This morning I picked golden plums straight from the trees in my back garden. A guilty pleasure； I didn’t plant the trees， they require little care， and they are free. But they are loved.

Home， now， after years working in London， is a green valley in Tasmania， a place with a postcode and no shop. I was brought up in Tasmania in the late 1960s and 70s， when it was common for young people to leave the place to experience more of the world. Now， after more than two decades away， and much to my surprise， it is my world.

Having lived a professional life mostly in London， a return to Tasmania came about because of a desire to live closer to food and nature. I’d learned about the slow food movement working on a food magazine in London， but my own life was too fast to live it， and I ate out more than in. Days were wasted in traffic jams， in queues， on public transport， in long meetings， and in waiting… I felt my city life was over.

So I settled on a simple weatherboard house in the country I knew， no job， and no idea how to sustain a life—just a knowingness that said if I had stayed where I was I would fade like a cushion in the sun. My mother lives half an hour away， and so do my two brothers， with their children.You don’t go home for them， but a blood connection is both easier and harder than any other.

Despite living on my own， it feels as if I have company. At least five homes within eyesight， a number that seems to double at night when the lights of farms and houses pop out from distant hills. I don’t feel the need to make friends， but I sense that we share something， living in this landscape， as if we’re all in it together， looking after it. It’s not like in a city， where you can shut out the world and disappear， or pass a neighbour on a staircase and not say hello， or look out of your window at blocks of flats and not know one soul living in them. It’s not anonymous like that. Here， the country makes you part of it. I have a sense that I belong without “belonging”.

I’ve learned many things here. I have learned that who I am is not my job， my family， or my partner， although all these things are important. I have learned to rely on the world around me and in doing this I look after myself. For example， living on tank water， I’ve learned to measure my daily usage. When the tank is low， and with no sign of rain， running out is a visible reality. This is not something easily appreciated living in the city， connected to a main supply.

While the world of commodities strives to 1）homogenise the seasons， country life encourages you to respect them. In doing this， I have found a new way to be. A life that you have when you’re not busy doing other things. A life that unfolds around you， that moves like the tide， and 2）in sync with the seasons.

I moved here on my own without plans and have met my partner and started a new business. I did this getting lost on the way to visit a friend. I stopped at his property to ask the way. He， it turns out， is also an escapee from corporate life， and now lives across the road. He set up a hobby nursery and when the local market started， we took plants and herbs to sell， and later fresh produce from a local farmer. We put any profits that we made into a tin and spent it on local champagne. One day the market was rained off， so we boxed up our produce and took it to town. We called this our “rainy day business model”. It was so successful， we’ve been doing it ever since. There’s no weekly pay cheque， but I’ve never been happier.

There are only 72 summers in one lifetime， I remember a London 3）adman telling me when he left the safety of a big job to start up his own business. The line he used stayed with me. If I only had 30 summers left—less if I was unlucky—what was I doing？

During the past eight summers， I has realised that who I am is where I am. With no children of my own， I have a sense of place， of being rooted， of staying not in， but home， although I know I’ve only just begun to 4）scratch the surface.

The gift of these years is that while my mother， Audrey， is still bright but ageing， I know I will not feel like an orphan when she’s gone.

One day turns into the next and each day I follow the seasons. To leave home without a good reason feels like a betrayal， a 5）wanton waste of time. To go beyond my own boundary would be to turn my back on the things I’ve started and lose momentum. It would be as if those small efforts to take care of my own back yard—the efficacy of untold devotion—had counted for not very much.

今天早晨我在后花園的樹上摘了一些洋李。我感到一絲愧疚的愉悅感。這些樹不是我種下的，不需要怎么照料，還是免費的。但它們很討人喜歡。

在倫敦工作多年以后，現(xiàn)在，我的家在塔斯馬尼亞州的一個青翠的山谷中，一個有郵政編碼，但沒有任何商鋪的地方。我成長于上世紀60年代后期到70年代的塔斯馬尼亞，那時，離開家鄉(xiāng)，體驗更廣闊的世界對年輕人來說是很常見的事情。而現(xiàn)在，二十多年以后，出乎意料地，這里成了我的全部天地。

我之前大部分時間都在倫敦過著為工作而忙碌的生活，回來塔斯馬尼亞是因為想要過一種與食物和自然更加親近的生活。我從前在倫敦的一家飲食雜志社工作時，了解到“慢食運動”這個概念，但我個人的生活節(jié)奏實在是太快了，我無法響應(yīng)這個運動，我大多數(shù)時候都外出用餐。日子都浪費在了塞車、排隊、公共交通、漫長的會議以及等待當中……我覺得得結(jié)束那樣的城市生活。

因此，我搬去了一個熟悉的鄉(xiāng)村，在一間簡單的檐板房里安家落戶。我沒有工作，也不知道該如何維持生計，只知道如果我再繼續(xù)留在以前的地方，我就會像陽光下的墊子一樣褪色。我媽媽住在離我有半小時車程的地方，我的兩個兄弟和他們的孩子也是。你并不是為他們而回去的，但血緣關(guān)系卻比世上任何一樣?xùn)|西都更簡單、更牢固。

雖然我一個人住，但卻不感覺孤獨。我的視線范圍內(nèi)至少有五座房子，當夜晚來臨，遠處山丘那邊的農(nóng)場和房子點起燈火，這個數(shù)目似乎就翻倍了。我不覺得有和別人交朋友的需要，但我感到我們共享著某些東西，我們都住在同一片土地上，似乎在合力守護這片土地。這與城市不同，在城市里，你只要關(guān)上門戶就能與世隔絕，消失無蹤；或是在樓梯上遇到鄰居卻可以連一聲招呼也不打；或是望向窗外的一棟棟公寓，但住在里面的人卻一個也不認識。這里不像城市那樣隱匿，鄉(xiāng)村讓你覺得自己是其中的一份子。我身無長物，但卻有了一種歸屬感。

我在這里學(xué)到了很多東西。我學(xué)到了我是誰并不取決于我的工作、家庭或者伴侶，盡管這些東西很重要。我學(xué)會了依靠周圍的世界，而我也以這樣的方式照顧著自己。比如說，通過使用水箱，我學(xué)會了估量日常用水。當水箱的水位變低，又沒有下雨的跡象，那么水會被用光就是顯而易見的現(xiàn)實。這是生活在城市里不易學(xué)到的東西，城市里有自來水管道。

商品世界竭力做到一年四季供貨不斷，鄉(xiāng)村生活則鼓勵你尊重季節(jié)的變化。通過這樣做，我找到了一種新的生活方式。一種不必忙忙碌碌的生活方式，一種圍繞著你展開，如潮起潮落，與四季同步的生活方式。

我獨自一人沒有任何計劃地搬到了這里，但卻遇到了我的生意伙伴，做起了一門新生意。我在前去探訪一個朋友時迷路了。我在他的店鋪前停下來問路，結(jié)果發(fā)現(xiàn)，他也是一位從忙碌的工作生活中逃離出來的人，現(xiàn)在住在馬路對面。他搞了個小型苗圃，在當?shù)丶虚_始營業(yè)時，我們就摘取草本植物和香草去賣，后來還經(jīng)銷從當?shù)氐囊粋€農(nóng)夫那里收購來的新鮮農(nóng)產(chǎn)品。我們把賺來的所有收益都放在了一個罐子里，然后把錢花在了當?shù)氐南銠壘粕稀Ｓ幸惶?，集市因下雨而取消了，我們就把農(nóng)產(chǎn)品用箱子裝起來，帶到鎮(zhèn)上。我們把這稱為“雨天生意模式”。結(jié)果大獲成功，之后我們就都這樣做了。沒有周薪，但我卻感到了前所未有的快樂。

人的一生只有72個夏季，我記得倫敦的一位廣告員在辭掉他那份穩(wěn)定、待遇優(yōu)厚的工作，準備成立自己的公司時這樣對我說過。我一直記住他說過的這番話。如果我只剩下30個夏季——或者更少，如果我遭遇不測——那么過去我都在做什么呢？

在過去的八個夏季里，我明白到我是誰取決于我在哪里。我沒有孩子，但我對這里有一種歸屬感，我感到我的根在這里，我的家在這里，雖然我知道自己的領(lǐng)悟還是很粗淺。

我的媽媽，奧德麗，雖然還很健康，但卻在慢慢老去，然而這些年的生活經(jīng)歷讓我明白到，就算她走了，我也不會感到孤苦無依。

日子一天一天地過去，每天我都過著順應(yīng)四時規(guī)律的生活。無緣無故地離開家門會讓我有一種背叛感、一種肆意揮霍光陰的感覺；越過自己的界限就如否定我做過的那些事，讓我失去動力；就如我照顧家里后院的那些努力——那些不為人知的付出，仿佛不值一提。