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collecting-stories · 4 years

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Invisible Strings - John B Routledge

Request: Hi welcome back!!! I hope you are doing well ❤️ I am literally so obsessed with Folklore I would die for anything John B/Folklore. Maybe invisible string or peace?❤️

A/N: Okay so I had this finished and then re-wrote it this afternoon so hopefully it’s good...god I actually haven’t written Outer Banks in like a month.

The TS Anthology Series | Outer Banks Masterlist

✰...one single thread of gold tied me to you✰

_ . ◦ ⭐︎:*.☾.*:⭐︎◦∙._

“I always forget that this is still here.” You mused, running your fingers over the carved part of the baseboard.

John B looked over from the box he was packing, old dishware that had been given to his mom and dad when they were first married, stashed away in the house for a time that never came. It would go to the thrift shop tomorrow morning along with other, now useless items that littered the small house. On Monday you would call the realty office on the island and inquire about putting the place up for sale. John B had seen an apartment for rent, beach side, closer to Figure Eight, nicer than the Chateau and he’d suggested it as a starter apartment, something small that you both could afford.

“Where was it going to go?” He teased, walking over to you. He pressed his legs against your back and you leaned your head to look up at him.

“You could’ve painted over it.”

❖

The year that you turned ten your mom got re-married and your step-father decided to relocate the family to Tennessee where his new job would be. You cried for days over the prospect of leaving the Outer Banks but it wasn’t your decision, all you could do in the end was pack your belongings and move. In what little defiance you were awarded as a ten-year-old you climbed underneath the bed and carved your name into the baseboard. You thought about including some ominous request, perhaps a clumsily drawn ‘help me’ but decided against it at the last moment. Your mom was much more excited to be moving into what she claimed was a nice, big, house in Tennessee with your soon to be ‘new dad’. A step-up from the shoebox shack that you’d been getting by in. 

The house was sold almost immediately to a man and his young son, downsizing after his wife left them with next to nothing. Two bedrooms was all he needed and the view of the marsh was better than he expected to get in his financial state. His son was unbothered either way, sure they were moving but that only meant they were in a new house. He would still go to the same school and see the same people. Though he rode his bike passed his old house often that first year, wishing he could walk up the front steps and go through the door and everything would be the same.

The carving remained unseen until he was thirteen. His best friend JJ was trying to flip off the bed when he fell against it, pushing it away from the wall. His head landed next to the baseboard. While most kids might’ve cried from the possible concussion JJ just rolled onto his stomach to get a better look at the wall and the writing engraved in it.

“Look.” He reached up to smack John B’s arm and pointed at the name carved into the wood, “you got a ghost.”

“It’s not a ghost you moron,” John B laughed once he’d seen the carving for himself, “probably the girl who used to live here.” He’d lived with pink walls, stenciled with butterflies for a year and a half before Big John finally caved and spent some of his money on paint instead of alcohol.

After that John B found an odd sense of comfort in the carving. Sometimes he did his homework laying on the ground with your name staring back at him. A sort of imaginary friend he was too old to have. And when Big John disappeared at sea John B pulled the blankets off the bed and laid with his head at the baseboard, crying alone in his room while his uncle watched TV, oblivious to his nephew’s heartache.

That same year, while they were still combing the shoreline for any sign of Big John’s boat, you and your mom arrived back in North Carolina. You were 16 and she was heartbroken, disillusioned with love and taking every opportunity to caution you against it too. You ignored most of her bitterness, concerned only with the new house and the new life that you were expected to settle into. The cottage style home was so close to the Outer Banks that you could see the island in the distance on the other side of the bay. Your mom talked about fresh starts and got a job working for the Department of Child Services. 

It was the year you heard John B Routledge’s name for the first time. She’d come in from work every day that summer and curse about the delinquent teen. It was her greatest source of reassurance that you didn’t hang around wayward teenagers who, though still grieving the loss of their father, unsure of their place in the world now that they were alone, were expected to move on from that. 

“Placing him with a family is going to be hell. No one is going to want to put out the effort for two years...I’m sure he’ll skip town the second he turns 18.” She would bitch over a bottle of white wine. 

“He could stay here?” It was a pointless suggestion. Your mother would likely strangle him in his sleep if he lived with you. 

“Absolutely not! I’m not a charity.” She had taken up social work only so her psychology degree wouldn’t be wasted but you thought maybe some people did belong behind a desk, in a cubicle, somewhere. Certainly not caring for children.

Either way you weren’t too bothered to listen to those stories. You liked the thought of John B Routledge. He was like some character in a book, too good to be true. His story sounded sad but he didn’t. His life wasn’t a boring repetition of school and work and friends you didn’t particularly like. He was above all that. Like a Jesse Tuck, young forever, stuck on some magical island that you could see but never be a part of again.

After graduation that all changed, just as life was starting to change. You got a job working in a beach front surf shop on the island. It was your first big strike out into the unknown and your mom was less than thrilled that you would be living in the Outer Banks until college started in the fall. But you’d saved enough to rent space and someone had listed a room available online. The ad boasted lots of outdoor area and featured a picture of a hammock and a VW bus behind it.

“How do you know that it’s not some ploy to traffic young women and take them overseas or down to Mexico?” Your mom had pestered you as you dragged your suitcase out of the house to meet the Uber that would take you to the ferry. Away from boring hopefully. At least for a summer.

“I‘ll let you know if I end up overseas.”

“This isn’t funny!”

“You’re being ridiculous mom, I already texted with the kid who owns the house, he’s like my age.” You replied. Someone named John had texted you after you emailed about the room. He seemed nice, he was funny, no red flags had gone up in your mind. The name hadn’t even occurred to you. It’d been a few months since you’d heard any mention of your mother’s tormentor.

It was JJ’s idea to lease the room. The two needed extra money and working the docks or waiting tables or mowing lawns hadn’t cut it. JJ had two jobs to support his half of the rent and John B was working all kinds of hours when JJ suggested that they split it three ways.

“Get a renter in here, it’s perfect.”

“Yeah okay,” John B agreed because he wanted to keep his dad’s house and that seemed like the most logical way to go about it.

You weren’t what he was expecting when you arrived. Having never rented before he’d spent more time making sure you could afford payments than he had finding out any details about you at all. But you stepped out of the car regardless and the immediate sense of nostalgia hit you like a wave. You didn’t mention that you used to live here and John B was too focused on getting through the tour of the shack that he didn’t even register the name you gave him.

“This’ll be your room.”

And just like that you were in each other’s space. Like two timelines fusing together, one of you had swerved and tangled your lives into a mess of summer and shameless flirting and parties on the beach. You realized early on that this John was your infamous John B Routledge, teenage outlaw, sadder in real life than you ever gave him the range for. You liked talking to him late at night when JJ was already passed out or lingering close to him at parties. Everyone, his friends and your new, adopted friends, knew that there was something there but none of them realized how deep it ran. Even you didn’t.

It wasn’t until August of that summer, when John B was out and you were left in the Chateau by yourself, that you had wandered into his bedroom and pushed the bed away from the wall. There on the baseboard was the first of a million signs, the first place in your parallel timelines where your stories overlapped. The bed had knicked the wall enough times that the writing almost blended in with the other scratches but you could see your name clearly when you knelt down.

“What’re you doing in my room?” John B’s voice caught you by surprise and you turned too quickly, falling over, killing whatever tension might’ve arose from finding you supposedly snooping in his space. He cracked a smile and went to offer you a hand up.

“Sorry, I-” you let him pull you to your feet, his skin warm against yours, “I wanted to see if it was still here.”

“What?” He looked rightfully confused.

“I...carved that.”

“That was you?”

And somehow it was just a question of who had vandalized his bedroom but who had been there when he was fourteen and got so angry at his dad that he had slammed the door and jammed the lock. When he was sixteen, crying for days because his dad was missing and no one could tell him anything. When he was eighteen and all his friends were graduating from high school but he had failed out so terribly that his only options were repeat or get a GED. When you pulled up outside for the first time that summer and something in him just seemed to make sense, like all those loose puzzle pieces had figured out their pattern.

❖

“What’s the matter?” John B asked, fitting the last box of donations into the Twinkie. You had followed him outside but you were just standing on the steps, staring out toward the jetty.

It’d been four years of moving you in and out of dorm rooms, returning each time to this house. Four years of navigating dating when you already lived together, kicking JJ out when he interrupted nights you were supposed to have alone, avoiding every visit your mom ever made after she realized that the boy you were living with was the same one who’d caused her so much trouble years earlier. It was every argument, every holiday, every movie marathon, every stupid party, every lazy sunday...You’d spent ten years in that house without a friend in the world and John B had spent another eight trying to keep his head above water only to realize that what you had both needed all along was each other.

“Let’s not sell.”

“You wanna live here?” John B asked, sounding a little more surprised than he should’ve been. The apartment was everything he knew he was supposed to want but really he just wanted to stay in the Chateau with you.

“We already live here.”

“Yeah but...Heyward said there are a lot of repairs that need to be done. Electrical stuff, plumbing, new water heater, new windows, the floor needs to be-”

“John B.” You stopped him short, walking the rest of the way down the steps to meet him in the yard.

“What?”

“Live in our house with me? Forever?” You asked, watching the smile that blossomed at your words.

“Okay.”

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thisunfoldinglife · 4 years

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How I Came To Live in the Woods

Two years ago, my husband and I bought our dream house. This lovely seventies fixer-upper has robbed us of every last pound, consumed months of our time, and has signed us up for another decade of sweaty evenings and weekends spent painting, repairing, and renovating. We sometimes stop, paintbrush in hand, and ask each other, “any regrets?” Well…no—but we both pine for simpler times.

I look around and marvel at this big house and everything we’ve accumulated since our move to England. We arrived eight years ago with only a few suitcases and a handful of hopes. Unlike normal people, we didn’t ship our furniture and household goods from America. Instead, we had a massive yard sale and sold the rest on Craig’s List. I said goodbye to my sewing machine, guitar, bike, and camping equipment. We had to rebuy everything from brooms to blankets, dishes to clocks, silverware to shoes. It’s amazing how long it takes to rebuild your collection of stuff, especially when money is scarce.

Yet all this didn’t faze me. I was already well versed in the art of minimalism. When I was twenty-eight, all my worldly possessions resided inside the boot of my car. They would remain there for two years, while I tried out life as a vagabond. When you’re young, the promise of adventure can outweigh all fear. When it’s just you—no partner, no kids—just you and the great big sky, there are more chances you can take.

It all started after reading Brazilian writer Paulo Coelho’s book, “The Pilgrimage”, which sparked my desire to embark on a solo journey to Northern Spain to walk a 500-mile pilgrimage route that’s existed since the Middle Ages. Looking back, my decision to walk this ancient path set into motion a new trajectory for my life that wouldn’t be altered for several years. Walking the path for forty days, with nothing in my backpack but my journal, clothes, food, and water, certainly perfected my predilection for a minimal existence, but it was truly the time before and after the pilgrimage, that tested my resolve to embrace the unconventional life.

I was desperate to get to Spain. I had travelled the length and breadth of The States, but outside of a quick hop to London, I hadn’t properly travelled overseas. I didn’t have any form of savings to purchase a plane ticket or even feed myself for the two months I’d be gone, yet still, I couldn’t ignore the pull to go. I had a sharp distaste for fear and regret, and a stronger desire to be the bold protagonist in my own life story, so I needed to find a way.

I was living at the time in Flagstaff, Arizona. This high-desert mountain town boasts turquoise blue skies and perpetual sunshine to beckon everyone outdoors. At 7,000 feet above sea level, it’s cooler than its neighbouring desert towns, and yields deep winter snows that will never meet the cacti of the south. Flagstaff’s natural beauty draws an alternative collection of hikers, skiers, hippies, and transients. The cost of living is high, but the desire to be there great, and so many people find whatever means they can to stay. I had heard about a few odd souls who camped in the surrounding national forest for weeks at a time. I would be one of them. It was the most feasible means of funding my travels. I was renting an apartment then, with a kindred friend, Marike. Partial to avoiding conformity, she too, knew the value in travel and adventure, and so she wasn’t hard to convince. Together, we gave up our apartment to head for the woods. I quickly sold my furniture, giving away everything that wouldn’t fit inside my small Toyota. All I had left were my books, photos, clothing and gear.

Marike and I set up our first camp in a clearing of aspens and pines a mile down a long dirt lane. It was close enough to make the morning trek to work, yet far enough from the main road to ease our minds about cops or potential serial killers. My tent was narrow and thin, but sufficient. We’d forage for firewood, heat cans of soup on the stove at night and pour water for each other to wash up in the morning. Every other day, we’d pay to shower at the local hostel. Being April, the snow still fell, and so the coldest nights would find us curled up in the car beneath heaps of blankets, where sleep was fickle and fragmented. It was challenging, uncomfortable, and at times scary, but also exhilarating. The difficulties were dotted with starry skies, deep conversations, and the perpetual fresh mountain air that magically invigorated us despite it all. I felt raw and alive, my eyes open and senses heightened. My inner strength was blossoming, and my fears grew smaller, giving way to a confidence that began to permeate all aspects of my life.

Soon after, I left for Spain. Walking the pilgrimage was an epic alter reality that inspired and stimulated me daily. The path had brought many wonders and gifts—among them, a thirst for freedom, both internal and external. I felt tethered to nothing and life’s possibilities seemed boundless. The journey had liberated me from nearly all my money and material possessions, so when I returned to Flagstaff, I wasn’t ready to buy furniture, pay rent, and adopt a normal life. So, I returned to the woods. Marike had left for other adventures, and I was on my own, uncertain of how long I’d be there.

I was a vulnerable single woman alone in the forest, but through either ignorance or grace, I felt protected. I enjoyed the town and the trails by day and spent time with friends in the evening. I’d often find my way to the local bookstore before bed. Their late hours gave me a pseudo living room to read and write before driving back to the forest. On my way to the woods, I’d roll down the window to inhale the sweet smell of wood smoke escaping from well-lit houses, where people sprawled happily on couches, glasses of wine in hand. The line between liberating and lonely began to blur as winter closed in, but still, I was in a pleasant state of surrender. I believed life would shepherd me to extraordinary things, and magically it did.

At a random party, in a place I had never been, I met a married couple, Vickie and Bruce, who were soon to sail around the coast of Mexico for three months. I foolishly disregarded them as a wealthy privileged pair whom I’d have nothing in common with. Yet as our conversation grew, I quickly realised that they were making sacrifices to pursue their dreams, the same as I. And, when they asked me to look after their pets and home while they were away, I was humbled with euphoric gratitude. It was a blessed encounter that, not only granted me a home during the cold winter months but brought me a lasting friendship. For this couple, who were once two strangers, became dear friends. And their home became a haven of warmth and stability, to write, relax, and even grieve when my father unexpectedly died months after. And, two years later, when I met my husband, Vickie presided over our wedding.

Vickie and Bruce went on several long jaunts to Mexico, in which I was always happy to look after their home and pets. And in between, I found several other house-sitting jobs. I stayed in homes with hot tubs and hammocks, along rivers and among mountains. The most remote dwellings were quiet and wild, and I’d spy elk, coyote, and bear. Some were affluent, and afforded me weeks of luxury, soaking in big baths, lounging on plush furniture and dining in stylish kitchens. Others were more rustic. One January, I looked after a cat in a converted camper van on the edge of town. Without any electricity or water, the camper had only a small built-in wood burner to shield me from the worst of the winter cold. In three feet of snow, I’d chop logs into kindling and fall asleep to a roaring fire that demanded to be rebuilt several hours later, yanking me from sleep to action.

When one job finished, another would harmoniously begin. I only occasionally camped in the woods in the interims. Everything seemed to fall into place to facilitate this unconventional existence. It gave me courage, trust, confidence, and the precious gift of time. In escaping from the rat race, I bought myself time—to simply be—a luxury I have so little of now. It’s hard to believe I lived like that for two years. But in my wandering spell, I’d somehow cultivated true peace within myself. And even now, in life’s most constricting moments, my soul still wanders free because of it.

My vagabond days eventually proved their limitations, and I began to crave a place of my own. With great resistance, I exchanged my car—which brought me such freedom—for an apartment, where I acquired a rescue cat, a collection of mismatched furniture, and soon after, my husband.

I look around now at all this stuff—sofas and beds, tables and toys. I never thought I’d accumulate so much. Yet instead of weighing me down, it pleasantly anchors me. I think children need rooms and toys to call their own. As do I. And from the comfort of my couch, I now enjoy the smell of wine and wood-smoke from my own chimney. Someday I might don my backpack again and set off on another pilgrimage. Maybe I’ll even find a quiet spot in the forest to dwell for a while. But first, this house needs work and love, and as it’s filled to the brim, there is no more room for regret.

#minimalism #meaningoflife #introspectivewriting #whatarewedoinghere #~~#vagabondlife #rustic living

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thehungerjmes · 6 years

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Hello from the Land Down Under (Sydney, Australia) | 8th July 2018

Wow. I haven't posted in my Tumblr account in ages!!!! For a second, I thought all of my blog posts since 2013 were already gone. Whew! Last night, I was just randomly browsing and remembered to check my Tumblr. Hence, I am writing this post on the 20th of December 2021 to show proof that I am still alive! Are people still active in Tumblr? Hit me up!

Okay, where do I start? Let me share about the biggest decision I have ever made in my life. On the 8th of July 2018, I packed my whole life in one suitcase and moved to Sydney, Australia. I have no idea what Australia was like, I have no family and friends here, and I only had $500 in my pocket. LOL. I came here to study aged care leading to Bachelor of Nursing, which I will talk about it in another post. As a Filipino kid, it scared the heck out of me to leave my life in the Philippines behind to come study and work as an international student in Sydney.

Fortunately, I wasn't lonely on my flight to Sydney from Manila. I made a friend who was coincidentally bisaya as well. She was from Cebu and her name was Wendy. It was her first time to travel overseas, so we were sort of on the same boat. We exchanged stories and when we boarded the plane, we weren't seated together so I tried to enjoy the flight alone for 7 hours. I was broke back then, but I will never forget how she offered her extra meal that her sister pre-ordered for her. Trust me, I couldn't even afford to buy a single cup noodles because it was too expensive.

Upon arriving in Sydney, she asked me if there was anyone who will pick me up. I didn't want to lie and pretend I know someone, so I told her the truth that I was planning to catch the bus or train, which I was still about to figure out. Thankfully, her sister offered to drop me off at Central Station, because I had no idea it would cost a fortune to catch the train from the airport. They even treated me for brunch. Wow! My first aussie meal.

From Central station, I made it to Edmondson Park- my new home. Sydney trains are easy to navigate because they have platform guides and google maps will tell you exactly what to do. From there, I was picked up by a family who was also from Bukidnon that I only met through Facebook. Ate Dee and her family was kind enough to bring me to Mount Annan in the Botanical Garden for dinner. We also managed to stopped by at Kmart for some things that I needed like a rice cooker. LOL. After a long day, they dropped me off at my new place, where I was welcomed in a cozy home in Edmondson Park by a group of Filipinos whom I considered as my first family in Sydney.

My first day in Sydney was a rollercoaster ride of emotions. I arrived in winter time, which made it harder for me because I was so used to the tropical weather. Can’t wait to share more of this new chapter of my life!

#journal

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jeremystrele · 3 years

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A Tiny Handmade Home Built By A Father-Daughter Duo!

Tiny Homes

Sasha Gattermayr

Camilla Walker built the tiny home at the bottom of her parents’ garden in Coburg with her dad, Patrick. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Camilla at home! Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The view from one end of the home to the other. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The kitchen, dining and living area are all tucked neatly into the main space, while the loft houses a separate mezzanine bed and Camilla’s bathroom is behind the sliding door! Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

A plumber and electrician were the only outside help Patrick and Camilla received in constructing the home. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Although Camilla admits she probably could have been a bit more nifty with storage space, the small dwelling has forced her to only own object she truly loves and needs. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Camilla’s bedroom. Her only two requirements were that the house had plenty of natural light and her bedroom was on the ground-floor. Here, she has both! Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Patrick + Camilla Walker outside the finished tiny home, which took 8 months to complete. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The entrance to the tiny home, where Camilla looks out onto her parents’ lush garden. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The construction phase in progress!

The completed dwelling, entirely handcrafted by Camilla and Patrick. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Poppies in the garden outside Camilla’s tiny home. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Having a bountiful garden to plonk your tiny home is definitely an added bonus! Camilla spends lots of time outside in hers. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The lush garden Camilla shares with her parents. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

It’s no secret that increasingly, home ownership in the traditional sense is not a reality for many young Australians, and even more so for those without someone to join forces with. When Camilla Walker‘s parents first floated the idea of building a tiny home for her, she thought it was a bit bonkers. But after some consideration, she began to see the perks.

There are many reasons to build a tiny home. Generally, they have a low environmental impact, discourage overconsumption, and are economical to build and maintain. And for Camilla, there was the added bonus of being even closer to her beloved parents!

Located at the bottom of their garden in Coburg, Camilla and her dad Patrick built this tiny home by hand between September 2019 and April of this year. Over those eight months, the Walkers did everything themselves – drilling, jig-sawing, hammering, and painting – until the tiny, cosy cabin came to life. Despite her early reservations, Camilla has never been happier.

We quizzed her about every angle of this impressive project!

Hey Camilla! First of all, how did the idea of building a tiny home arrive as an option for you?

My parents went to a talk on tiny homes and suggested it to me as something to consider as a housing option. I thought it was a horrible idea at first! But I mulled it over for quite a while and eventually saw the plus side – no mortgage, living more sustainably with a lot less, being near my family, and building a house with my Dad. A lot of my friends were buying their first homes, which wasn’t financially viable for me back then when I was a single gal, so I built one instead with the budget I had!

Did you have any reservations about living ‘with your parents’?

Yes. I’ve been very independent for thirteen years, moving out of home and interstate when I was just 18, living in various sharehouses and overseas in London for a bit. I cringed at the idea of being anything but self sufficient. But as my friends have always told me, I have ‘cool parents’, and we foster a relationship that isn’t ‘parent + child’ so much as it is ‘adult family members who get along really well’.

We share meals, split bills, have each other over for coffee, help each other out, and particularly during Covid times I’ve felt the warmth and love of family that so many have probably been pining for. I love my parents with all of my heart, and never want to look back on life and wish I’d had more time with them.

Talk us through the construction phase!

My Dad and I built my house. Dad was a carpenter when we were kids so has unlimited skills and experience when it comes to building. He’s also endlessly creative and everything he touches turns into an eccentric masterpiece.

We had many discussions about the tiny house and how to build it. We looked at Pinterest a lot to make a mood board, watched tiny house videos and got a great feel for how to approach it. Essentially though, a tiny house is one room so you’re governed by the four walls. We sketched up the floor plan very loosely and then just went for it.

There were a few things I was adamant about – my room had to be on the ground floor (not in the loft as I didn’t want to have to crouch to get dressed) and I needed lots of windows for light and airflow. We had a plumber and electrician come in to do their thing, but the rest was all Dad and I.

How do you approach everyday life in your tiny home?

Life in my tiny home is simple – I wake up and have a coffee, and go out my front or back door to different parts of the garden. It is literally one room but I don’t ever wish I had more space. It has a kitchen and bathroom (with a composting toilet which isn’t as bad as it seems), and a shower which is plenty big enough. The only thing it doesn’t have is a laundry so I pop to the big house to do my washing. I also need to look into some serious cooling during summer because it can get pretty sweaty on a hot day!

We designed the house so that if I ever relocate it pretty much everything can be removed. For example, I don’t have an inbuilt stove, but rather an electric stove top and oven that I store under the bench. To be honest, I was a bit light on with storage (i.e. we weren’t clever to build storage into every nook and cranny) so I have to be ruthless with what stays in the house. For example, my wardrobe can only fit one season’s clothes so I swap them over every few months and put what I’m not wearing in a suitcase under the house.

What kind of life does your tiny home represent to you more broadly?

I’m a minimalist at heart and as I get older, I want only beautiful or practical things in my home. I hate having stuff for the sake of it. My tiny house represents doing life a bit differently – no mortgage, living alone (but quite communally) and feeling free. It’s on wheels so I can cruise away at any time too!

How long do you envision yourself living here?

It’s hard to say how long I will live here. I love it for now, it suits my lifestyle and I foresee growing more fond of it as time passes. But I also love change, so when the time comes for me to fly the coop again (lol), I don’t feel tied to owning a house in a traditional sense. I will either leave it in the yard or sell it, or relocate it to somewhere new!

What has been the most rewarding part of this project?

The feeling of living in a house we built from scratch! Sometimes I just stand in the kitchen and look up and I’m in awe of how beautiful the space is. I know where every last material came from, how heavy every piece of timber is, how strong its foundations are, how much insulation went into the walls, how I wondered what the hell I had done when the trailer was first delivered, and how much I dreamt about what this home would be like when I was living in it. And now I know that it’s the life for me.

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