Everybody wants a garden.

My visa for France has expired, which means I’ve left the country for a week.

I’m back at my parent’s house in Bromley. I’m sitting in the garden of my childhood home.

But I have it all to myself, because my parents have also left the country for the week.

On the plus side, after living out of Airbnb studio or 1-bedroom apartments for the last few years, it feels incredibly luxurious to have an entire house to myself.

On the down side, my parents aren’t here to answer simple questions lIke “Why are there seven different, opened bags of peas in the freezer?”

I drift from room to room, and floor to floor, feeling like a prince in a castle. My parents have lived in their house for 35 years. They tried to move out recently, but realized they couldn’t afford all the extra space they wanted if they were to move. Apparently you can never have too much space. I can’t even imagine what I’d do with this much space, but it feels good to have it. Just in case, you know.

But space doesn’t come cheap.

I’ve just returned home from my friend’s slightly smaller house in North London. They only moved in a week ago. They moved because they really wanted a garden. In exchange for this extra space, they’ve acquired a place that’s going to need a bunch of renovation work. First up, a new roof.

They hosted a BBQ for my old university friends. Some of which I haven’t seen since I left for Canada some 7-odd years ago.

I was surprised how little everyone has changed. The ones who hated their jobs still hate their jobs. The ones who haven’t figured out where they want to live still haven’t figure out where they want to live. The funny ones are still funny. The quirky ones are still quirky. A few of them have dogs now. And they’re all discussing plans to renovate their homes. And they’re all living further and further from the city center so that they can get a bigger garden.

My parents are discussing renovations too.

A new kitchen.

Even though I know they’ve had it for 20 years, it still feels new to me. Everything looks new when you’ve lived ski town apartments for the last year. To me, the six-hob burners, large sinks, and cupboards brimming with cook-wear are a dream. The wooden cupboards still look in perfect condition, as does the marble countertop. It’s obviously not ultra modern, but the only piece that actually feels dated is the dining room table and chairs. Yet, I’m pretty certain next time I visit, when the new kitchen is in, those will be the only pieces still intact.

But it’s the same with everything we own isn’t it. To own things is to get bored of them. We crave a change, and tell ourselves that the new version will bring us more happiness than the previous one. Which is does for a brief moment. Until the new thing is no longer new and the cycle starts all over again. Often then things we started with were totally adequate all along.

I wonder if moving houses every six months is actually saving me a huge amount of money in unnecessary home-renovations.

I think this is secretly a big reason why holidays are so popular. It’s like buying a new life, except at the end of the week you get to give it back when you realise you actually quite liked the life you had to begin with. Of course it’s not like returning an item of clothing to a shop - you don’t get the money back. But you’ve paid for that little bit of extra comfort for the next few months, knowing you’re happy just as you are. Until you see your friends going on holiday of course. Then you’ll feel jealous again and start planning your next trip.

This shift in perspective is why I like travelling from the mountains to the ocean so much. When I arrive at the beach I love the open expansiveness of it all. Seeing endlessly into the distance, while watching the sun sink right down to the very edge of the sky. I miss the sunsets in the mountains. The towering peaks block the views of the final, most beautiful hours.

Then I leave the beach and return to the mountains and I’m floored by the grandeur of it all. They always seem so much larger than when I left. So much more imposing. And unlike the beach, where I can reach the edge of the land in moments, here I feel like I could travel across the country forever without finding an edge.

I used to feel similarly about returning to the city after being surrounded by nature. There was such an excitement to it. The buzz of the capital. Endless activities and culture and incredible food on every corner. But I find myself more and more dissatisfied with it here. It feels less like the exciting urban jungle and more like a zoo. Animals depressed and trapped in cages, separated from their family and natural habitats. Obviously all those wonderful things I love still exist here - the theatres, the galleries, the restaurants - but now I’m more aware that it comes at the cost of being detached from the real world of forests and goats and storms and flowers and bees.

We don’t need more shopping centres in our lives, but we do all need more bees.

On Saturday I sat in the park in Clapham with the same university friends, where one of them overheard a child ask her mother “Why are there all these people here?”, to which came the reply “These are all the people who don’t have gardens at home”.

Here they all were, living in a city, away from nature, in order to hopefully one day afford to buy their own little piece of nature too.

And even though I spend my days surrounded by vast mountains on every side I can’t help but notice that - lying here in my parents garden, with the sun shining and the breeze blowing, having it all to myself - I do feel incredibly relaxed.

Maybe true happiness is a garden after all.

The only thing that feels like it’s missing right now is a dog.

July 29, 2024