January 12, 2

They say that history doesn’t repeat itself, but it often rhymes.

On Sunday morning, at 5:30 AM, the world felt full of momentum. The storm had passed, the cottage was intact save for a few weary daffodils, and my mind was already racing ahead. I sat in the quiet of the kitchen, feeding the cats and mapping out the morning in my studio—envisioning the wooden automata and quirky choughs I would craft for the new season at the St Just market.

I made the tea, began the ascent up the stairs to wake Mary, and then, in the span of twenty seconds, the world simply… stopped.

The lights vanished. The radio fell silent. While the rest of the terrace remained bathed in the glow of the 21st century, our small section of the line—perhaps a single, tired fuse on a storm-battered pole—gave up the ghost.

36 Hours of Stillness

Now, thirty-six hours later, we are still waiting. But a strange thing has happened. As the Monday evening sun dipped below the Pendeen cliffs, the anxiety I expected to feel never arrived.

Instead, we are sitting in a room lit by fifteen flickering candles. The Rayburn, our iron heartbeat, is keeping the cottage at a steady, bone-deep warmth. In the bottom oven, a casserole has been slow-cooking all day, filling the house with a scent that feels like safety.

There is no blue light from a television. There is no scrolling through a thousand channels of nothing. There is only the low, melodic hum of Classic FM from a battery-powered radio and the soft “thrum” of the Rayburn.

A Bridge to the Past

In this golden, candlelight gloom, I found myself transported.

I was suddenly back in the early 70s. I remembered the planned power cuts of my youth—the industrial action that plunged the UK into darkness. I saw my mother and father in the kitchen, the three of us huddled around the heat of our own Rayburn.

Back then, the transistor radio was our only window to the outside world. I remember the specific peace of those nights; the way the shadows danced on the walls and the way the world felt smaller, tighter, and infinitely more secure. I didn’t have the words for it as a teenager, but I was at peace.

It is a profound realization: fifty-six years have passed, yet the ingredients for “contentment” haven’t changed. A warm stove, a soft light, a familiar voice on the radio, and the people you love.

The Modern Luxury of “Nothing”

We live in an age that demands our constant attention. We are told we need to be “connected” to be happy. Yet, here I am, “disconnected” from the grid and the internet, and my anxiety is at an all-time low.

The storm took our power, but it gave me back a memory. It reminded me that we don’t need a million channels to be entertained; we just need to find our center. Tonight, the automata can wait. The choughs will be carved another day. For now, I am happy to sit in the golden circle of the candlelight, listening to the radio, and traveling back to that kitchen in 1970.

We are still here. We are still warm. And for once, the silence is exactly what I needed.

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I’d love to hear from you—does a certain sound, a smell, or even a sudden silence ever transport you back to a different time? Share your memories in the comments below; let’s keep the candles burning a little longer.