‘Humans need oreezons.’ So said one of my brother-in-law’s cousins. Or perhaps it was a brother. I can’t now remember; it was a long time ago. We’re sitting on the beach at Post Lafayette in Mauritius, where Adrian’s sister, Debby and her husband, Jean-Paul, have their beach bungalow. The children are busy on the shore, searching for crabs, drawing in the sand and practicing cartwheels. But we’re looking past the children, across the water to that distant place where the sea meets the sky, so full of promise, possibilities and mystery, my favourite of all horizons. 

Although I’ve forgotten who said them, the truth of those words has struck me both negatively and positively at various points in my life. Horizons are not just entities that are ‘out there’ beyond the self, they also get inside one’s head, expand the mind and lift the soul. Deprived for too long of their gaze-lengthening, imagination-stimulating possibilities and the soul begins to curl in on itself and wither. There’s a deep connection between the mind and the space the mind inhabits. Humans do indeed need horizons. 

And yet, I’m prepared to believe that this doesn’t apply to everyone. After all, people with the means to live anywhere, still choose to live in valleys, enclosed by walls or surrounded by woods. I can only speak for myself and, of course, those many people I’ve talked to over my life time, like that relative of Jean-Paul’s who sat by me on the beach as we stared across the Indian Ocean to its intersection with the big blue sky.

This subject has become a hot one lately. Adrian and I are moving from place to place, from flat to house to flat and this inevitably raises the question from time to time of where, when we’re done with being nomads, we might be happy. We don’t talk in specifics, or practicalities and logistics; these are discussions about feelings, about visceral experience. There’ll come a time, no doubt, when talk in pros and cons is needed. But in the meantime, it’s a luxury not having to convince oneself or others about merit, not having to make judgements or comparisons; a luxury to be able to try a place on for a while, take a twirl once or twice and check out how well the fabric fits.

There’s no question that some fit better than others. When we first came to Britain, as a couple, thirty five years ago, we were offered a cottage in Hawling, the village where Adrian’s grandfather once farmed. It was a generous offer and the cottage was pretty enough with its pale stone walls and mullioned windows, but the windows were small, the outlook confined and I knew immediately that I couldn’t live there. Since then, we’ve lived in six houses in six different settings and those in which I’ve been happiest have all had space, light and, of course, views to the distant horizon. It isn’t rocket science. 

Nor is it mere fancy. Open spaces and long distance views are essential for psychological well being. I’m convinced of that. Pick the right space to be in and the spirit lifts up and flies. Shut it in and it becomes, well . . . shut in. Maybe this doesn’t apply to everybody and maybe its a developmental thing, born of early experience. It certainly applies to me. I grew up in Australia with big skies and big seas. I need horizons.