Peace. Sometimes silence, stillness, harmony, serenity: all sanctuary from head-piercing, rushabout insanity.

Born under aircraft screaming on descent to Heathrow Airport, I have always cherished peace. Although I used to sleep untroubled by any noise – planes, traffic, trains – perhaps all my tolerance has now been consumed.

I loved quiet from an early age. I can remember the loud timekeeping of our cuckoo clock when, occasionally unable to sleep as a child, I went downstairs in what seemed to me the middle of the night, but to nightbirds was still early. The slow, wooden rhythm of the clock’s tick tock emphasised the silence in between. As much as it tried to help time pass, all stood still to that small boy.

My first memory of what seemed total silence is of a school history field trip to Shropshire. Returning from an evening in a rural pub to the unwelcoming centre where we were staying, I remember noticing the total absence of motion and background noise: no planes, no traffic, no hum of town and machinery and motors.

Then, at university, I luxuriated in the solitude of winter’s day walks by the fountain in the Inner Circle of Regent’s Park. In those days Bedford College’s classics department was appropriately based in St John’s Lodge and I purposely arrived early to walk in the park. The rustling of the trees in the wind masked the traffic noise from nearby Marylebone Road and Baker Street. Was I really in the middle of London?

Then several decades of whirlwind activity, buzz and noise: working at Heathrow, in London, in town and city . . . until there was no peace.

On a Sunday morning in our house a mile west of Windsor, the first aircraft flew in to land about 6.30. Another followed every 90 seconds to two minutes. I couldn’t relax on a Sunday morning. I wanted peace. The time had come to move.

Always a city boy, I had dreamt of living in the countryside for many years. And so we moved 200 miles west to Ilfracombe in North Devon. 50 miles from a motorway instead of 2. 60 miles from an international airport instead of 7 or 8. Not much traffic, not many people. It is calm and quiet.

On a Sunday morning, on any morning, I can wake up and hear nothing outside. I can relax.

Is life boring? No, there are many challenges, much to do and much to be done in this town.

But I have found peace.

Posted via email from robertz

What is essential in life? Not just desirable, but really essential. What would you miss a lot, if you couldn’t have it?

I started thinking about this when I was in hospital earlier in the year. Not having eaten for days, I was desperate for a cup of tea. I realised that it was one of the things that made my life special.

When I have my  life’s essentials, most other things don’t matter.

Family, friends and pets matter more above anything else. After them, establishing everything that is important in my life. Everything else is either a pleasant bonus or inessential.

Let’s see what they are . . .

Posted via email from robertz

Last week the teapot lid broke, disrupting the smooth operation operation of this household.

Now we have a replacement, a traditional Brown Betty teapot, and tea making can resume as it should.

Tea is one of my essentials: it starts and ends each day.

In August this year, when I was in hospital for an unexpected operation, I lay there dreaming of a cup of tea, as each time the trolley passed by my ‘nil-by-mouth’ bed. At last, I was given a hot mug and, afterwards, in my post-aneasthetic haze, I wrote:

“That first cup of tea. After five days. Scared of the heat. Waiting for it to reach the perfect temperature. First sip: warm, sweet, heaven. Sip after sip, seeping into me slowly, bringing me back to life. Each sip savoured for its restorative bliss. A connoisseur’s cuppa, produced from industrial teabag, metal teapot and mixed with plastic bottled milk: a cup of tea I shall treasure for years.”

After that, I’ll never take a cup of tea for granted.

Posted via email from robertz