I’m sitting on the sofa of my brother and sister-in-law’s (thatched, 17th century) cottage, making the most of my niece’s nap time with a nice cup of tea, a couple of choccie biccies, a good book and my iPhone.
The fact that, thanks to less than a foot of snow, the village is almost cut off from the main roads (my brother has told his boss he’s snowed in and is ‘remote-working’… i.e. building a snowman and dragging Beatrice round the lanes on an old wooden sled belonging to one of the neighbours) is no barrier to a 3G connection with The Interweb. Truly fantastic.
I’m having such a lovely time, though it is bitterly cold anywhere further than 3 feet from the aga or the fireplace. Getting up late, playing with my niece, plenty of good food – the pub in the next village is run by an ex-Michelin starred chef and his wife and my sister-in-law is an excellent cook – and the countryside covered in a blanket of crisp, fresh snow. Picturesque.
So good to see my brother again, too. I miss him and my sisters when I’m in Sydney.
Oddly, though, Sydney feels like home.