Going home (when it’s not your home anymore)

I’ve spent the Easter holidays back home in Frome, with my family. Only, this isn’t our home anymore…

On Good Friday, we pack up a few bags of clothes and toothbrushes from my parents’ house in London, where we’re staying, and join the rest of the city on the motorway.

The traffic is bad and what’s usually a 2.5-hour journey takes over five hours. But spirits are mostly high and we stop off a few times to stretch our legs.

On arriving at our home in Frome, I feel I can breathe easily. The air is fresher; our house is light and airy and open-plan, which makes me feel free.

We let the kids roam around for a while before heading down into town for a burger at the pub.

As we walk (run/scoot) down the familiar road that leads us from the edge of countryside to the pretty, cobbled Catherine Hill, I feel comfortable and comforted.

It’s all so familiar.

Now that we live in London, I’ve sometimes wondered if returning to Frome, where we lived for two years, will make me feel uncomfortable or panicked.

But I don’t, I feel like I still live here.

Maybe that’s because we haven’t yet sold our house. There are some finishing touches to be done before it goes on the market.

Just when it looks perfectly-finished, we’ll let it go.

As has been our experience with each of the properties my husband has renovated; turning derelict houses into beautifully-restored homes.

Having moved house twice as a child, I’m used to movement and change. I don’t get hugely attached to a building, however much love and effort we’ve poured into it.

But this time, it feels different.

Selling this house symbolises the decision to go back to the city. To wave goodbye to life in Somerset. It means no longer being able to walk down the road to meet with women I consider very close friends.

I will stay in contact with these women. And I’m also making new friends in London, now.

But the community in Frome is unbeatable in terms of its warmth, openness and the sheer amount of parties people have.

(And I love parties.)

On that first evening back in Frome, we eat our burgers and play pub games and enjoy being together, as a family of five. Complete.

That night, I sleep in my own bed, with my own sheets and pillow and duvet, and I sink into the deepest, calmest sleep. I don’t have any dreams.

In the morning, I float down to the beautiful bright white kitchen and drink several coffees, looking out at the garden and the trees and the park and the birds.

I really do feel like I’m home.

It reminds me of the importance of ‘space’ and how it feels when you’re in your own space, with your artwork and tea towels and books and mugs all around you.

I reassure myself that soon, we’ll have our own place in London.

And that we’ll put our stamp on it in the same way we have here. We’ll design it to feel similarly light and bright and spacious.

Still, there are moments, during our two weeks in Frome, where I think: shall we just move back?

I then remember the many reasons for moving to London: to be closer to my family, to have different schooling options to suit all our children’s needs, for work.

I have thoughts like: I’ll just take them out of school and homeschool them. We can be in Frome and in London - and even travel the world.

But I won’t do that. Because it’s not what they need (though it is what they say they want.) Also, I need and want to work. I can’t do that with three kids at home.

This pull between city and countryside has been happening for the past 15 years, since meeting my husband, who’s from Somerset, and wondering if a life like the one he grew up with is best, or one like mine (in London).

The truth is: one isn’t better than the other. They are different. There are advantages and disadvantages to both. But ultimately, the city life is the one I know and so that’s the one that for me, feels safe.

Other people feel differently. I have friends who grew up in the city and are now delighted to be living near the sea or fields or mountains.

Likewise, I have friends who grew up in a rural setting and now, love the pace of the city and can’t imagine ever living anywhere else.

One of my children says they want to stay in Frome. We break it down and realise it’s the home and being with Daddy full-time that matter more than the town itself.

From this conversation, I realise it’s the same for me. What matters most is being together, as a family, and having our own space to live in.

Living with my parents is the greatest privilege, on so many levels (financial, in terms of support, lightening the load of another big move).

But they will, I’m sure, look forward to us moving out so that they don’t have hoodies and AmongUs figurines strewn around the house.

And we’ll move all of that shit over to our new house/flat - whenever that happens - and both love it and hate it at the same time.

The freedom to be messy; the chaos of a messy home.

On that first morning in Frome, the kids trundle down and turn on the telly.

The arguments begin about whether the volume on the TV should be turned down or the volume of my voice, as I talk to my husband.

I reflect on my parents’ choice to not live in an open-plan space and decide it makes sense to have different rooms with doors to shut out the noise of young children.

Still, I know that we will continue to knock down walls in houses/flats and open it all up, because we like the energy to flow through, and the light.

For us, this is home.

Annie x

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