So, our third Puglian Christmas has been and gone. We’re in the middle of our third winter – and it’s the first that we have spent unbroken by trips back to England. Since we moved into our Italian home in March 2005, we’ve averaged six or seven trips a year. The most recent of these trips, taken last September, seems a long time ago. Our first winter without a ‘break’ is testament to the pleasing fact that finally, we are beginning to feel at home here.

Finding and renovating our house took seven months, which wasn’t really in keeping with our initial expectation (ok, delusion), of ‘a few weeks’. During this time we stayed in an apartment which was really a glorified shoebox, with cooking facilities reminiscent of a child’s toy kitchen and hot water that lasted a total of eight and a half minutes at any given time. Several houses fell through but finally we struck lucky and found our current home. On the day of sale ‘potential’ was its most prominent asset – it needed some considerable work.

Yet no sooner had we moved into our brand new home, we found ourselves at Brindisi airport, on the first of many trips. Weddings, holidays, family events – there was a seemingly never-ending string of reasons for trips back to the UK.

Putting down roots in Puglia has therefore proved somewhat tricky, although I have to say I’ve enjoyed the variety. Life here in sleepy Santa Caterina is so starkly opposite to life in central London that I almost needed the English interludes to ease into so large a transition. That sounds strange given that we live in a lovely home with incredible weather and a stunning national park featuring miles of Ionian coastline five minutes down the road. But it’s never easy to adjust to a new way of life, however pleasant it might be.

We stroll by the sea, we eat at fish restaurants, we potter about in the garden and the (full-sized!) kitchen. We sip mint-infused green tea on our balcony as the sun sets. I’ve found the time and motivation to write the novel I’ve always wanted to write. I even took it upon myself to paint a picture the other day – my first since GCSE Art eleven years ago! (It wasn’t the most obvious of masterpieces, nevertheless three hours very enjoyably spent.) There’s no denying that we’ve landed on our feet.

But there are harder times too; we miss our family and friends, and English TV, and food deemed too exotic to stock at Ipercoop, like cucumbers and porridge oats. (When I considered things I might miss, I never expected Waitrose to feature so highly on the list!) We wonder if spending most of our time together, just the two of us, will threaten our relationship. And sometimes, we’re even a little (whisper it) bored.

With that little moan out of the way (I am still English don’t forget), after the last trip (two weddings) it was nice to be back. Within a day we’d settled into our routine – cooking, washing, taking a seaside stroll. Of course my first action, before even bringing the suitcases inside, was to call shrilly from the roof terrace to alert our adopted cats (much to the neighbour’s consternation) Biscuit and Gatto. Each time we have returned from our various holidays they have been found in some degree of strife – parasites, eye infections, malnutrition from our failure to find reliable people to feed them. But finally, we returned to find two healthy cats happy to see us. Finally, this is beginning to feel like home.

There are always going to be difficult times – it’s a life-altering thing to uproot and move to a foreign country with an entirely alien culture. But if it wasn’t a challenge it wouldn’t be fulfilling. I’m happy to take a pinch of homesickness with my relaxed new Mediterranean life.

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