Home is one of those adaptable words, one that evolves in meaning as we journey through life. Growing up in a blend of cultures, I learned early on that I had two homes: one in England and another in France. Each was unique, with its own family, traditions, flavors, and tongue. This duality meant that no single place felt entirely like home to me, yet it offered the comforting thought that my sense of belonging could span across borders. For me, home was defined by the people who loved me and the imprint they left on the world—through gardening, cooking, music, and most profoundly, through stories.
My mother often said that stories were how we kept in touch with home. They painted vivid pictures of our French family; of people and places that I knew best through her narratives. Though people and places could vanish, stories had the power to bring them back again and again.
As I grew older and uncovered the magic of books, I realized that home could be as fantastical as Narnia, mystical like Gormenghast, or as whimsical as AA Milne’s Hundred Acre Wood. A bookish child through and through, I found my true sanctuary in libraries, where I had the freedom to explore other worlds and slip into different lives. There, I wasn’t just myself; I could be whoever I desired.
My adventure with the Barnsley library began on my seventh birthday. Housed in a rather austere municipal building, the library was an intimidating maze of dark-panelled rooms and twisting staircases: marble at first, then stone, and finally simple, unvarnished wood. A lone librarian guarded this cathedral of books. When I first gazed in awe at the towering bookshelves and dim, inviting passages, she pointed me to a single shelf of children’s books near the entrance. This was where I was allowed—under her watchful eye—to read until I was old enough to explore the rest of the library.
Devouring all the books on that shelf took me just three months. Every Saturday, as my parents went to the market, I would plant myself in the library, reading voraciously and yearning to delve into the forbidden sections. Eventually, the librarian, noting my eagerness, bent the rules slightly. She permitted me to check out one adult book a month, provided it met her approval. Thus began my Saturday mornings filled with speed-reading books I knew wouldn’t pass her muster, finally selecting one to take home that might.
As time went on, the librarian’s suspicion that I was up to no good waned. I became a familiar sight, tucked among the shelves, exploring seemingly deserted aisles. The library was my secret realm, and I had a favored spot at the back of the mythology and folklore section—filled with my favorite books, never visited by others. Even the previously stern librarian showed signs of softening; one day, she placed a beanbag in my little nook, letting me read comfortably off the floor. I had found my place. There, I plunged into works from HA Guerber to Robert Graves—much of it challenging but all of it delightful and unsupervised.
One snowy Saturday in December, my parents couldn’t pick me up from the library. With their car stuck in the drifts and no way to contact the library, I, a mere nine years old, waited. Home was an hour’s walk away, but lunchtime came, and the librarian kindly brought me a sandwich and asked me to hold tight. As evening fell, the snow intensified outside, and the lights flickered. It seemed clear that I was to spend the night there, in the library. The thought thrilled me, and I crafted a cozy nook with books and the beanbag. Before long, however, a policeman arrived, sent to gather me after my parents, still stranded, reached out to the authorities. I tried to explain to him that I was perfectly at home, but he didn’t grasp my sentiment.
Not long after, that beloved library closed its doors, making way for a newer, more practical edifice in the town’s center. Despite its greater size and functionality, my heart will always linger among those dusty shelves of the original library, where I discovered my haven, my fictional escapes, and a community of kindred spirits.
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