One summer years back we stayed with friends in a beach hut on a spit of land, the northest of Norfolk. Sand and seals one side of us, an ebbing and flowing marshy maze the other. We, including six children, were without electricity and running water. And an inside loo. I am sofabound by inclination so I was surprised how much I didn’t mind going outside after dinner to wash the plates beside the huge rain water butt, nothing in my head but the murmuring grass. There was no light in the outside loo, so when I popped out for a wee just before bed I would sit with the door open, looking at the village a mile or two distant, the twinkling lights distant company.
I hope no one was looking back.
A friend told G that before the advent of radiators family members would automatically gather round the fire, the only warm spot in the house. After central heating you could afford to be off alone in any room of the house. People spread out, in a bad way.
I love modern comforts, especially in winter, but we are unknowingly making exchanges. Unconscious patterns that sometimes enhanced our lives are lost.