The first time I lit a wood burner, I was living in a shed at the bottom of a boat builder’s garden. It was draughty and small and perfect, the fire more of a necessity considering the gaps between the walls and the distinct lack of heating. I had never chopped a piece of wood before, and over the two years I lived there, I honed my axe-wielding skills (although I was using a very small hatchet).
I wasn’t very good at lighting fires at first. I couldn’t understand that you needed to both let it breathe and keep it tight. I hadn’t been taught the tent technique, nor did I know that kindling was preferable to newspaper. But eventually when I did get one going, I remember feeling an enormous sense of pride. I liked the charcoal black marks on the top of my hands. I liked waking up to the smell of wood fire. I love lighting it an hour before bed and seeing the embers die out in the dark just before I closed my eyes.
Having just moved into a 1940s house in Penzance, which I bought solely on the wooden floors and the two fireplaces in the kitchen and living room, I was eager to get the fires lit. Steve, my chimney sweep, came by to inspect the flumes. I stood over him anxiously as he fed a camera through and spent an hour cleaning the soot. I didn’t even know if they would work. The previous owners hadn’t used them, so it wasn’t guaranteed that they’d be up to code. Steve, legend that he is, got them working.
Since the days have gotten shorter, the fire has been my constant companion. On Wednesdays, when I typically work from home and have a slower morning, it’s lit whilst the coffee is brewing and orange juice hued egg yolks are take shape in cast iron pans. On Sunday afternoons, after a long walk with various friends and dogs, I strike the match and the fire accompanies me whilst I make dinner: brothy beans simmering on the hob, a chicken roasting in the oven, five sauces invariably being made in blenders, bowls and deli containers, even though it’s just me sitting at the table.
Sometimes at night I sit alone in the kitchen, all the lights off but one, watching the flames flicker. I did this last night, Bruce Springsteen’s ‘I’m On Fire’ playing tenderly in the background. And even though fires have been used as a way of gathering communities for years, I like to think of it as something just for myself. Something to stoke; something to tend to; something to keep me warm.
Doesn’t get better than that.
