What You See Is What You Get?

           We now live in Plymouth. It’s official – the council tax bill arrived the day we moved in. So, being in a new space, in a new place, we have an opportunity not only to enjoy the difference but to question lifestyle habits we have fallen into and make a few adjustments. (I’m not talking about delving into existentialism, just the everyday business of making the best of one’s life.)

          Not that Devon is an alien or unfamiliar region – English is spoken and the Queen’s coin is valid – but there are significant differences, at least superficially, as can be seen from the window. Whereas, in Manchester’s gritty centre, I breakfasted with a view of lorries delivering supplies to and collecting refuse from a row of Chinese restaurants, here I watch the quieter, more relaxed activities of a waterfront awakening. Either way I’m in a room with a view. But it’s the particularities of a view that call into question the impact it may have on one’s approach to life. I suppose that, after a while, what I observe each day must become a part of my consciousness and play a part in forming habits. The Manchester view had little to stimulate the imagination, but it did provoke an urge to go out and explore the streets, rich with magnificent buildings, and partake of some of the cultural life of the teeming city. The Plymouth view serves a dual purpose: on the one hand, it is scenic and good just to contemplate (which is useful if you’re feeling poorly); while, on the other, it is dynamic and stimulates a desire to go out and participate.

          Although the South West Coastal Path runs past the door, most activities here take place on the water. A variety of pleasure boats, from kayaks and canoes to small yachts, launch from the slipway and adjacent marina, tantalising even a landlubber like me with the prospect of a jaunt. Meanwhile, further out, the scary-looking Royal Navy warships passing to and from the dockyard upstream serve as a reminder that all is not well with the world. And each morning, at 08.30 prompt, a dozen or so ‘ladies of a certain age’ launch themselves into the water for a swim. They don’t swim vigorously – just a few gentle laps around the little bay, followed by an extensive period of bobbing about in a huddle, chatting loudly and elatedly – but their endurance shames me into feeling like a wimp nevertheless. Perhaps I will work up the courage to take a dip myself – once I have unpacked my trunks. It’s only been a few days, but already I am contemplating the options for water-related exercise. I can swim, though it’s been a while. I don’t fancy any of the many variations of balancing on what looks like a floating ironing board. Nor do I have any desire to own a boat for, as I see it, that would mean devoting a lot of time and money to ‘gear’ and maintenance. I can, however, see a way of dipping my arse in the water by taking a few ‘kayaking for beginners’ sessions – not ambitious, I know, but it could be the start of a new enthusiasm.

          But all this talk of the great outdoors distracts from the business of the interior life – the room from which one views. Moving home is also about finding a balance between replicating the comforts of the old nest and making changes that will expand rather than contract one’s life in the new one. A reassessment of the space, the way it is used and furnished can be stimulating and eye-opening if made in the light of questioning what is really important instead of merely habitual. All this, however, can wait until the foremost priority is sorted: broadband!