I love and hate the word “Homesteader”. It’s cosy and comforting, like putting your hands in a loved one’s armpits as you wait at a bus stop on a freezing night. It also feels a bit weird and obnoxious, like putting your hands in a stranger’s armpits as you w- yes.
Still, it’s the best term I can think of to describe the kind of self-sufficient, fulfilling, adaptable lifestyle I keep chasing down pinboard-based social media rabbit holes. I keep diving into these holes and meticulously planning how I’d plant out a field, and what breed of goats I’d keep, but frankly, I live in a dingy, draughty tenement flat. And that’s the sort of home I’m likely to stay in for the foreseeable future if I continue to maintain my savings jar of £0 and assorted unexplained screws.
Better to start making changes now, instead of waiting until The Ghost of Carrots Past convinces some unfortunate arable farmer to give me an acre and a broken down cottage.
What am I hoping to get out of it?
- (See, here I was about to say something about Spring and sunshine and fresh air, and the sky immediately opened up with a 20 second torrential hail storm.)
- SOMETHING ABOUT SPRING AND SUNSHINE AND FRESH AIR. *shakes fist.*
- Lower shopping bills
- A transition towards a more sustainable lifestyle
- The feeling that I’m doing something more worthwhile with my time than browsing Pinterest for information on how to look after all the chickens I don’t have.
What skills do I want to learn?
- Advanced Baking
- Doing Mysterious Things With Wool
- Practical Woodworking
- Time Management, which I’m pretty sure you can only master after you’ve passed Transfiguration, Divination, and Cat Herding
- Applied Waste Reduction
- And finding a crop to grow on my windowsill that isn’t The Fungus From The Black Lagoon.
Yes. Right. Good. Alarm clock set to 6am. Tomorrow morning I shall wake up, give a strangulated screech which attracts every lonely banshee within a one-mile radius, go back to sleep, and forget to attempt baking Irish soda bread.