In my domestic dreams I am the proud owner of a darling little wood-burning stove. Nothing you see, makes me happier than finding myself sipping wine, late at night, in front of a crackling fire. But unfortunately I have to shuffle down the lane to seek such bliss as only my dear friends, The Routledges, are in possession of the kind of stove that makes my silly heart skip a joyful beat.
I am currently making do with a tiny little cream electric imitation, and while it might look the part, it has neither the cosy aroma of a real stove, nor invites me to indulge in the comforting ritual that is putting another log on the stove and guaranteeing the rush that is watching fire take hold to warm the cockles of our hearts.
There is something about a real fire that puts us in touch with our most primitive selves and fire gazing is a form of meditation my entire being is relaxed by. While a traditional hearth might satisfy our need to lose ourselves in the crackling flames, a wood-burning or multi-fuel (wood-pellets, coal, or peat) stove is a neater, more manageable alternative to the smoky chaos we can occasionally endure when trying to light a fire in the draftiest of chimneys.
All that and oh how they they bring an air of yesteryear both to the rooms in which they are fitted and to the routines and rituals central to our day. No longer is bringing warmth to the room a matter of flicking a switch, but a task that can be undertaken slowly and meditatively: choosing and providing comfort for our family, in the same way we give sustenance in the kitchen.
With new technology constantly improving both the efficiency of such (gorgeous) stoves as those supplied by Opulence Stoves, and dramatically reducing the carbon emissions, we can now forgo reliance upon the ever-present larger energy suppliers and still consider ourselves eco-friendly. Even in the urban, no-smoke zones across the country.
What's not to love? In my mind, owning a wood-burning stoves conjures up all manner of satisfying images from lying at the fireside snuggling in the depths of Winter, to traipsing through the countryside gathering bundles of twigs to burn on the crispest of Autumn days. Is it any wonder then that there days when I have to almost strap myself to the sofa in order to prevent myself moving lock, stock and barrel into the Routledges, and taking root right there in front of their oh so very cosy wood-burning stove?
This m'dears is what the good life is made of.