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This morning I picked golden plums straight from the trees in my back garden. A guilty pleasure; I didn’t plant the trees， they require little care， and they are free. But they are loved.
Home， now， after years working in London， is a green valley in Tasmania， a place with a postcode and no shop. I was brought up in Tasmania in the late 1960s and 70s， when it was common for young people to leave the place to experience more of the world. Now， after more than two decades away， and much to my surprise， it is my world.
Having lived a professional life mostly in London， a return to Tasmania came about because of a desire to live closer to food and nature. I’d learned about the slow food movement working on a food magazine in London， but my own life was too fast to live it， and I ate out more than in. Days were wasted in traffic jams， in queues， on public transport， in long meetings， and in waiting… I felt my city life was over.
So I settled on a simple weatherboard house in the country I knew， no job， and no idea how to sustain a life—just a knowingness that said if I had stayed where I was I would fade like a cushion in the sun. My mother lives half an hour away， and so do my two brothers， with their children.You don’t go home for them， but a blood connection is both easier and harder than any other.
Despite living on my own， it feels as if I have company. At least five homes within eyesight， a number that seems to double at night when the lights of farms and houses pop out from distant hills. I don’t feel the need to make friends， but I sense that we share something， living in this landscape， as if we’re all in it together， looking after it. It’s not like in a city， where you can shut out the world and disappear， or pass a neighbour on a staircase and not say hello， or look out of your window at blocks of flats and not know one soul living in them. It’s not anonymous like that. Here， the country makes you part of it. I have a sense that I belong without “belonging”.
I’ve learned many things here. I have learned that who I am is not my job， my family， or my partner， although all these things are important. I have learned to rely on the world around me and in doing this I look after myself. For example， living on tank water， I’ve learned to measure my daily usage. When the tank is low， and with no sign of rain， running out is a visible reality. This is not something easily appreciated living in the city， connected to a main supply. While the world of commodities strives to homogenise the seasons， country life encourages you to respect them. In doing this， I have found a new way to be. A life that you have when you’re not busy doing other things. A life that unfolds around you， that moves like the tide， and in sync with the seasons.
I moved here on my own without plans and have met my partner and started a new business. I did this getting lost on the way to visit a friend. I stopped at his property to ask the way. He， it turns out， is also an escapee from corporate life， and now lives across the road. He set up a hobby nursery and when the local market started， we took plants and herbs to sell， and later fresh produce from a local farmer. We put any profits that we made into a tin and spent it on local champagne. One day the market was rained off， so we boxed up our produce and took it to town. We called this our “rainy day business model”. It was so successful， we’ve been doing it ever since. There’s no weekly pay cheque， but I’ve never been happier.
There are only 72 summers in one lifetime， I remember a London adman telling me when he left the safety of a big job to start up his own business. The line he used stayed with me. If I only had 30 summers left—less if I was unlucky—what was I doing？
During the past eight summers， I has realised that who I am is where I am. With no children of my own， I have a sense of place， of being rooted， of staying not in， but home， although I know I’ve only just begun to scratch the surface.
The gift of these years is that while my mother， Audrey， is still bright but ageing， I know I will not feel like an orphan when she’s gone.
One day turns into the next and each day I follow the seasons. To leave home without a good reason feels like a betrayal， a wanton waste of time. To go beyond my own boundary would be to turn my back on the things I’ve started and lose momentum. It would be as if those small efforts to take care of my own back yard—the efficacy of untold devotion—had counted for not very much.
今天早晨我在后花園的树上摘了一些洋李。我感到一丝愧疚的愉悦感。这些树不是我种下的，不需要怎么照料，还是免费的。但它们很讨人喜欢。
在伦敦工作多年以后，现在，我的家在塔斯马尼亚州的一个青翠的山谷中，一个有邮政编码，但没有任何商铺的地方。我成长于上世纪60年代后期到70年代的塔斯马尼亚，那时，离开家乡，体验更广阔的世界对年轻人来说是很常见的事情。而现在，二十多年以后，出乎意料地，这里成了我的全部天地。
我之前大部分时间都在伦敦过着为工作而忙碌的生活，回来塔斯马尼亚是因为想要过一种与食物和自然更加亲近的生活。我从前在伦敦的一家饮食杂志社工作时，了解到“慢食运动”这个概念，但我个人的生活节奏实在是太快了，我无法响应这个运动，我大多数时候都外出用餐。日子都浪费在了塞车、排队、公共交通、漫长的会议以及等待当中……我觉得得结束那样的城市生活。
因此，我搬去了一个熟悉的乡村，在一间简单的檐板房里安家落户。我没有工作，也不知道该如何维持生计，只知道如果我再继续留在以前的地方，我就会像阳光下的垫子一样褪色。我妈妈住在离我有半小时车程的地方，我的两个兄弟和他们的孩子也是。你并不是为他们而回去的，但血缘关系却比世上任何一样东西都更简单、更牢固。 虽然我一个人住，但却不感觉孤独。我的视线范围内至少有五座房子，当夜晚来临，远处山丘那边的农场和房子点起灯火，这个数目似乎就翻倍了。我不觉得有和别人交朋友的需要，但我感到我们共享着某些东西，我们都住在同一片土地上，似乎在合力守护这片土地。这与城市不同，在城市里，你只要关上门户就能与世隔绝，消失无踪;或是在楼梯上遇到邻居却可以连一声招呼也不打;或是望向窗外的一栋栋公寓，但住在里面的人却一个也不认识。这里不像城市那样隐匿，乡村让你觉得自己是其中的一份子。我身无长物，但却有了一种归属感。
我在这里学到了很多东西。我学到了我是谁并不取决于我的工作、家庭或者伴侣，尽管这些东西很重要。我学会了依靠周围的世界，而我也以这样的方式照顾着自己。比如说，通过使用水箱，我学会了估量日常用水。当水箱的水位变低，又没有下雨的迹象，那么水会被用光就是显而易见的现实。这是生活在城市里不易学到的东西，城市里有自来水管道。
商品世界竭力做到一年四季供货不断，乡村生活则鼓励你尊重季节的变化。通过这样做，我找到了一种新的生活方式。一种不必忙忙碌碌的生活方式，一种围绕着你展开，如潮起潮落，与四季同步的生活方式。
我独自一人没有任何计划地搬到了这里，但却遇到了我的生意伙伴，做起了一門新生意。我在前去探访一个朋友时迷路了。我在他的店铺前停下来问路，结果发现，他也是一位从忙碌的工作生活中逃离出来的人，现在住在马路对面。他搞了个小型苗圃，在当地集市开始营业时，我们就摘取草本植物和香草去卖，后来还经销从当地的一个农夫那里收购来的新鲜农产品。我们把赚来的所有收益都放在了一个罐子里，然后把钱花在了当地的香槟酒上。有一天，集市因下雨而取消了，我们就把农产品用箱子装起来，带到镇上。我们把这称为“雨天生意模式”。结果大获成功，之后我们就都这样做了。没有周薪，但我却感到了前所未有的快乐。
人的一生只有72个夏季，我记得伦敦的一位广告员在辞掉他那份稳定、待遇优厚的工作，准备成立自己的公司时这样对我说过。我一直记住他说过的这番话。如果我只剩下30个夏季——或者更少，如果我遭遇不测——那么过去我都在做什么呢？
在过去的八个夏季里，我明白到我是谁取决于我在哪里。我没有孩子，但我对这里有一种归属感，我感到我的根在这里，我的家在这里，虽然我知道自己的领悟还是很粗浅。
我的妈妈，奥德丽，虽然还很健康，但却在慢慢老去，然而这些年的生活经历让我明白到，就算她走了，我也不会感到孤苦无依。
日子一天一天地过去，每天我都过着顺应四时规律的生活。无缘无故地离开家门会让我有一种背叛感、一种肆意挥霍光阴的感觉;越过自己的界限就如否定我做过的那些事，让我失去动力;就如我照顾家里后院的那些努力——那些不为人知的付出，仿佛不值一提。
Home， now， after years working in London， is a green valley in Tasmania， a place with a postcode and no shop. I was brought up in Tasmania in the late 1960s and 70s， when it was common for young people to leave the place to experience more of the world. Now， after more than two decades away， and much to my surprise， it is my world.
Having lived a professional life mostly in London， a return to Tasmania came about because of a desire to live closer to food and nature. I’d learned about the slow food movement working on a food magazine in London， but my own life was too fast to live it， and I ate out more than in. Days were wasted in traffic jams， in queues， on public transport， in long meetings， and in waiting… I felt my city life was over.
So I settled on a simple weatherboard house in the country I knew， no job， and no idea how to sustain a life—just a knowingness that said if I had stayed where I was I would fade like a cushion in the sun. My mother lives half an hour away， and so do my two brothers， with their children.You don’t go home for them， but a blood connection is both easier and harder than any other.
Despite living on my own， it feels as if I have company. At least five homes within eyesight， a number that seems to double at night when the lights of farms and houses pop out from distant hills. I don’t feel the need to make friends， but I sense that we share something， living in this landscape， as if we’re all in it together， looking after it. It’s not like in a city， where you can shut out the world and disappear， or pass a neighbour on a staircase and not say hello， or look out of your window at blocks of flats and not know one soul living in them. It’s not anonymous like that. Here， the country makes you part of it. I have a sense that I belong without “belonging”.
I’ve learned many things here. I have learned that who I am is not my job， my family， or my partner， although all these things are important. I have learned to rely on the world around me and in doing this I look after myself. For example， living on tank water， I’ve learned to measure my daily usage. When the tank is low， and with no sign of rain， running out is a visible reality. This is not something easily appreciated living in the city， connected to a main supply. While the world of commodities strives to homogenise the seasons， country life encourages you to respect them. In doing this， I have found a new way to be. A life that you have when you’re not busy doing other things. A life that unfolds around you， that moves like the tide， and in sync with the seasons.
I moved here on my own without plans and have met my partner and started a new business. I did this getting lost on the way to visit a friend. I stopped at his property to ask the way. He， it turns out， is also an escapee from corporate life， and now lives across the road. He set up a hobby nursery and when the local market started， we took plants and herbs to sell， and later fresh produce from a local farmer. We put any profits that we made into a tin and spent it on local champagne. One day the market was rained off， so we boxed up our produce and took it to town. We called this our “rainy day business model”. It was so successful， we’ve been doing it ever since. There’s no weekly pay cheque， but I’ve never been happier.
There are only 72 summers in one lifetime， I remember a London adman telling me when he left the safety of a big job to start up his own business. The line he used stayed with me. If I only had 30 summers left—less if I was unlucky—what was I doing？
During the past eight summers， I has realised that who I am is where I am. With no children of my own， I have a sense of place， of being rooted， of staying not in， but home， although I know I’ve only just begun to scratch the surface.
The gift of these years is that while my mother， Audrey， is still bright but ageing， I know I will not feel like an orphan when she’s gone.
One day turns into the next and each day I follow the seasons. To leave home without a good reason feels like a betrayal， a wanton waste of time. To go beyond my own boundary would be to turn my back on the things I’ve started and lose momentum. It would be as if those small efforts to take care of my own back yard—the efficacy of untold devotion—had counted for not very much.
今天早晨我在后花園的树上摘了一些洋李。我感到一丝愧疚的愉悦感。这些树不是我种下的，不需要怎么照料，还是免费的。但它们很讨人喜欢。
在伦敦工作多年以后，现在，我的家在塔斯马尼亚州的一个青翠的山谷中，一个有邮政编码，但没有任何商铺的地方。我成长于上世纪60年代后期到70年代的塔斯马尼亚，那时，离开家乡，体验更广阔的世界对年轻人来说是很常见的事情。而现在，二十多年以后，出乎意料地，这里成了我的全部天地。
我之前大部分时间都在伦敦过着为工作而忙碌的生活，回来塔斯马尼亚是因为想要过一种与食物和自然更加亲近的生活。我从前在伦敦的一家饮食杂志社工作时，了解到“慢食运动”这个概念，但我个人的生活节奏实在是太快了，我无法响应这个运动，我大多数时候都外出用餐。日子都浪费在了塞车、排队、公共交通、漫长的会议以及等待当中……我觉得得结束那样的城市生活。
因此，我搬去了一个熟悉的乡村，在一间简单的檐板房里安家落户。我没有工作，也不知道该如何维持生计，只知道如果我再继续留在以前的地方，我就会像阳光下的垫子一样褪色。我妈妈住在离我有半小时车程的地方，我的两个兄弟和他们的孩子也是。你并不是为他们而回去的，但血缘关系却比世上任何一样东西都更简单、更牢固。 虽然我一个人住，但却不感觉孤独。我的视线范围内至少有五座房子，当夜晚来临，远处山丘那边的农场和房子点起灯火，这个数目似乎就翻倍了。我不觉得有和别人交朋友的需要，但我感到我们共享着某些东西，我们都住在同一片土地上，似乎在合力守护这片土地。这与城市不同，在城市里，你只要关上门户就能与世隔绝，消失无踪;或是在楼梯上遇到邻居却可以连一声招呼也不打;或是望向窗外的一栋栋公寓，但住在里面的人却一个也不认识。这里不像城市那样隐匿，乡村让你觉得自己是其中的一份子。我身无长物，但却有了一种归属感。
我在这里学到了很多东西。我学到了我是谁并不取决于我的工作、家庭或者伴侣，尽管这些东西很重要。我学会了依靠周围的世界，而我也以这样的方式照顾着自己。比如说，通过使用水箱，我学会了估量日常用水。当水箱的水位变低，又没有下雨的迹象，那么水会被用光就是显而易见的现实。这是生活在城市里不易学到的东西，城市里有自来水管道。
商品世界竭力做到一年四季供货不断，乡村生活则鼓励你尊重季节的变化。通过这样做，我找到了一种新的生活方式。一种不必忙忙碌碌的生活方式，一种围绕着你展开，如潮起潮落，与四季同步的生活方式。
我独自一人没有任何计划地搬到了这里，但却遇到了我的生意伙伴，做起了一門新生意。我在前去探访一个朋友时迷路了。我在他的店铺前停下来问路，结果发现，他也是一位从忙碌的工作生活中逃离出来的人，现在住在马路对面。他搞了个小型苗圃，在当地集市开始营业时，我们就摘取草本植物和香草去卖，后来还经销从当地的一个农夫那里收购来的新鲜农产品。我们把赚来的所有收益都放在了一个罐子里，然后把钱花在了当地的香槟酒上。有一天，集市因下雨而取消了，我们就把农产品用箱子装起来，带到镇上。我们把这称为“雨天生意模式”。结果大获成功，之后我们就都这样做了。没有周薪，但我却感到了前所未有的快乐。
人的一生只有72个夏季，我记得伦敦的一位广告员在辞掉他那份稳定、待遇优厚的工作，准备成立自己的公司时这样对我说过。我一直记住他说过的这番话。如果我只剩下30个夏季——或者更少，如果我遭遇不测——那么过去我都在做什么呢？
在过去的八个夏季里，我明白到我是谁取决于我在哪里。我没有孩子，但我对这里有一种归属感，我感到我的根在这里，我的家在这里，虽然我知道自己的领悟还是很粗浅。
我的妈妈，奥德丽，虽然还很健康，但却在慢慢老去，然而这些年的生活经历让我明白到，就算她走了，我也不会感到孤苦无依。
日子一天一天地过去，每天我都过着顺应四时规律的生活。无缘无故地离开家门会让我有一种背叛感、一种肆意挥霍光阴的感觉;越过自己的界限就如否定我做过的那些事，让我失去动力;就如我照顾家里后院的那些努力——那些不为人知的付出，仿佛不值一提。