A New Home
When we think of the Test Valley, we of course conjure images of chalk streams, water meadows, and rolling hedge-lined vistas. We think of the grandeur of Winchester Cathedral, or the ornate villages and market towns connected by winding lanes. But something about these stereotypical images doesn’t quite capture what it feels like to live here. We moved to Romsey last year and since then I’ve found myself browsing the local history sections of each bookshop, or scrutinising maps in the library, searching for a sense of belonging.
Despite exploring Romsey on foot fairly regularly since the move, this winter has been long and grey and filled with renovation projects in our new house. Maybe I’ve spent too much time indoors. From our front window we can see the trees and rooftops congregated around the Abbey’s clock tower, and each evening we take a moment to admire the sunset behind it. But seeing the tower bathed in sunshine today, I decide to leave the decorating for later and walk into town at my own pace.
Tadburn Meadows is bursting with new life; hazel catkins dangling like caterpillars to give emerging bees a head-start on the new season. I can’t quite believe this is two minutes from my front door. A chiffchaff announces spring from high up in one of the alders, while a blackbird plucks worms from beside the path. A dog walker wishes me a good morning and I say the same in return. Children play in the park, and I think some others are building a den in the woods behind. There is a real sense of life happening all around me, a stark contrast to the gloomy dormant months we’ve just endured. I can feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, the shift from gravel to tarmac beneath my feet.
I follow the path beside the stream. My partner Sophie saw a kingfisher here last week, so I scan the bankside, hoping to be as lucky. The ash branches are patrolled by long-tailed tits, some trees withering from dieback, some buoyant with rising sap. Two goldcrests hover near the fence, plucking strands of gossamer from a spider’s web for their nest. I bump into our neighbours, then Sophie’s friends, out for some fresh air with their baby in a pram. We chat easily before parting ways, and I realise we’ve met more people in the last four months than during three years in our old house.
It strikes me that - although I was literally in my home - being cooped-up indoors hasn’t helped me feel at home here. But out walking from our doorstep, it’s these gentle encounters that give me a sense of self here. And although this could easily happen in Waitrose, I’m at my most-relaxed in these unassuming places we share with nature. It’s in the patches of grass by the roadside where spring announces itself, with crocuses, snowdrops and celandines adding subtle clusters of colour to the peripheries of our lives. I like to notice these small things, and this practice somehow makes me more aware of other people, and the small gestures that maintain a community.
I walk on, jotting down what I’ve seen and heard in my notebook. I take a couple of pictures with my phone, framing the taller trees against the 1970s rooftops. A few Victorian chimneys sneak into the images as I near the railway. I peer over fences, admire ironwork gates. I like the messy gardens the best; the ones full of old wood, bird baths, rowan trees and blackthorn bushes, with wild patches along the edges of the lawn.
Across the road, a low hiss of traffic reminds me I’m nearer town. A woman smoking a cigarette stares at me from her bathroom, then closes the window. The water to my right is running fast, but around the bend, where the Environment Agency van is often parked, a little egret plucks something fishlike from the water, then tiptoes out of view. Jackdaws and rooks squabble overhead, and I look up to see they’re harassing a red kite. The bird of prey drops lower and lower until its wings are grazing chimneys and TV aerials before deftly manoeuvring its forked tail and powering back up the hill to the fields of Halterworth and Crampmoor.
Romsey High Street has a different feeling altogether. I nod to the greengrocer through the window, wish a good morning to the lady selling The Big Issue, and, with coffee in hand, lean against a wall to watch the local ukulele group playing to a small crowd. I smile as passers-by drop coins in the collection buckets, especially when the set leader says thank you over the mic. I listen to a few more songs, tapping my foot to the tunes I know, then, dropping a few coins of my own into the bucket, walk to the Abbey.
I love these little interactions. But no matter how many people I meet, I realise it’s knowing my way around a place that puts me at ease. Growing up in Totton, I learned every cut way, every hedge with a gap big enough to squeeze through, every private lane to be avoided. I knew which way to travel in summer and which in winter, the smell when the tide was out, how the shadows fell in August. I didn’t think I’d be able to find that again. But as I loop past the mill, my feet find their way around the wet patches on the Test Way without me thinking about it. I pause to take a breath, spotting distant gates and stiles marking other paths I now know. Our winter walks have added up to a sense of self in this varied landscape and its people. I can picture the rise of each riverbank skirting Romsey town, the most comfortable bench in the park, the best bakery, the shortcuts and scenic routes back to our house. Distracted by decorating and visitors, I’ve learned these things by accident. And, here in the cool breeze, that makes them somehow feel more true.
Crouching to admire the bluebells and dog violets, I hear the call of the red kite once more. I stand - in an everyday kind of reverence - to watch it glide across the fields. The bird passes close by, taking its time, much less cautious than a buzzard. I wonder what it thinks of me… a speck of colour in the open field; nearly lost to the lush grass, framed by hawthorn hedges and leafing oaks, then ash, then alder and willow nearer the river, before rooftops, chimneys and the grey arteries of suburban roads mark out the town. I can picture this too; clear sweeping images of the cobbled streets and gravel paths, the roads to cross and the trees to admire. A realisation comes to rest like an arm around my shoulders. I’m home.
