When people ask how it is to be living in our new house, I tell them what I notice most is the light. As though we had previously been hibernating in our rented homes, lighting our lives with tungsten and halogen. Feeling our way, mole-like to the surface of the front door and then out into the daylight, gasping for a fresh dose of vitamin D, opening our retinas as wide as possible to gratefully accept every drop of light that flowed in.
Now even the greyest day throws some light through the generous windows and breakfast is eaten under a wide stretch of sky - cloud filled or not, the sense of space and light floods over us as we eat.
Light bounces off the high chapel ceilings and tumbles down stairs from an overhead window. I find myself leaning into the stairwell tutting that someone has left the light on, only to find it is the sun that has forgotten to flick the switch and I have only to be thankful that another bright day is fueling the solar panels on the roof.
This morning we woke early as Nick had a long journey to make. Shirt ironed, soup ready in a flask, Finley contentedly munching apple, walnuts and yogurt in the kitchen, I wandered after him through the house, hands around my tea. Dawn was breaking gently outside, intensely gold on the wooden balcony. Long buttery fingers of light felt their way into the south side of the house, begging me to lean outside for a glimpse of rose coral sky, as the deep turquoise of night moved aside for today to slip into its place.
I was reminded of other mornings in other houses, where dawn appeared to be breaking somewhere else. My connection to the sky required a trip into the garden to look up. Here we sit on the boundary of the town with nothing behind us but fields, raised up enough that we look down over the roofs and either side to woods and hills. In this house we can watch day arrive and leave again, see flocks swooping for miles above, birds of prey hovering almost at eye level as they scan the ground below.
When the sun shines on one of these cold November days, I find it hard to resist curling up with a little research material in the bright pools that fall in and warm the floor. Passers by must see me lying on a sheepskin reading drowsily and wonder whether I do any work at all?
Of course, our baby may still need shelves and cupboard doors, she may need a little filler and paint where the timber frame has settled, but she is warm, light and easy to live in. We're home.
I promise that I will organise this year's Go Ahead Honey in the next couple of weeks. If you expressed an interest, please remind me here in the comments in case I miss you off the calendar. If you would like to be involved, suggest a primal theme and I'll see if I can fit you in.