Almost three years ago, I left London because it had become an overwhelming place to live. It was too fast, too expensive. It was too relentless. I’d begin my days rammed on to the Tube with coughing, spluttering, cantankerous and overstretched people en route to some office or other and think “this just cannot not be it”. A good life couldn’t possibly look like this – living in a place where it felt as though everything was happening all the time, and you were too tired or underpaid to engage in most of it. A good life cannot leave you feeling worn so thin, as though a moment of stillness would be a crime or an impossibility. My focus was always being shoved on its own momentum toward the next thing. Next week, next quarter, next year. Any time but now.
I decided to leave. I moved to Australia, and it was the right decision. For an Irish person, Australia is enshrined in culture as a sort of inherited promise. It represents the good life, and for good reason. What I found there was that the country does largely honour the promise – sun, space, ease, affordability relative to other countries. It places different expectations on you and offers a different pace of living. The primary thing you notice when you live in Australia is that everyday life just offers less resistance.
