I am stranded. Well, not exactly, but I am currently spending my Summer in the middle of rural England. As a born-and-raised city girl, that makes me: undeniably stranded. What’s more, while reading my tarot, a friend recently pulled a card that said I’ll lead a “country life,” which led me to question everything I thought I knew. That said, when you look out the window to a vast expanse of green instead of a bustling metropolis, you find yourself adapting. Now that I’m spending most of my days in solitude with only sheep for company, I’ve come to realise some things.

“I want to know where each path goes, get lost, find the biggest stick, chase a butterfly, and weave through wildflowers”

The first thing I’ve learnt is that I have no idea what any type of tree is. I assume that every tree I’m looking at is either an oak tree (tall and green), or an apple tree (has apples on it). Yes, I’m aware that there are trees in cities, but I didn’t spend time deciphering their names growing up. Instead, my attention was drawn upwards to the lights of skyscrapers. My favourite view is a city skyline, but now when I look out my window at night I’m confronted by darkness; silhouettes of these huge, towering trees that mimic giants when my glasses are off.

In the countryside, where there aren’t any big lights and distractions, it’s easy to become absorbed by the nature surrounding you. This summer has seen me acting like a little kid again, curious about everything. I suddenly have a desire to explore: I want to know where each path goes, get lost, find the biggest stick, chase a butterfly, and weave through wildflowers. In the bustle of my city life, I’d forgotten to be curious about the simple beauty of the world around me. But now I want to know the names of trees, I really do.

The second thing I’ve noticed is how unused I am to being on my own. In my hometown I’m used to constant noise, and in Cambridge you can’t go five minutes without crossing someone else’s path. In the countryside, after some time spent navigating through stinging nettles, I turn and realise I’m completely alone. While that’s a terrifying thought, it’s also ridiculously freeing. In the city, I’m surrounded by thousands of people. I’m one person out of many, moving in a careful dance of observing and being observed. Out here in the countryside, there’s no one to watch you, and there’s no one to perform for. I can take my time, sit with myself, and ask myself things that I never get the chance to when there are others around.

“I’m a firm believer that whatever place we find ourselves in, we’ll leave it having learned something”

I’m used to stepping outside and being immediately met by someone else: a passerby walking their dog, a neighbour taking out their rubbish, or a friend on their way to get drinks. Here, when I step outside, there’s no one for a good mile or so. The sounds are different, especially for someone familiar with train tracks and non-stop chatter. The noise is one of my favourite things about the city: you’re never truly alone, and you can always hear somebody somewhere going about their day. But the countryside teaches you something about the beauty of silence. At times, the absence of noise can be isolating, but at others, the quiet washes over you, lulling you into a state of peace and contentment that’s rare in the city. Everything seems to pause out here. As a student used to darting and manoeuvring through crowds to get from one thing in my itinerary to the next, being in a place of pause has made me relax my shoulders and lean back into the holiday.

So, the main thing I’ve realised is that, while I love the city, a summer in the countryside was exactly what I needed. The places we spend our time in change us, whether that’s the buses we run after, or the country lanes we get lost in. I’m a firm believer that whatever place we find ourselves in, we’ll leave it having learnt something that made it worth the visit. Don’t worry, I’m still definitely a city person, but there’s a version of me that I didn’t know existed until I sat under an oak tree in a field and could hear nothing except for the crickets in the grass. I’m glad to know her now.