He didn’t think much of the place at first. A chance to put his head down at night under more than just the stars or rain or ice. A plot of land to grow some food on. A space to store the crops and foraged goods that would hold him through those seasons when there was far less available that required far more effort to find.
The paperwork bequeathed him the abandoned croft and several boggy acres around it. The right to hunt and fish. The responsibility to repair and maintain the stone walls and the property, now a historical site, without altering the landscape.
“No villas, no mansions. No golf courses,” the solicitor had stated, only half in jest.
“No worries,” he’d answered.
All he ever needed was a room, a roof, a hearth.
Crowds made his belly flutter and his ears ring and his feet fidget with an ache for fleeing. The chatter made him cringe. The swift ticking of clocks made his heart skip some if its own beats.
The open spaces slowed his panic.
Calmed the bickering voices that would otherwise ricochet between his ears.
He built. He farmed. He slept. He woke. He walked.
He didn’t think much of the place at first. Then the old house became a home, the plot of land became his gem, and the hills became both fort and fortitude.
His very spirit soothed.
For Sue Vincent’s WritePhoto challenge – Welcome back, Sue, we missed you!
(Photo credit: Sue Vincent)