Four Generations, One Roof

Day one hundred and twenty-four, Georgia. A farm in the mountains of the Machakhela National Park, near the Black Sea. Batumi, the nearest town of any size, is thirty kilometres and an hour away. I am staying at the Tsiskari guest house with the Khinkiladze family.

Dural, the head of the house, is a park ranger. At dinner it is a matter of honour to raise a glass to good health and a long life. Pati, his wife, cooks. The table carries plates and bowls of several different things at once, with bread and side dishes, and everyone eats what they like the look of. Most of it was grown thirty metres away.

Four generations live under this roof: grandchildren, parents, grandparents, and the great-grandmother.

The stove roars. At night the jackals call in the valley. In the morning the sun comes up into a clear sky and warms the ground, and the bees start, and the cows say what they have to say.

This family works hard, in the fields and in the woods. So do we, in our offices and our supermarkets. There is one difference, and it is not a small one.

Up here nobody tells you how to build your house.