Mal Du Pays

Nestled deep into the countryside in central France, hidden amongst green treetops, steep hills, surrounded by little streams and rivers, there stands the ruin of an old castle. Seven turrets race towards the sky, intricately built towers, still standing incredibly tall, perched on a cliff. Once upon a time, a flag would have flown from those towers: a foot-and-beakless blackbird on yellow. An emblem, a symbol, of a family. The name of that family? Merle. 

I have a long history, and quite the life. I’ve written about it often, and spoken about it even more. And while I have no connection to the rest of the Merl family anymore (save my brother, whom I speak to very sporadically), there has always been something in the name. 

So when I recently re-evaluated my life and the choices that led me to where I was (in a manor house just outside Dublin, strolling through a beautifully kept garden, chatting to the gardener), there was a call. Not of the “real” kind, more a call of the soul, really. And the call was to come home. 

I’ve been travelling. I’ve moved 11 times since 2022, and continue to not stay in a place for more than a few weeks. I love this lifestyle. It keeps me on my toes, it keeps me creative, and I do not fall into a routine. But I’ve always known that this is not a lifestyle I can - or want! - to continue for ever. 

However, Dublin is Dublin, and the housing crisis here is so severe that there is no real possibility for me to settle down here without significantly sacrificing my quality of life, the choices I make, or my freedom. I do not subscribe to the hustle culture, and affording a place in one of the most expensive cities in the world is not really something I want to prioritise. 

So that was the thought that was ruminating in me as I wandered through this lavish garden, and returned to the old east wing of the house to bring some potatoes to the kitchen for the dinner. 

And the thought of going home came up again. I didn’t know where that “home” was. I’ve lived in a lot of places, and nothing has ever felt like home, really. So where was I going to go? 

Fernweh and Wanderlust have always been much, much more prominent than any Mal Du Pays. Chiefly because I don’t really have a home country. I’m not Indian, but I was born there. I am Austrian, but I don’t live there. I live in Ireland, but I’m not Irish. 

Where does one go when one wants to go home, and there is no such thing as that? If you emigrate, you then have 2 home countries. I could feasibly say that I have several home countries. I don’t really know if I can or want to live in any of them. 

But there is a hidden valley in central France. Seven Towers overlook a small village, and in the tourist information centre there are brochures that show an old crest… a blackbird on yellow. And the name? Mine. 

I shall go there. Because maybe, after all these years… I have finally found my way home.