Home. Home is where my heart is. If I get too far from home I begin to feel fragmented, lost. I love my home and I want to build walls and castles to protect it. But every now and then, in fact quite regularly, I must have adventure. Now adventure could be had in my home: creating a new story or finding a new piece of music from the stream that seems to flow somewhere beneath my piano keyboard. But sometimes I feel that tug of imagination taking me to somewhere new, beautiful, inspiring. But oh, to return home, to be by my own hearth. Funny how the word hearth is so close to the word heart. Just an extra h.

So what is in my home? What pulls me back so urgently?

People.

Family.

My love.

Our child.

But also a place to sink the roots of my heart in. Roots that go deep into memories, tastes, sounds, visions, walls, wood, light.

A photo of Marloes beach pulls me back to adventure. We have a plan to camp once again in a field near this beach. That will be an adventure! But what I realise as I think about that is that adventures bring back memories to home. Home is enriched by these memories. They are superbly important and make up another inner fabric of a home. Somewhere to return to, to bring anything, anyone, back to, in my mind. And they will stay as part of this fabric.

Mountains, sea, they are both far from my home but I love to have them with me and I long to be in them or by them. To have them close, so huge so seemingly unending and yet so tangible. Bring home to them because they are always in my dreams. Bring them to home because they are always in my memory.