I used to think that England was tiny. With my big thoughts and wondering mind, it seemed easily conquerable – until I moved to Cornwall. As I sit typing this in just a T-shirt, having just been for a walk in a hoodie and leggings, I realise that this tiny little island is just about big enough.
With hundreds of snow stories permeating through my reluctant ears and into my homesick brain, I realise that I’m far enough away. The only way in which the wintry weather has affected me is not being able to buy The Sunday Times due to snow blocking its journey to my local corner shop.Thanks to social media, the rest of the country can enjoy a white weekend whilst I can only solemnly look away from their excited photos with envy.
At the ripe(ish) age of 22, I’ve always felt my eyes glaze over when people talk to me about the weather – which, in England, is every time you engage with a member of the public or someone you haven’t seen for over a week. It’s on my mind a lot here, however. Since moving to Cornwall from up t’North, my middle-aged mind soon registered the difference. I miss that sting of cold as soon as you leave the house. I yearn for early morning walks when the air smells so cold and beautifully fresh it’s almost too overwhelming to keep your eyes open. My little Cornish village smells like smoke a lot, which I've amusedly observed rather than feel concerned about. It’s warm and disquietingly mild. I haven’t seen my own breath stare me in the face in the form of steam yet. God knows how I'm supposed to pretend to be a dragon down here.
Yes, the day that the news of snow falls onto my South-Westerly eardrums is the day I feel the strongest wave of homesickness. I may be bitter, but at least my feet are dry.