The last time I wrote, we were on a flight back to Devon.
That part of the story mattered more than I realised at the time.
We stayed in Ashburton for a few weeks. Long enough to do the rounds properly. Family kitchens. Old friends. Familiar walks that don’t require Google Maps. The kids slipping straight back into rhythms they’ve known all their lives. Bryan fixing things with tools he already understood. Marta not having to think before speaking.
It was good. Comforting. Also quietly unsettling.
Not because anything was wrong, but because somewhere in the middle of it all we realised we were talking about Dénia as if it was waiting for us.
When we came back to Spain, it didn’t feel like arriving. It felt like resuming.
That’s when the people here came back into focus.
The neighbour who’d helped Bryan before was the first familiar face we saw. Same nod. Same brief exchange. He noticed immediately that we were back, asked how long we’d been gone, then pointed at the car as if checking it had survived the journey. No fuss. No story required.
At school, the kids were recognised before they were even through the gate. One teacher commented that they’d “grown” in just a few weeks. One of the other parents asked how Devon was, not in a polite way but in a genuinely curious one. Marta noticed she was answering without rehearsing Spanish in her head first.
That felt new.
There’s a woman further down the road who always seems to know when bins have changed days or when the water will be off. She caught Bryan mid-unload one morning and told him, kindly but firmly, that the tap wouldn’t work for another hour. She was right. She always is.
The hardware shop man remembered Bryan too. Same counter, same approach. Less explaining this time. More shorthand. A raised eyebrow. A single word. The right screws.
These aren’t friendships in the dramatic sense. No dinners yet. No deep conversations. But they’re real. Repeated. Practical.
Ashburton reminded us who we’ve been for a long time. Dénia is slowly showing us who we’re becoming here.
The kids are somewhere ahead of us again. They slipped back in as if they’d never left. New playground stories. Familiar names. Minor complaints that only make sense if you already belong.
We’re still learning plenty. Still outsiders in some ways. Still doing things slightly wrong. But leaving and coming back clarified something important.
This isn’t a temporary arrangement we’re testing anymore.
It’s a place where people notice when you go, and notice when you return.
And that changes how you stand in it, day to day.
No big conclusions. Just the sense that the move didn’t pause while we were away.