Small Rules, Better Meals

Running a homestay in the hills, I often feel like an observer of human nature, with a front row seat and a kettle always on the boil. Guests arrive here with bright expectations, city habits, sometimes rather hurried, but usually with the comforting belief that holidays require no adjustment whatsoever. The hills, however, have their own gentle way of persuading people otherwise, and I find myself, quite naturally, playing a small part in that transition.

One of the first things I encourage is that everyone eats together. It sounds simple enough, but you would be surprised how often a group on holiday behaves like distant relatives at a railway station, each operating on their own timetable. I make my case with quiet insistence. Breakfast, especially, is best shared. The morning breeze with birds chirping around, and a table with warm food and familiar faces seems to belong perfectly in that moment. People plan for the day, and even sweetly argue as to who will take a bath first or who will skip it altogether. It is in these small, shared meals and moments that people begin to truly spend time with one another.

Food preferences, of course, arrive along with the guests, each as particular as its owner. I respect them, as one must. Our food is simple, fresh, and based on what grows around us. It does not always resemble what one might find in a restaurant menu, and that, I feel, is part of its charm. Most guests take to it kindly, even with a hint of curiosity. But in nearly every other group, there is one person whose tastes stand slightly apart, like a lone pine on a hillside. I do my best to accommodate, though I admit that managing a table of differing expectations can feel, at times, like conducting a slightly unpredictable orchestra.

There is, as some guests discover with mild surprise, no room service. This is a home, and meals are meant to be shared, not delivered like parcels. We gather in one place, whether it is under a tree, beneath a sky scattered with clouds, or in the warmth of the greenhouse. At first, it may feel unfamiliar to those accustomed to picking up a phone and ordering a meal, but soon enough, they begin to enjoy it. There is something reassuring about returning to the same table, the same chairs, the same gentle routine. Interestingly, I have seen people somehow fix their places too and tend to sit where they sat at the earlier meal.

Evenings bring their own set of negotiations to be done. Guests from the cities often prefer to dine late, while here in the hills, we eat early. It leaves the night open for small, pleasant things. Conversations with family and friends that drift without purpose, a book that waits patiently by the bedside, the distant sound of the wind moving through trees interrupted by the sound of one of our resident owls. A late dinner, though understandable, tends to unsettle this balance, stretching the day beyond its natural end. It is also quite taxing on me and my team. An early meal, on the other hand, sits lightly, and the body seems to rest more easily when given time before sleep.

I also keep one small rule, which I hold on to rather firmly. No screens at the table. No phones, no tablets, no glowing distractions. Meals are for conversation, for listening, for being mindful of the food itself, and for the simple act of being present. Children, too, find their place in these moments, and it is always a pleasure to see families rediscover the ease of talking to one another without interruption. Quietening a child with a screen may be a convenient trick at their homes, but it is a practice that finds no favour here, and certainly not in my presence.

In the end, I do not think of these as rules so much as quiet suggestions. The hills have a way of slowing things down, of reminding one of simpler things. When people begin to fall into this rhythm, even for a few days, something changes. Meals become more than just food, and time spent together feels fuller, calmer, and more complete. This is how slow living feels like.

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