So I'm at my parents house here in South Lincolnshire. I joke about it and laugh to my friends but sitting here as the evening drops I am reflecting on where I actually am.

Their house is a bungalow - it's not unusual - space for building property around here is not really a problem. The house is set back from the road and you drive off the road and you have a sense of levels. For south Lincolnshire is floodland - the full range of The Wash where the ocean of the Atlantic comb round East Anglia and supple up into the Rivers Witham and Welland amongst others.

And so houses are often below sea level, but thanks to the seventeenth century borrowing of Dutch skills and knowledge this area is not flooded or underwater but is reclaimed, farmed and agriculturally prosperous.  So great was that influence and so grateful for those skills that south Lincolnshire is stuff dubbed South Holland.  Indeed the pumping station down the road is the most significant building here in Pode Hole (there being no church here) and shops are at such a minimum that there aren't any. The pub, The Fisherman's Arms, is still here, but like other pubs of late has the air of 'struggling to survive'.

Sitting here in the back garden of the bungalow as the light and the sounds of the Lincolnshire Fens welcomes me home I feel my senses shifting.  At my own home in London it's about events, activity and people. Here I'm drawn to other levels of awareness.  

Yesterday I gathered apples and pears from the trees in the garden and made fruit crumble - lots of it. Tomorrow I will crest some kind of pear sauce or chutney and then decide if I can put the remainder of the pears and apples into a cider or brandy mix.  I am for sure testing to the Mum's fairly extensive capacity for storage.

Further today - after the cleaning if the moss from just a third of the drive, I did some weeding with mother, clearer a small side access to the garden and moved a three year old compost drum - well and truly mulched down.  Feeling productive but also wanting to feel like there was an output we cropped back the lavender bushes and started in the bay tree. Tomorrow I need to crop the lavender heads and make them into scent pouches - after all I wouldn't want them to be thrown away.

And now I'm sitting in the garden - it is barely gone 7pm and the day feels long and the light is dancing upon me. It's not yet dark but the daylight is in the descent.  And the clouds are playing with the light, the rain and more and giving me sight of mother-of-pearl skylines.  

I'm sitting here outside enjoying the garden and a moorhen has awoken and is in full lonely song.  I walk down to the dykeside to appreciate it and find myself appreciating the dragon flies, grasshoppers and something, a rat, vole, or bird, who rushes for cover.

It's not that this is a lesser place in any way - but the differences are so stark as to be arresting.  And I'm only in my second night here.