塔斯馬尼亞州的慢生活

This morning I picked golden plums straight from the trees in my back garden. A guilty pleasure； I didn’t plant the trees， they require little care， and they are free. But they are loved.

Home， now， after years working in London， is a green valley in Tasmania， a place with a postcode and no shop. I was brought up in Tasmania in the late 1960s and 70s， when it was common for young people to leave the place to experience more of the world. Now， after more than two decades away， and much to my surprise， it is my world.

Having lived a professional life mostly in London， a return to Tasmania came about because of a desire to live closer to food and nature. I’d learned about the slow food movement working on a food magazine in London， but my own life was too fast to live it， and I ate out more than in. Days were wasted in traffic jams， in queues， on public transport， in long meetings， and in waiting… I felt my city life was over.

So I settled on a simple weatherboard house in the country I knew， no job， and no idea how to sustain a life—just a knowingness that said if I had stayed where I was I would fade like a cushion in the sun. My mother lives half an hour away， and so do my two brothers， with their children.You don’t go home for them， but a blood connection is both easier and harder than any other.

Despite living on my own， it feels as if I have company. At least five homes within eyesight， a number that seems to double at night when the lights of farms and houses pop out from distant hills. I don’t feel the need to make friends， but I sense that we share something， living in this landscape， as if we’re all in it together， looking after it. It’s not like in a city， where you can shut out the world and disappear， or pass a neighbour on a staircase and not say hello， or look out of your window at blocks of flats and not know one soul living in them. It’s not anonymous like that. Here， the country makes you part of it. I have a sense that I belong without “belonging”.

I’ve learned many things here. I have learned that who I am is not my job， my family， or my partner， although all these things are important. I have learned to rely on the world around me and in doing this I look after myself. For example， living on tank water， I’ve learned to measure my daily usage. When the tank is low， and with no sign of rain， running out is a visible reality. This is not something easily appreciated living in the city， connected to a main supply.

While the world of commodities strives to 1）homogenise the seasons， country life encourages you to respect them. In doing this， I have found a new way to be. A life that you have when you’re not busy doing other things. A life that unfolds around you， that moves like the tide， and 2）in sync with the seasons.

I moved here on my own without plans and have met my partner and started a new business. I did this getting lost on the way to visit a friend. I stopped at his property to ask the way. He， it turns out， is also an escapee from corporate life， and now lives across the road. He set up a hobby nursery and when the local market started， we took plants and herbs to sell， and later fresh produce from a local farmer. We put any profits that we made into a tin and spent it on local champagne. One day the market was rained off， so we boxed up our produce and took it to town. We called this our “rainy day business model”. It was so successful， we’ve been doing it ever since. There’s no weekly pay cheque， but I’ve never been happier.

There are only 72 summers in one lifetime， I remember a London 3）adman telling me when he left the safety of a big job to start up his own business. The line he used stayed with me. If I only had 30 summers left—less if I was unlucky—what was I doing？

During the past eight summers， I has realised that who I am is where I am. With no children of my own， I have a sense of place， of being rooted， of staying not in， but home， although I know I’ve only just begun to 4）scratch the surface.

The gift of these years is that while my mother， Audrey， is still bright but ageing， I know I will not feel like an orphan when she’s gone.

One day turns into the next and each day I follow the seasons. To leave home without a good reason feels like a betrayal， a 5）wanton waste of time. To go beyond my own boundary would be to turn my back on the things I’ve started and lose momentum. It would be as if those small efforts to take care of my own back yard—the efficacy of untold devotion—had counted for not very much.

今天早晨我在后花園的樹上摘了一些洋李。我感到一絲愧疚的愉悅感。這些樹不是我種下的，不需要怎么照料，還是免費的。但它們很討人喜歡。

在倫敦工作多年以后，現在，我的家在塔斯馬尼亞州的一個青翠的山谷中，一個有郵政編碼，但沒有任何商鋪的地方。我成長于上世紀60年代后期到70年代的塔斯馬尼亞，那時，離開家鄉，體驗更廣闊的世界對年輕人來說是很常見的事情。而現在，二十多年以后，出乎意料地，這里成了我的全部天地。

我之前大部分時間都在倫敦過著為工作而忙碌的生活，回來塔斯馬尼亞是因為想要過一種與食物和自然更加親近的生活。我從前在倫敦的一家飲食雜志社工作時，了解到“慢食運動”這個概念，但我個人的生活節奏實在是太快了，我無法響應這個運動，我大多數時候都外出用餐。日子都浪費在了塞車、排隊、公共交通、漫長的會議以及等待當中……我覺得得結束那樣的城市生活。

因此，我搬去了一個熟悉的鄉村，在一間簡單的檐板房里安家落戶。我沒有工作，也不知道該如何維持生計，只知道如果我再繼續留在以前的地方，我就會像陽光下的墊子一樣褪色。我媽媽住在離我有半小時車程的地方，我的兩個兄弟和他們的孩子也是。你并不是為他們而回去的，但血緣關系卻比世上任何一樣東西都更簡單、更牢固。

雖然我一個人住，但卻不感覺孤獨。我的視線范圍內至少有五座房子，當夜晚來臨，遠處山丘那邊的農場和房子點起燈火，這個數目似乎就翻倍了。