My Impossible Cottage Dream
Or Why I’m Probably Never Moving to the Countryside
“That’s it, I’m moving to a cottage in the country. I’ll plant a vegetable garden, and flowers, and I’ll have a cow, maybe. I think I’d like that” everyone I told this to — my two dearest friends — separately scoffed when I said this. They said I wouldn’t last a week. I’d get bored. I’d miss the theatre, and socialising, and being able to go to Asda at three in the morning. In fairness, I’ve never been to Asda at 3am but I could if I wanted to, the closest 24h one is only five minutes away.
They said I’d miss my life. The thing is, 2020 burned my life to the ground, not to be dramatic or anything. Never mind the fact that it sent me into a spiral and I had to start going to therapy, it forcefully pressed the pause button — if not the delete button altogether — on so many plans I’d made. They said that’s how life works, it never goes to plan. All I’m saying is, 2020 could have tried less to be an absolute dick to all of us.
But back to my impossible dream, I’ve actually given it lots of thought — after all there’s been nothing else for me to do except scouring the internet for jobs that never get back to me. The point is, I think my friends might be right. I love the idea of living in a tiny cottage with a cute fence, flowers everywhere, a stable nearby, birds chirping all around. I’ve even become a vegan during lockdown! I’d like all of this if it didn’t imply that I’d have to leave everything behind. I’d love to be able to live like that while I’m also maintaining my current life (alright, my pre-pandemic life, the one I’m hoping will resume not too far in the future).
Cows are gorgeous animals. They have best friends, they care for each other. And flowers are pretty too. A thatched cottage (do those still exist? I’m a foreigner, I wouldn’t know). It looks so good in my mind!
Realistically, though, it would be a colossal disaster. I’d absolutely hate it. I’m sure there are tonnes of spiders everywhere (I’m terrified of them). Weeds would start growing among my quaint flowerbeds (that’s the part of gardening I hate the most). My cow would constantly need to be taken care of instead of just requiring the dose of love I’m willing to give her (is it possible to even own a cow as a pet?) and I’m sure the vet bills would skyrocket when we add the two dogs, three cats, and several tiny goats I’d like to own. In short, it’s a bad idea and I’m never going to do it.
Then again, in my head the sun feels so good as I stand in front of my cute cottage, peacefully looking on, not a bother on Earth or a drop of sweat on my brow. In the real world I’m sure that if I were ever to move to the English countryside, the sun would keep making its only rare appearance for three days in August just to kill all my flowers (you’d never think the English sun could be so cruel).
If there’s one thing that 2020 taught me — actually no, it didn’t teach it to me, it confirmed it — is that nothing is permanent. That snazzy job in the city your friend has isn’t necessary. We’re generally all replaceable. We can count on one hand the number of job positions that we can’t live without. We don’t matter at all. Therefore, if I were to move to said cottage in the countryside and buy said cow and other animals to keep me company, I doubt many would have much to say. I wouldn’t disappoint anybody but myself. We’re all so wrapped up in our own storyline that I honestly can’t think of any reason why any of my friends wouldn’t accept my sudden (but definitely surprising) decision.
Then again, is it actually what I want? Is it what my heart desires? Is it what I think I’m destined to do? Again, probably not. I’m saying that it’s probably not what I want because I was perfectly happy before the pandemic blew everything up. I was going to the theatre almost every night (in truth, right before we went into the first lockdown I was covering a theatre festival in London and I was seeing multiple shows per night), I was writing so much every day that I got to the point where there was a steady flow from my brain to my fingertips and onto a screen. It was fantastic.
Then I stopped altogether. The life I’d got used to was gone overnight and it sent me into the second worst depressive spell of my life (the first place will always be taken by my teenage years, but that’s a story for another day). I stopped writing for months. I couldn’t even take a glance at a blank page, or at a piece of theatre news. I was forcing myself to keep up with the devastation that was hitting the industry until I didn’t anymore. An ancient coping mechanism was triggered once again and I poured myself onto series after series, film after film, album after album.
I missed the theatre, but I was repressing that feeling by consuming an array of different types of entertainment. And when I wasn’t doing that, I was busy planning my garden in the plot of land right in front of my cottage. The sun was shining in a delicate way, the breeze was soft and smelled of wildflowers. My cow was mooing in the distance, the bell around her neck rhythmically ding-donging while the dogs played and the cats basked in the rays. An escape was all it was. That’s until they extended lockdown and things got even worse.
I started to imagine a life where I willingly abandoned the only thing that used to truly light my fire, the only thing I’m passionate about. I can’t remember a moment of my life lived without going to the theatre. My family wasn’t an artistic one, but my mum loved the theatre (and reading, and films, and museums, and so on). I still remember my first grown-up theatre show. Before then, there had been puppetry, children shows, and plays put on in the gym at my school. The first time my mum took me to see the real deal I was eleven and we were going to see King Lear. I still remember where we were sitting in the beautiful auditorium of the big theatre in the city where I grew up. I even remember details from the show, like the fact that the Fool was naked at one point — I remember being so shocked.
Somehow I’d never considered theatre as a viable career option until later on. Sometimes even now I wonder if I’ve actually made a huge mistake. But I’m mostly very happy with my choices, like 99% of the time. Then again, now that cottage and that cow keep haunting me. They look dreamy. But I suppose it’s not my dream. I hope that in a parallel universe there’s a version of me who’s packed up all her books and scarves, picked a lovely speck on the map to call home, went cow shopping (is that even a thing? Although I’d rather rescue one from slaughter), adopted dogs and cats, and settled down with a cup of tea, looking outside her tiny window onto her garden. Bees would buzz and birds would chirp. The weather would be perfect. I hope she’s happy. I know she is.
But me, this version of me, will now do some research on this or that, will read the news, will hope that all theatres will reopen safely, and will make a cup of tea before writing.
I’d still love a cow, though…