Hola again. Or just hi, whatever. We’re back in England. Not exactly thrilled about it, but here we are. Casa Amada is all set up, warm, lived in, actually starting to feel like ours… and then, of course, we had to leave. Love that.
The kids were fine with it. School, friends, the whole routine waiting for them. Bryan and I had work. It all made sense. But stepping back into the house in Ashburton? Felt weird. Smaller. Like the walls had closed in a bit while we were gone. Not actually, obviously, but you know what I mean.
Life doesn’t pause just because you’re feeling a bit off, though. It scooped us right back in. Anna and Luke buried in school stuff, Bryan drowning in meetings before we’d even unpacked. And me? Back to normal things. Coffee outside, even though I had to wear about three layers. Small talk with the neighbors. Walks through town, trying to find my usual rhythm. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. But under all of it, there’s this quiet hum, like a background noise you can’t quite switch off. A feeling.
Maybe it’s nothing. Or maybe it’s the fact that, for the first time, this place doesn’t feel like the place anymore.
Dartmoor and Other Ways to Avoid Thinking Too Much
When in doubt, go outside. Dartmoor’s a different world in autumn—burnt orange bracken, sharp cold air, that constant smell of woodsmoke. We spent weekends out there, trying to soak up something about being back.
Haytor was a good day. Anna running around with her camera, chasing golden light like she was on assignment for National Geographic. Luke climbing every rock like it was a personal challenge. Bryan and I trailing behind, half watching them, half just happy to be out.
Then there was Wistman’s Wood. Looks like something out of a dream—twisted mossy trees, giant boulders, the kind of place that makes you stop and wonder how much the land remembers. It’s one of the last scraps of Dartmoor before humans cut everything down. Hard to picture it fully covered in oak forests. Hard to picture people leaving nature alone, really.
Christmas, But Make It Spanish
Didn’t take long for the conversations to start. The whole “should we just go back for Christmas?” thing. We all knew where it was heading. Flights booked. No regrets.
Anna’s got full-blown plans—sketching decorations, talking about string lights and fireplace garlands like she’s designing a movie set. Luke’s deep into the “this would be a great time for a new gaming console” campaign. Bryan and I are mostly just thinking about warmth. Sun on our faces. Churros in the morning. That kind of thing.
And—because why not throw in some chaos—my Spanish side of the family is coming too. First Christmas hosting. No clue where we’re putting everyone, but we’ll figure it out. There’s always space.
Counting Down
Ashburton’s nice. Always has been. Halloween, bonfire nights, cozy evenings, all the usual things. But it’s different now. Every cold morning, every grey sky, every damp coat hanging by the door just reminds us—we don’t really want to be here.
Not for long, anyway. A few more weeks and we’ll be back. Back to Casa Amada, where time slows down, where things make sense in a way they don’t here anymore.
And the second I’m sitting in the sun with a café cortado in my hand? Yeah. That’s when I’ll know we’re home.