HOME.

I have never lived in the same place for any more than 4 years at a time. It wasn't my decision, nor am I blaming anybody else - it is simply the result of a busy life and a parent who had itchy feet. 

Since moving out of my parents house some two years ago, I have put down my own roots and am settled in the quiet, but consistently enjoyable, Dorset. I feel it makes sense to stay in the same place, and whilst growing up, have always been jealous of the people that can say - " Oh I've lived in that house 15 years etc." 

So I am now a Dorset boy. This is my adopted home town, and the stage upon which I will act out many more years of my life. I Love it for the most part. It can be dull at times, but so can everywhere, and at other times I feel like the luckiest person alive - this more often than not is when I have just been on a walk with my westie, Ruby, around the New Forest, not 5 miles out of Ringwood. Stunning.

Anywho, the point of this ramble is that even though I now live in Dorset, and enjoy living here with my fantastic flat mate Lucy - who is essentially my wife, just without the ring, the certificate and the love life - my four close friends and my Mother and Sister, all just a stones through away, there is still a nagging feeling to go back to a certain part of the country that I lived in as a child, for no more than 3 years. Wiltshire.

I think it is quite standard to remember with fondness places that we visit when we are young. The mundane can quickly become transformed through naive eyes and a packet of sweets, but for me, it was the woods. My uncle and aunt lived on some big lardy-dar estate, that my aunt has inherited, and if this all sounds a little bit Jane Austen, you wouldn't be far wrong. On their many acres of land was this big lake, which had fishing points all around it that were rotting and always empty of fisherman. I remember taking down my jam jar, with a home made handle made out of wire, and plunging this glass prison through the surprisingly clear water, and capturing hundreds of tadpoles. I would waddle back to the house happy as Larry, because the great explorer had caught his prize! 

Now if I visit Wiltshire again, or even move there when I have a head full of grey hair and a passion for tweed, I highly doubt I will be seen skipping through Marlborough or Devizes with a glass jar of tadpoles -  I would look strange and in need of locking up no doubt - but I certainly want to visit the fields again. I want to go to the coffee shops my Granny took me to, and I want to enjoy the open space and the familiarity that comes with visiting somewhere you have been before. Dorset is my home, and I am delighted to say that earnestly, knowing that for the foreseeable future, this will be where I live. But one day I do hope to retrace my steps around the lakes and the fields, and if I see any tadpoles, I may just be tempted to pull out a jam jar.

The King of Limbs by Radiohead is named after a very, very old tree (oak I believe), that resides in Wiltshire. This songs subject matter, plus my occasional low frame of mind, coupled with its dream like textures, reminds me of the lake near my Aunt and Uncles house.