Loaves, fishes and the art of dropping in

Do you remember that old ad from the eighties – Campbell’s Soup, I think it was? A big, happy mob turns up unannounced – at a lighthouse no less – all sheepish grins and empty bellies. “We were just passing through, saw the light on, thought we’d drop in. We don’t eat much”. And somehow, their gracious host whips up a feast from a single can of soup, stretching it to feed the whole lot of them. Magic, right?⁠

↑ Copper pots and vintage still life paintings take pride of place 

↑ A work in progress, Bank House kitchen is warm, sunny and inviting. Guests are instantly drawn to sitting round the kitchen table.

↑ Fridge staples of smoked trout, homemade salami, a hunk of cheese and zucchini pickles are always on hand in case unexpected visitors drop in.

↑ A mix of cherished vintage plates and modern pottery sit comfortably side-by-side

↑ I’m looking forward to getting the old fuel stove working in time for the cold Rockley winter.

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Moving from our quiet, tucked-away farm to the village of Rockley has felt a little like stepping into that ad – except there’s no script, and I’m the one rustling up the soup. Life here spills over with people – new faces and old friends, passersby on their morning dog walk stopping for a yarn at the fence, acquaintances drifting through town who decide to drop in, friends seeking solace in a slow afternoon and good conversation, and those dear ones who check in just to wrap me in a hug, as if they somehow know I need it.

For a self-confessed introvert, it’s been an adjustment. I was used to the solitude of the bush, the quiet rhythm of my own thoughts. But here, in the village, there’s a different rhythm, one I’m learning to love. There’s an unspoken rule in the country: if someone drops in, you feed them. A pot of tea, a hunk of good bread, a slab of cheese, a glass of something local, maybe a lemon drizzle cake if I’ve been feeling particularly domestic. Loaves and fishes.

At first, I worried about the interruptions. My to-do list sat untouched while the kettle whistled and chairs were pulled up to the table. But then I realised, this is the work of living. The talking, the sharing, the breaking of bread. The small, fleeting moments where we nourish each other, in ways seen and unseen. In a world that can feel sharp-edged and restless, taking time to sit, to listen, to laugh – it’s a quiet kind of alchemy. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Tania x

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Images by Jessica Bellef