The joy of chopping garlic, the smallest of slimy Indian cloves, crush and peel. My very own cooker in my first kitchen in eight months. The joy of washing plates in real detergent, not sand or a plastic bag. The pleasure of washing the most beautiful tomatoes, peppers, aubergines, arranging them in my rented fridge, in my rented kitchen with a look of the 1950’s.

The joy of skimming froth from boiling red lentils, frying onions and egg plants in olive oil, cooking bringing happiness in my very own space.

A rented apartment on the beach in  Goa, amongst the palms and the pigs. Just us and the pigs and the palms. Local vegetable stalls and independent village stores, having the choice of whom to support, food one tenth the price of food in England.

The joy of drinking a glass of red wine, vino from a vineyard i visited in Nasik, on the porch, eating a pasta dish as the sun sets. No restaurants, no waiters, no tips and no getting ill. No curry.

Sinking back into my love for cooking and being domestic. My choice of music on the stereo, in my own little house for the final fortnight. Wine, pasta and  the beach five minutes away.  A perfect transition for returning home.