I climb a spiral staircase to my room. The ceiling is wood with exposed beams. The far wall is whitewashed concrete. There has obviously been a lot of work done. From the bed I can see through the skylight out into the night. The other window reveals what seems to be a forest of trees. There are shelves built into the whitewashed concrete; I imagine them to be piled high with books and photos and souvenirs from my world travels.
I’m staying in The Coachman’s Cottage. I don’t know who this coachman is, but I like him. This house has pull cord light switches, a fireplace, old fashioned door handles, and English windows. Not to mention the handcrafted French tea. It feels a lot like a time warp. I don’t have much experience with time travel, but this house feels very old-worldly to me. And I like it. It feels ok to leave my phone at home when we go out, or to sit and read by the fire, or to drink four cups of tea in a row.
New places are the best. They let you reinvent yourself, forget your routine, and try something different. Such a day was today: two hours walking in the botanic gardens, a long lunch, a stroll through Stirling looking in bookshops and hipster shops and watching the leaves be blown by the wind. I can do anything here. Anything at all. I’m not bound by obligation or by the ten thousand coffees, meetings, and chats I have organised. New places. So much yes.
Adelaide, I like you. You are slower than life in Newtown. You are cold and brisk and beautiful.
My soul rests.