Author Matthew Heneghan

There’s a certain poetry in leaving behind the neon chaos of the city for the gentle rhythms of a small town. The frenetic pulse of metropolitan life, with its relentless pace and ceaseless noise fades into a distant static, replaced by a soothing quiet that envelopes you like a favorite fleece blanket. It’s in this quiet that you begin to hear the things you’ve been too busy to notice — the rustle of leaves in the wind, the distant call of a bird, the soft murmur of life moving at a slower, more deliberate pace. The orchestral sounds of small-town life, the soundtrack of calmness.

In the city, everything is immediate, urgent. You’re constantly running, chasing, grasping at moments that slip through your fingers like the granules of sand. It’s exhilarating, sure! But it’s also exhausting. There’s always another party, another meeting, another deadline, another place to be. You live for the rush, but it wears you down, depletes your inner core. And then, one day, you find yourself in a place where time seems to stretch out endlessly and effortless, where the urgency of city life gives way to a languid tranquility. You feel the breeze of the earth and not the whirl of a passing bus or delivery truck.

Here, in this small town, the days unfold gently. There’s no rush, no pressure, other than the kind we put on ourselves. You wake up to the sound of birdsong instead of blaring sirens and congealed vocals of people yelling at each other. You take your morning coffee on the porch, watching the world wake up slowly, savoring each sip. The people here, they know your name, they look you in the eye when they speak, they actually listen when you do too. There’s a sense of community, a warmth that’s often missing in the impersonal sprawl of the city. Family exists here, and not for some fancy dinner price plastered on some window in some storefront.

The solitude here isn’t lonely; it’s liberating. It’s a chance to reconnect with yourself, to remember who you are without the constant noise and distraction. You find solace in the simplicity of it all. A walk in the woods, the whisper of the wind through the trees, the soft glow of the sunset resting against the expanse of an open sky — these moments become your medicine, healing the wounds inflicted by the relentless pace of urban life and expectation. I’m not bashing cities, I love them. They call to me like a seductive muse that soon becomes more trouble than reward.

In the embrace of a small-town you start to appreciate the little things, the quiet moments. A conversation with a neighbour, a home-cooked meal, the stars shining brightly in the clear black sky. It’s a slower, more deliberate way of living, and it gives you space to breathe, to think, to feel. The small town becomes a sanctuary, a place where you can strip away the pretenses and just be. You are no longer some faceless stranger passing along on a litter stained sidewalk, you matter. People care when they see you. They smile and say “hello.”

It’s a revelation, really, to find joy in the mundane, to find serenity in the reticence. You begin to realize that the city, for all its excitement and allure, can never offer the kind of deep, abiding contentment that you find here among the listless pines. It’s a different kind of adventure, one that takes you inward, to the places you’ve neglected in your pursuit of the next big thing.

So here I am, a city boy who’s found a new rhythm, a new way of being. It’s not what I expected, but it’s exactly what I needed. The small-town life, with its simplicity and its quiet, has become my refuge, my retreat. It’s taught me that sometimes, the best thing you can do is slow down, take a deep breath, open your eyes and let them roll along the blades of grass that fill the endless fields. Take solace in the fact that here in this place, this quaint little spot in the valley, you matter and you bring value. You’re not a body in some winding line, you’re not just a number, you’re an integral member of a place that stands the test of time.

And that’s the beauty of it; life doesn’t always have to be a mad dash to the finish line. Sometimes, it’s about savoring the journey, finding joy in the moments in between. Life isn’t about the number of years you have, it’s about the amount of life in those years. And in this small town, I’ve found that joy, that contentedness, that piece of me that was hidden away behind the clutter of perceived responsibility and task. It’s a different kind of magic out here, but it’s magic nonetheless. In a small town you feel like you can touch the sky while laying on the cool grass. You can paint with clouds and lose all your worries at the top of mountains, because when you look down, there it is — home. Falkland. Poetry indeed.