Homecoming

Why I'm trading London for Georgia, and what I hope to learn there

Nearly two decades, and then a turn in the road

In April 2008, I moved to England. I thought it might be for a year or two.

Eighteen years later, England is home. I married a Brit. I have British kids. I managed a career across big companies, small companies, and everything in between. I lived in commuting distance to London the whole time. 

Over those years, I learned to put milk in my tea; to say "not bad" when I meant "wonderful;” and to carry an umbrella in July. I learned (yes, the list goes on…) to queue properly; to do that awkward  greeting dance when you don’t know if you are supposed to shake hands, kiss a cheek, kiss two, or heaven forbid, carry out the Swiss three kiss; I learned not to roll my eyes when someone tells me I’m warming the teapot wrong, or pouring the milk and tea in the wrong order, or not letting it steep long enough, or anything else that doesn’t actually have a right or wrong way. [Deliberate controversy left hanging in the air, there.]

I hadn’t planned to go back to Georgia. Then things changed. Life reminded us how quickly you can go from fit and healthy to laid up in a hospital bed. We were packing up from our usual summer visit, and I just didn’t want to leave. I had been nursing my mom back to health after a fall, and the thought of leaving her side was heavy on my heart. 

It was my husband who said it first, as we were driving to the airport: “This is going to sound crazy, but I don’t want to leave.” “Me, either,” I replied.

I realised the pull was not only supporting Mom during her recovery. I wanted more time—to teach my kids how to catch fish, clean them and make fish tacos; to get to know the horses; to not feel rushed catching up with my family and old friends who have been so far away for so long. I haven’t just missed the warmth of Georgia sun. I’ve missed the warmth of home.

So, our family is packing up and heading to the red clay, long summers, and the family farm I've only ever known from a distance. The plan is to spend a year in Georgia—a chance to experience each season up close.

But why would you go back?

When I tell people we're moving, the reaction is sometimes less than positive. A screwed up face followed by some version of: "Ugh. Why? Trump. Mass shootings. Expensive health care. Snakes. Racism. Sounds rubbish.”

[Before anyone thinks all Brits feel that way, note the much more common response: “Sounds amazing. Is it warm and sunny there? What an incredible experience.”]

I understand the negativity. Headlines aren't the best tourism campaign, and I share a lot of those concerns. I won't pretend the South is simple. It isn't. Neither is anywhere else. 

The headlines leave out the things that have been quietly pulling me home, though: long winter days;  the taste of a fig straight off the tree; people who knew me when I was young; warm pecan pie; the certainty of hugs; Southern hospitality; and queso dip. Those never make headlines, nor does the land’s quiet, steady reassurance that life keeps turning, no matter what.  

Learning the farm, learning the land

In the autumn, slanted light dances off the pond first thing in the morning or hides in low mists. The forest explodes in bursts of colour. The nights are clear and cool, revealing more stars than could ever been seen under the bright lights of London. Imperfect memories mingle with my desire to experience those things again. 

More practically, though, I want to know how our family farm actually runs. Not from a phone call or a picture but from standing between the trees and feeling it with all of my senses at every point in the year. I mean, some flying insect will probably sting me while I’m standing there, but hey-ho, that’s part of it. 

So, I’m gearing up for the adventure: a family of city slickers, trading the Tube for a pickup, working out a new way of living. I keep telling myself that learning to drive a tractor cannot be harder than learning to manoeuvre a family-sized SUV down Hertfordshire C-roads, but I’m not that convinced. I fully expect to be humbled by a fence post. Probably more than once.

Sustainability, up close

I’ve written about sustainability on this site mostly from an urban perspective: energy bills, EV charging, rooftop solar panels, cutting waste in a busy household. Those things matter. But there's a difference between reading about soil health and having it under your fingernails.

On the farm, sustainability stops being abstract. Every choice shows up somewhere: in the pond after a heavy rain, in the honey harvest, in how many chickens survive the night. You can't offset your way out of a gully.

Here's what I want to explore, and share with you as I go:

• Soil first. Gardening, composting, and what regenerative practices look like in real life. This is going to be a real challenge for me. I have a natural black thumb.

• Raising trees. What is it like to manage a forest? What’s a fire break and when do you need them? How do you monitor and maintain tree health?

• Energy. Do solar and EV lessons from England translate to rural Georgia? What does a farm-scale solar installation offer, and what does it require?

• Biodiversity. Will I remember the native plants and pollinators from my childhood? How have they changed? [I can’t wait to dance in the magical display of lightning bugs again.]

I'll get things wrong. Just like before, I’ll write about that too. Sustainability isn't a singular thing, and there are always trade-offs or different ways of interpreting the facts.

What I'll miss, and what comes with me

I'll miss so much of our life here: the independence (and lower carbon footprint) my kids have walking to and from school each day; the public footpaths that give us access to land without the burden of maintenance; the shops, restaurants, and pubs a stone’s throw from our house; the way everyone knows everyone in the village. I'll miss friends and colleagues who shaped me more than they know.  

What I'm going home to feels distant but familiar. Warm sunshine that soaks into your bones. [There is a very short window in autumn and spring when the sunshine warms your bones but doesn’t yet make you sweat through your clothes.] People who knew me when. Relations who ask after your family and actually wait for the answer. Warm tortilla chips straight out of the fryer.

And land. Land that has been waiting for us to show up and learn.

So this is the start of a new chapter for Ecodove: an education in living with the land rather than just on it. Come along for the ride. I suspect there will be dust, dents, and a few good stories.

Georgia, I'm coming home. Put the queso on.