On the road between my village and the next

I first visited in 2009 and on impulse bought a house.  Why?  Because it was cheap. Because it seemed like a good  idea at the time. It had a well with good water, an orchard and space for a garden.  The air is clean.  The village is very small and well away from civilization.  My kids call my house ‘mum’s mud hut’.

Anne — holding up fence

I’ve had  work done.  I no longer need to hold the fence up.  One of my friends in Transylvania calls it the posh peasants’ house. I have a fetish for fine silverware and china.  Forced back to the slums you’d find me using fruit spoon,  bone handled knife and silver soup spoon, napkins, a china cup for my tea and, of course  — the  delicate pastry fork.

Recently I wrote about ‘home’ and what the word might mean to someone, who by inclination, is a traveller. I’m not sure if I’ve reached a conclusion.

Here, in Scotland, the word ‘stay’ has a precise meaning.  ‘Where do you stay’, means where are you abiding, where is your home, as opposed to  where is the resort where you’re booked in for a fortnight.  I stay in three places.  I stay in my flat in Scotland, in Ivan’s house in Canada, and in  my house in Transylvania.  What defines these as  places where I stay are the toothbrush, rubber boots and  sundry other wardrobe items, that abide there even when I’m elsewhere.

My village is close to Sighisoara — putative birthplace of Vlad Dracule Vlad the Impaler

Sighisoara medieval quarter

Cafe in Sighisoara