Aren't people lovely?

Says she, a self-confessed Social Introvert...

The Heritage Centre and Blackbird Tearooms, Carradale, with the Old Schoolhouse Gallery in the background

I think I may have said, once or twice, that I don’t really like people. Generally. Or, put it another way, I don’t generally need people. I’m a lover of my own company, and I struggle the most when I can’t get it.

Leading up to and in recovery from my op, I felt trapped. I felt trapped by my own blinking body. Trapped in my own house (yes, even though I could escape to the lovely Rita). And for a period, trapped in my chair, because there was only the one chair I could get into and out from (thank you Sarah for the overly long loan!). This time was made even harder because I couldn’t escape from others in the house. Other people’s crap tv, or even others just being there, all in the same room was ridiculously challenging. Being able to escape to Rita was such a milestone for me. I have always felt she is a real privilege, but I realise it even more so now.

Don’t get me wrong, there are people I like quite a lot, and some I love, and in the most part, these are people who understand each other, without any need for explanation. People who just take me for who I am. And of course, I them.

I’ve always preferred to be in a group that makes me happy, than hang around with individuals, because, well, because is a whole different story. Anyway, I sang barbershop with different choruses for thirty or so years and being in a chorus means you can all be mates together. You are relying on the others to learn and sing their part just like you do, but you’re generally not relying on an individual. Because individuals just let you down, which probably says as much about my choices than those individuals themselves.

Yes, of course, I have my Knight in Shining Armour, who, like any true Knight would, understands me completely. He understands how much time for myself is not a luxury, but my most effective medicine when I’m struggling and he is happy to indulge me. Or facilitate it. Or sometimes, pay for it.

But here, here, it is just different. Here in this village, and some in the wider peninsula, here, I have found people are just generally, more. More helpful. More lovely. More accepting of who you are. And I think this bit might be important, more evident.

In this village of ~500 people, our space is very different to that which we are used to in towns or cities. Around here, our space is generally bigger, gardens bigger, more open, houses spaced further apart, but we also use our space differently. Our garden is our garden, and we use it. All of it. Unlike more urban areas where front gardens seem to be the barrier between the world and you. A real chore to maintain because we’d rather be hiding away in the back. And yes, I’m fully aware of the irony of me making that comparison with negative connotations but let me run with it for a minute.

Around here, our houses are positioned in the best position for that space, often not in neat and tidy rows. Ours is towards the top left of the square that is ours, and on a slope slanting upwards, meaning that most of my garden is on view from the road. This is not at all unusual, with gardens more open, embracing the curvature of the roads or the hillside, so that when we are in our gardens, we are also more open to conversation. Gardening becomes more of a social activity when everybody who walks past stops to admire the Camellia, or your window colour, or your hard work. Holidaymakers just as much as villagers sometimes.

Away from our gardens, the Village Shop is just a hub for everything community based. Staffed mainly by volunteers, people might choose to shop, or not, on a particular afternoon because so-and-so is on shift. You’ll get all the gossip, and yes, sometimes be the gossip, but isn’t that better than being boring?

And now I come to what made me set out to write this piece in the first place. Finally, I’m able to get out into the world on foot. I’m practicing walking, just like a toddler, or I’m just escaping for space.

Last week, when the weather was glorious, I walked and had a catch up with my friend who was sitting outside the gallery she runs with two others. The next day I walked to the tea room for a coffee and ended up having lunch with two friends. Next day I walked out with dad, and we ended having lunch with four others. The next enjoyed a coffee outside the same gallery with two different friends. And the next again, this time stopping off at a different café on my way home from town joined a different friend out walking his dog and enjoyed a coffee together.

All of these lovely interactions are almost what I imagined a community might be when we decided to move here. I know that a big part of this is being retired and not having to watch the clock to get back to work, but this is not some exclusive retired community. This is just people who realise that life is to be enjoyed. And if that means stopping to enjoy the coffee just as much as smelling the roses, then I’m in like Flint.

You’ll remember when my husband had his collapse and subsequent open-heart surgery, these same people were wonderful. This also is why we moved to a rural village. We wanted to be somewhere where people always stepped up in a crisis. But it never occurred to either of us that it would be us on the receiving end. These people wrapped us both in their embrace and did as much as I would let them do for us. And they’d have done more, but I’m still rubbish at asking for help. I’m getting a little better at accepting it since I gave myself permission to relax into what was happening, because, as I remind myself, if this were you, I’d want to help too.

And now I must dash. Today I’m having lunch with a good friend and (hopefully) a new friend; a writer I’ve asked to join us at Book Fest in October. The rain is hammering down, but it still feels like it will be a very lovely day indeed.