of paint.

In another century’s time, perhaps someone as nosy as me will wonder who came before. Maybe they’ll discover this article in the internet clouds and find it difficult to read my ye olde english. If they do, then what I would say to them is this…

The essence of making a place truly yours isn't found in the marks we leave behind, but rather the things we take with us which transform a house into a home. No matter where life takes you and how often you change addresses, it's the cherished, personal treasure that build you a sanctuary, your ‘Peace At Last’. I highly recommend filling rooms with cushions, candles, and rugs. But, these items will wear out and will be replaced. The true comforts of home, for me, are the precious keepsakes I've safeguarded throughout every move. Like a childhood polaroid picture of my sister and me, an envelope bursting with heartfelt cards from special friends, seashells from beaches I love, a necklace from my parents.

Ultimately, places will change, people will come and go and it's only the memories that matter. The beautiful memories that live with you, rent-free, everywhere you go. They are your forever home.