The holiday home I no longer want (and couldn’t afford anyway)
There was a time in my life when I was the sort of person who wanted, one day, to own a holiday home. It would be at a vaguely aspirational time where future me will have her life together and have tonnes of money. And in this imagined future, that holiday home was always somewhere like Wanaka or Queenstown Lakes District - because if you’re going to have unrealistic dreams, you may as well make them geographically stunning.
If you haven’t been, it’s absurdly beautiful. The kind of place that makes you briefly consider becoming outdoorsy, despite all prior evidence to the contrary. Lakes like glass. Mountains doing the absolute most. Air that feels unnecessarily fresh.
I used to imagine myself there, sitting on a deck with a coffee, gazing thoughtfully at the scenery like someone in a tourism ad who has never once had to clean a chicken coop.
There would, of course, be a small garden. Just enough to potter. A few tasteful plants. Possibly lavender, because holiday homes feel like they should have lavender. I would do a light, whimsical amount of gardening - nothing strenuous. Certainly nothing involving mud in places mud should never be. And then I would relax.
Reader, this was a fantasy.
Because what I failed to account for is that over the years, we accidentally created a place I don’t want to leave.
Our garden started as a “this will be manageable” situation and has since evolved into what can only be described as a full-time personality. It’s sprawling, it’s demanding, and it absolutely does not believe in days off. And here’s the inconvenient part: I love it.
Not in a “this is easy” way. In a “this is muddy, occasionally chaotic, and deeply satisfying” way. This means that now, when I see beautiful holiday homes advertised in places like Wānaka or Queenstown, I no longer picture myself relaxing. I picture myself thinking about home.
I’d be sitting there, surrounded by breathtaking alpine views, wondering what’s flowering in my garden. Mentally composing a list of things that should be done right now. Casually ruining the vibe by saying things like, “This would be a good time to prune the…” to absolutely no one.
I wouldn’t be peacefully reading a book. I’d be imagining the berry cage. Wondering if the strawberries are at peak perfection without me. (They always are. They wait for no one.) I’d miss wandering down to Cluckingham Palace to check on the chickens and The Mighty Red Baron, who, as Director of Garden Waste Management, takes his role very seriously. I’d miss the Whitehouse - home to Bert and Ernie, and Jebediah and Clementine - who expect regular visits and offer absolutely nothing in return. I’d even miss Gary G’nome, who continues to regard me with quiet hostility. And the cats. And the dog. And the general sense that everything slightly depends on me, whether that’s accurate or not.
Even the work itself - the weeding, the hauling, the endless “just one more job” - isn’t really a chore anymore. It’s the good kind of hard. The kind where you finish something, stand back, and feel disproportionately pleased with yourself for moving dirt from one place to another.
This is how I know I’ve changed. Because now, even in winter, when the garden is essentially a curated collection of brown tones and damp ambition, I still like sitting by the fire and looking out at it. Not because it’s impressive, but because it’s mine - and because I know what’s coming next. Spring is always lurking.
So, these days, I still go to beautiful places. I still admire the views. I still briefly consider what it would be like to live there.
But the feeling doesn’t linger the way it used to. Because now, the nicest part of going away is coming home. To the garden. To the animals. To the chaos. To the very same jobs I was trying to escape. And to a life that turns out to be exactly what I was trying to imagine all along - just with significantly more mud.
Did you know?
I have to admit, I was deeply skeptical when I first came across the claim that bees can recognise human faces. It sounded like exactly the sort of fact that gets shared endlessly online without anyone checking whether it's true. But after reading the scientific paper, it turns out the researchers really did train honeybees to distinguish between photographs of human faces and then pick the correct face from a lineup. Apparently, a brain smaller than a sesame seed is still capable of some remarkably sophisticated pattern recognition. I remain slightly suspicious, mostly because I still struggle to recognise people out of context, but the science seems pretty clear: the bees have earned this one.
What’s new on Behind the Garden Gate?
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