In Hoxton I sit within the ancient brick walls of an old school, converted into lofts and offices and our little home.
I write from the school master’s lodge. My six year old daughter’s glee at the thought of living in the headmaster’s office will live on in me, long after we have quit this abode and these lush, green British shores. When these walls were built hundreds of years ago, there were fields all around. The bullock, carts, cows and sheep would have traipsed along Pitfield St or East Rd on their way to Smithfield Market just south of here, fresh from their quiet life in green fields, eating grass, cowslips, barley and kale. Soon to be meat for the busy hus-wifs of London. Bunhill Fields, a sceptic’s cemetery and Bedlam, the insane asylum lay just across the way and St Luke’s would be built sometime in the near future.
We are Australian – here for almost nine months so far. Our travels in food and forests have taken us to gastropubs, farms and cute cuans (gaelic for harbour!) all over Ireland and Britain. It’s far from over!