Just two weeks ago I moved permanently from the city to the bush and now live in a little cottage in a small country town in NSW.
Seeing as I now work from home, and seeing as it is the middle of winter and it’s frigging freezing (well, icey mornings giving way to bewdiful sunny days), I’ve set my office up in the ample kitchen wherein also resides an old one-fire stove.
This old girl has seen better days: her enamel is chipped and smoke-stained, her woodbox is warped and I doubt the firebricks are all that intact. The top of the stove has a decided dip towards the middle, and the flue regularly drops charcoal crumbs onto the cream-coloured enamelled rack at the back. She smokes like an old codger with emphysema when I try to light her in the mornings, and fills up her ashtray as quickly.
But for all of that, she keeps a beautiful fire that heats the whole house. Alas, she burns wood like it is going out of fashion and every half-hour I have to bung another redgum log into her maws…which is frustratingly small and never quite big enough for my chopped wood. Luckily I have a never-ending supply of firewood available, otherwise I think this old sheila might end up being more trouble than she is worth…
Anyway, it’s 2c outside, and my little daggy house is as warm as toast. There’s a pot of soup bubbling away on the top of me’ stove, and it’s sending delicious aromas right through the house as well. Alas, she’s not all that good at being a ‘slow combustion’ rig, so I’ll be out in the morning, in me’ jammies and frost-bitten fingers trying to light the old bird to warm the house up again for the day.
And I love every minute of it. 