Where there's smoke...

...there's a home.
1989. It was the early hours of a freezing cold December morning. Huddled on an icy bench in Stockholm Station I was waiting, rather than wasting money on a night's accommodation, for an early morning train to the far north, to cross the Arctic Circle and then into Finland.
Nudging into my backpack for imaginary warmth, I watched two homeless men aimlessly taking it out on each other in a slurred brawl.
I remember, as clear as distilled arctic water, thinking that I would be happy to travel anywhere in the world, and for long periods, as long as I knew that somewhere on earth was a place that was mine, that I could call home.
This was the place I'd leave all my books, and it would have a fireplace.
I've just stocked the stove in the kitchen with wood, it's roaring, and I'm watching - through the kitchen window - as the sun sets, filtered through the wood stove's smoke.
Home.

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