So much has happened this month that I had to go back and read September's review to find out how I was feeling at that point... Ah yes, ambivalent, that was the tone: Thinking about having more contact with the British Isles, but still unsure and hesitant.

So what happened after that?

Well, October started with a fabulous trip to Haddon Hall in Derbyshire. This place is awesome. Go if you can.




There were plenty more nice things about Derbyshire, but then, quite early in the month, we were on our way to the Isle of Man.

Now, I can't totally explain this, because it's just not rational -- but this place exercises a kind of power over me. It's beautiful, and it's ancient. But then so are many places. And yes, it's expensive, and the weather can be brutal. For me, though, this chunk of land in the middle of the Irish Sea, where I was born all those moons ago, is unfathomably "home". Nowhere else looks quite as "right" as this place.



I've not lived on the Island for the best part of 50 years. So where does this all come from? Early 2022 was the first time since my twenties that I had the chance to spend a few weeks here. It was then that I attempted to analyse my evolving relations with the place. And it was then, I think, that I started to hanker for a less fleeting stay.

This time, as I said, we arrived confused and uncertain, with no clear plans. We'll look at houses, we said. Just look... It never does any harm to look...

But house-hunting is the most miserable occupation known to man (or Man). So we rapidly got discouraged, and started to resign ourselves to coming away empty-handed.


In the meantime, we did lots of walking and pottering (start here, and keep clicking forwards, and you might get the ghost of an idea of why I love this place so much).

And then, pretty much at the end of our list of possible houses, we found something we thought we could just about live with. This is my no-frills account of that thought process.

You don't think I sound that excited? Remember it's not the HOUSE I'm really interested in. Owning a house still terrifies me, to be honest, so that I often wake up thinking: "What the **** have we done?"

What I do look forward to is having a foothold here on the Island. The house is just a necessary evil.

No, that's too harsh. It's an OK little house. Trevor the Cat, who has been there for a while, gave every indication that he liked it. It's very prosaic, but hopefully it's also very practical -- and shareable. Once the initial dust has settled, we're hoping to "divide our time": Part of the year here; part of the year in Sarawak; part of the year on the road. Ergo, when we're not in the little house, friends and family can be. Certain people can even be in it while we are. You probably know who you are...


Despite misgivings, and concerns about how the bejeebers we're going to manage this logistically, and despite the weather (there's a gale roaring round our Ballabeg accommodation at the moment, and a distinct possibility that we might not get off the Island as planned on Monday) -- despite all this, I'm pretty sure I'd be disappointed if it does all fall through (which it still might, of course, house sales being notoriously unpredictable things). That hoping-not-to-be-disappointed is a reasonable indicator, I think, of whether you actually want something or not.

And what does the Other Tern feel about this, you might ask... Well, I think it's safe to say that OT will never do anything he absolutely doesn't want to do. It's probably also safe to say he's not quite so enthusiastic as I am... To him, I suppose, it's just a place, as opposed to a magical place. But it's not a total plunge into the unknown. And there'll still be lots of Sarawak in the mix for the next little while, we hope.

Anyway, if you're already fed up with all this house nonsense, as well you might be, I suggest you head off here, and start clicking forwards again: Steam trains await you, plus world-class scenery, seals, and excellent exhibitions (we've been really lucky with our timing this year).


***

Inevitably, this very busy month has again put The Velvet Cushion on iron rations time-wise, so I'm still running badly behind. Still, there was a slight improvement on last month.

-- A Book notes post majored on murders and losses.

-- Hilary Mantel's A Place of Greater Safety, which I read with Footnotes & Tangents, Simon Haisell's wonderful book group, was a little bewildering, but still had that recognizable Mantel brilliance. Another book group readalong (this time with Henry Eliot's Read the Classics) took me to Master Humphrey's Clock, by Charles Dickens. This was actually the framework narrative that eventually gave way to The Old Curiosity Shop (which we're also reading). File under "odd but interesting".

-- In the creepy and/or uncanny category I'd put The Fox Wife, by Malaysian-born Yangsze Choo (a wonderfully readable blend of the chilling and the heart-warming), as well as a selection of ghost stories recommended by Sarah Waters (Elizabeth Bowen I knew and liked already, but W.W. Jacobs, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, and Kelly Link were new, and would all repay a second visit).

-- Into the "didn't quite work for me" category goes Charmaine Wilkerson's Black Cake (enjoyable enough to listen to, but over-stuffed and a little coincidence-heavy).

-- This month also saw another little Franz Kafka push. Again in the company of Henry Eliot's book club, I read The Trial (untouched since undergrad days). What a book... It's like a long ride on a rough sea... And it lives with you well after you've turned the last page. Recommended by Eliot, and also really fascinating, was Kafka's Other Trial, by Elias Canetti. I found this riveting, not only because of the biographical light it sheds on The Trial, but also because Kafka's dithering and fear of commitment exactly matched my mood as we were deciding about the house...


***

Meanwhile, today is the last day of the Celtic year. Which means it's Hop-tu-Naa.



As I explained back here, this is so much more the real deal than all that imported Hallowe'en nonsense:

It always made sense to me that the Celtic winter ran from November to January. This is the really dark, dead time of the year in the northern hemisphere. Come February, it's still cold, but the light is flooding back, and early flowers and lambs are appearing. So the first day of February marks the beginning of spring.

Hop tu Naa is the day when you -- or rather your longsuffering parents -- hollow out swedes (which we call turnips, pronounced tinnups) to make glow-in-the-dark lanterns. Tinnups, much more so than pumpkins, are solid little things. So the carving process is hard yakka.

You then take them up to school for a bit of a celebration, and of course you sing the song: 'Hop-tu-Naa, put in the pot; Hop-tu-Naa, put in the pan; Hop-tu-Naa, I met an old woman; Hop-tu-Naa, she was baking bonnag...' etc, etc, etc (it goes on for quite a while). Then in the evening you go round the houses, again with your lantern and your song, which ends: 'Won't you give me a penny before I run away by the light of the MOOOOON?' And people give you money. Except I wasn't allowed to do the going-round-the-houses bit, as Dad said it was begging.

I doubt we'll get many tinnup-lantern-wielders here in Ballabeg. But we'll definitely be toasting the coming of winter with a teentsy bit of Manx gin...


***

As I said, we're planning to head back to England on Monday, and onwards to Sarawak a week on Wednesday, which is where -- all being well -- we'll be spending the rest of the year. We've done the hard house-buying yards, and just have to let the rest of the process trot along at its own pace. Fingers crossed...