the good life

We all need a way of rewarding ourselves in life, a way of reminding ourselves that everything we do, day in, day out, is worth it. We need an outlet that helps us feel as though we are building toward something. For some, it's the McMansion in the West End, the Mercedes or Porsche on the driveway, maybe even a couple million each year in passive income. For some it may be the popularity that a bank balance like that can buy you, or perhaps its the number of Gucci and Yves Saint Laurent garments in their walk-in wardrobe. It's a lifestyle many will do anything to achieve, but it's meaningless to me. After all, there's only so many status symbols one can accumulate before they stop meaning as much to us as they once did. It's one of many things I don't need to try out for myself to know that it's fundamentally true.

So what does gratify me? Well, every day when my head hits the pillow once more, I know that I've taken another baby step forward on my slow-growth journey towards something that isn't nearly as big or unattainable as the lifestyle fit for movie stars. All I strive for is a simple and comfortable early retirement to a rural cottage, with just what I need and nothing more.

The cottage isn't huge or even perfect, but it's mine, signed and payed for in full. I mean yes, the back door squeaks like a banshee no matter how much WD40 I use. And yes, the A road just beyond the front garden can be busier than I'd like in the summer. And yes of course, being an older building, things can and do go wrong more than is ideal. One of those bloody cabinet doors in the kitchen keeps falling off with the expansion and contraction of the wood, but I put up with it because the aesthetic of an old-fashioned kitchen that you just can't buy anymore means more to me that the couple minutes it takes to fix it. Its' little imperfections are that which makes it feel homely - lived in. I'd take my mortgage-free, imperfect cottage over a premium penthouse apartment any day!

It doesn't have all the mod-cons, the smart appliances or a walk-in wardrobe, super-fast fibre optic broadband or the latest trendy accoutrements. It has a dining-kitchen and living room downstairs, two bedrooms and a family bathroom upstairs, with exposed beams and period features throughout. The garden to the front is a mini wild flower meadow, a bit mental but bursting with colour. While the garden to the back has a small patio for summer time BBQs and a shed, green house and vegetable plot to help us live partly off the land. The garden is surrounded on all sides by a five-foot fence to help enclose the ducks, who are well fed and mostly flightless and who sleep in their hand-painted wooden hutch at night.

But most importantly, the views from all around are spectacular. No cities or even towns for miles around, just rolling hills for as far as the eye can see and sunsets like you wouldn't believe. It's quiet and rural, so rural in fact that the street name and house number is sort of irrelevant. It's the kind of house in the middle of nowhere that you need the postcode and some observational skills to find. It's not 123 Sesame Street, but Roslyn Cottage*. 

Parcels and letters are often left at the village post office a few miles down the road. The city-slick DPD drivers usually get lost this far off the beaten path. Every other day, old Agnes gives me a ring to come collect some bits. So I'll put Archie the Beagle on a lead, pull on a wooden jumper and my timby's, throw on a down coat and head out.

Through the wooden door, a solid timber and painted cyan, I'd leave the little white cottage and take a leisurely walk into the village. Most of the people living here are friendly and hospitable, not nearly like the small town mentality you can get in some areas. They aren't phased by outsiders. Passing the Welcome to Town sign, the common rambler would ogle and gesticulate in marvel of the beautiful, calming surroundings where every dog walker says hello as they pass. You're hard-pressed for phone signal out here. The nearest mast you'll find is a good few miles away toward the nearest town, so most people round here rely on landline phones. Some of the younger folks have home internet but most here don't. It still involves digging up the whole street here, so most don't silly themselves. Instead, to make Skype calls or send emails, the older dears nearby will head to the cafe for a coffee, a cake and a loan of the computer. It's an internet cafe of sorts, to the tune of one single computer! 

The local Police Station closes every day at lunch time so the sarge can nip down to the grocers for a sandwich and a cuppa. The couple who own it are Greek, a man and wife who traded their Government jobs in Athens for a calmer, less trodden path. They run all round the shop for their patrons, while gabbing away about the latest village gossip. The local Baker, now retired, left the couple his recipes to the village's favourite breads, baps and buns. Old man Baker still pops in occasionally, just to make sure everything is up to scratch! 

The pub on the corner has a lock-in every Friday night where all are welcome but their mobile phones are not. The pub stays open well into the wee hours, usually ending with half the patrons head-bobbing in their chairs and the sarg propping-up the bar, mumbling incoherently, the top two buttons of his shirt un-done. Often the Campbell's will take the party back to their house, a converted barn just across the street and round the corner. They retired early and escaped to the country for a slower pace of life and accidentally brought the party scene with them!

Pushing through the white, double-windowed, wooden door to the post office, I'd shout "Morning Agnes!" as I peruse the news stand. I'd fold a paper in hand width-ways and lift it from the stand, grab a Twix and an orange juice from the snacks shelf and take them to the till. "Here's your post, son" she'd say, sliding a few letters and a parcel across the counter. "How have things been with you this week," she continued, "Anything planned for the rest of your Friday?" She wouldn't be terribly old, certainly not as old as some who lived here, but she'd still insist on the words 'son' and 'pet' in a warming, loving kind of way. "Awkt, just the usual Agnes love, you know me," I'd say. My routine would rarely change. 

Friday is post day. I'd take my morning ablutions purely in preparation to pick up my post! After leaving the post office, I'd pop into the grocers for me bits. Usually on a Friday I'd pick up a couple of their home-made sandwiches for lunch time. Even as a grown-ass adult, I still have a treat yourself Friday, eat-out lunch! Wrapped in tin foil, I'd pop them at the top of my tote bag with my post, newspaper and groceries, then I'd be off home. With my whole morning spent on a simple trip into the village, I'd feed us and the animals on my return.

People always say we are mental to have a beagle, two cats and three ducks in the same house. With each visit, family and friends seem to grow more surprised that they haven't killed each other yet! But the cats are as timid as timid can get and largely remain indoors unless occumpanied. The ducks will occasionally wander in the back door. Thelma, the more daring of the two, followed by Louise, who's more talkative but a big wuss. Archie barely notices, with Missy and Binx having a sniff around them before making for high ground. They are much too loud to be messed with! The ducks bear eggs from spring through to early autumn, but it's only me who eats them. So often I'll find myself out delivering a handful of freshly-lain eggs in paper bags to our immediate neighbours, not that we have many! We're so rarely short of eggs that we encourage villagers to chap the door if they're ever in need.

Then my afternoons would be spent writing, playing piano, pottering about in the garden or planning our next Scouts activity. Oh yep, I'm still a Scouter. It's a lifetime commitment for me. I consider myself a country dweller but I'm still only a 30 minute drive from my old Scout hall, the one I grew up attending and have been volunteering at since I was just 14 years old. God, that was a while ago!

Before long it would be dinner time and we'd sit down at a solid oak dining table for a hearty, plant-based meal with an indoor fire burning away inside the fireplace, the fumes rising through a flew and out the chimney. The flames had been kindled from that morning's newspaper before adding a few logs. Central heating was retro-fitted well before we even bought the place, but it's an under-floor system and is just not the same as an open fireplace. After a few hours the fire would nearly be out, heralding that it's time to don my boots and coat once more to head for the pub!

That's my idea of the good life, a vision of simple living that I strive for. In my mid-50s, having worked my arse off in my early days, I can take my foot off the proverbial gas pedal and coast my way to the finish line. Providing I play my cards right, I think it's achievable. I'm under no illusion that it will be an easy touchdown to score; nor do I think the game will be won once I do get there, but nobody ever said the simple life would be an easy one. But will it be worth it? Hell yeah!

~ Aedan.

*A made-up house name!