Floury spuds still make me smile

Why childhood nostalgia hits harder and what is it really trying to tell us

Sometimes, joy isn’t loud.

It isn’t about fireworks or life milestones or giant gestures.

Sometimes, it’s floury spuds and stewed apples.

It’s the hum of a tiny kitchen, a stove that never goes out.

It’s the kind of love you only notice years later, when you realise the safest you ever

felt was sitting at the end of a bed so high you had to jump to climb into it.

When I think about joy - real, full-fat joy - I think about my Granny’s house.

It smelt like freedom.

It smelt like home.

My granny’s house was a place where days stretched long and golden.

Grassy fields. Climbing gates. Making human fences to herd cows.

A sun roofed Ford, a hairy road, a sticky-fingered ice-cream run.