In the quiet heart of the English woodland, where the trees could tell stories of centuries past and the seasons paint the landscape in shifts of colour, sits our small stone cottage, built hundreds of years ago and lovingly lived in by every occupier. Here, life doesn't necessarily slow but there’s a difference in pace when the schedule allows. This is not just a place to live but a way of living.
As I sit down to write this, the salmon is roasting in the oven, brushed with olive oil and sprinkled with herbs I’ve picked from the garden. The scent of fish and sea-salted broccoli drifts in from the kitchen, offering a simple but satisfying meal.
I’ve taken the chance to cook one of my favourite dishes while my other half is away in the Lake District, taking part in a kayak fishing competition. These weekends on my own have a pace I’ve come to enjoy. With most of my to-do list ticked off, the evening is mine to enjoy. Tonight, that means writing and sketching with a mug of chamomile tea at my side. This is my idea of pure luxury and a damn good Saturday night.
I haven’t always chosen the simple life. There was a time when I had a clear plan for how my life should unfold. I was career-driven, ambitious about climbing the corporate ladder. I wanted the “dream” house and all the nice things that were supposed to come with it.
I went out regularly, ate at lovely restaurants, and socialised with anyone who’d have me along. I was doing everything society told me I should do. On the surface, it looked like fun, but deep down, I didn’t feel connected to any of it. Most of the time, I was just going through the motions, and even when it was enjoyable, it never felt quite enough.
Who knew that stripping everything back could bring me more than I ever wanted?
Choosing a simple lifestyle is an intentional retreat from the noise and rush of regular life. Don’t get me wrong, and let’s not try and romanticise this, I still have to live the usual 9-5 grind, a girl’s got to eat… and feed the dog… and fund the hens! But I like to weave simplicity into every minute I’m not on the clock. Despite general assumptions, you don’t need a cottage in the woods to live this way. The only difference between the woods and a housing estate is that my Wi-Fi may be patchy and the nights profoundly quiet, but these are gifts (for the most part) rather than inconveniences. The absence of constant connectivity makes room for presence, but simply flicking the switch on the Wi-Fi will bring you that too.
After my simple but nourishing meal, I find myself at the sink washing up. We’ve room for a dishwasher, and I often say I’d like to have one again, yet for some reason I’ve put it off for the past four years.
I sometimes wonder if, deep down, I actually enjoy these small moments of simplicity. There’s something oddly calming about standing at the sink, hands busy with a mundane task, while outside the birds dart between the trees, rabbits nibble at the grass, and the squirrels provide their usual comedy.
It feels old-fashioned, perhaps, to be scrubbing salmon skin from a baking tray in an age where you can boil a kettle from your phone. But maybe that’s the point. A simple life is often about going back to basics, and there’s comfort to be found in that.
One moment, my camomile tea is at the perfect drinking temperature…
As I take a sip of my tea and notice two men cycling past, trespassers, chancers, call them what you will. They seem harmless enough, clearly having taken a wrong turn on a weekend ride. I watch as they lift their bikes over the security gates, laughing to each other as they carry on. Blissfully unaware that they’re on camera.
There is happiness in the ordinary when it is woven with purpose.
I find a lot of joy in the small, everyday things that are so easy to overlook. Tonight, for instance, I’ve caught my tea at that perfect drinking temperature. The bed is made up with freshly washed, ironed sheets, and my pyjamas are folded neatly, waiting for me upstairs. The house is tidy, everything is in its place, and there’s a quiet sense of calm that comes with it.
In a moment, I’ll head out to the garden to pick something for tomorrow’s breakfast, most probably blackberries and strawberries. Later, I’ll run a bubble bath with a handful of bath salts to guarantee a good night’s sleep.
They may seem like little things, but these are the moments that bring me peace. These are the things that make me happy.
Our life here invites creativity and offers endless inspiration. Days might be spent tending a permaculture garden, picking fruit from the hedgerows, painting with delicate watercolours, or writing by candlelight. The cottage will forever stand as a living entity to be maintained, adapted, and loved. Each crack in the stone or mossy step is a marker of time, not imperfection.
As autumn peeks over the horizon, there’s a cosy shift in pace stirring, and I couldn’t be happier. Lighting a woodburning stove with logs my other half is yet to split, collecting pinecones, or sitting with the sketch pad on a cold Sunday afternoon, fills me with excitement.
Over the last four years, I have learned that living in our woodland cottage is more than aesthetic charm; it’s a quiet rebellion. It resists the culture of excess and disposability. It says no to constant productivity (as much as I battle against this and can always find something to do) and yes to living well. It values silence as much as conversation, patience as much as speed. In a world driven by consumption, this life offers an alternative: one of mindfulness and gratitude.
This is not an escape; it is a return. A return to the senses, to the essence of what it means to be a part of something much bigger than what’s in my Amazon cart. It is not always straightforward, but it is deeply satisfying for an odd bod like me.
If you’re still here at the end of my blabbing, I’m impressed. Thanks for reading! If you’d like to hear more of my random ramblings, please let me know in the comments. Your interest means a great deal.
I post here every Sunday at 7 a.m., so if you’d like to enjoy your morning cuppa with a quick read, simply click ‘subscribe’ and I’ll see you next week.
Waggy Tail Visitors
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September 14, 2025
I couldn’t let the fledgling season pass by without mentioning the beautiful pied wagtails, or as I like to call them, waggy tails. They’re the sort of bird that doesn’t just perch quietly; they’re always on the move, darting about with that constant flick of the tail.
I’ve been sharing snippets of garden life, countryside pottering, and daily moments over on Instagram. I’ll admit, I’m one of those people who either posts five times in a week or forgets the app exists. But I’m trying to be more consistent (trying being the key word here).
If you fancy a bit of virtual countryside escapism, bluebells, berries, and the occasional garden visitor, I invite you to come and join me over on Instagram. I’ll pop the link in the button below.
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