11.30 a.m. Sunday morning. I am sitting in a big, brown leather armchair in a hotel lounge with my husband and a pot of rich dark coffee by my side. It's raining, I'm tired and this is the best morning's relaxation I can think of. The Sunday papers were not delivered to the hotel this morning, I heard. It's a remote spot. But the view from the hotel lounge is a panorama of green and brown, a soft, moist, misty, majestic landscape - mountains and lake - Snowdonia's best.
This is home now. It's hard to make that sink in. I've never lived in the mountains before. But this is my home. I've been transported, I think - beamed up! I've gone boldly, where I at least have never gone before. From the flatlands of northern Europe I have travelled, been moved on flawlessly, seamlessly, from my old life to this new one - a magic conjuring trick, performed while I was sleeping. In fact, it has been nearly five months since I slept in my big pine bed in my Netherlands home. Such a lot has been accomplished since then: cleaning, packing up, searching for a new home, arriving, cleaning once again and unpacking... But it seems like only yesterday and now the transformation is complete. I am back, like before, sleeping in my own bed, cooking in my own kitchen, eating off red and while tulip crockery at my big, old, antique pine dining table with the same familiar bumps and scratches etched into the wood, and sleeping once again in my comfy old bed. It's all just the same as before and yet all so totally different.
Can this really be me? Can I really be here? Soft, green, misty, moisty mountains - you are my home now.
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