A great fire within

And a light behind the eyes.

Hi, just popping up here with a quick hello and happy new year. More from me at the end, but in the meantime, please enjoy this week’s post.

Like that was his whole thing. My wife and I sat opposite him and his partner and we spent the better part of an hour talking about which ones he’s eaten and others that he wants to try. It was one of the most absorbing conversations I’ve had in recent memory, and I couldn’t tell you a single thing I remember about the fruits themselves. I distinctly remember him though. And the feeling of the conversation.

I’m convinced it’s less the topic, and more the way someone talks about it. Fruit Guy was low key, understated, but his eyes lit up when he talked about fruit. In that way, he was magnetic.

When people talk about things that light them up, it’s easy to get pulled into their orbit. If you’re close enough, it’s like a transference of energy.

Currently I’m rereading a book called The Great Work of Your Life, and there’s a story the author shares about Jane Goodall as a child. Young Jane becomes fascinated by where eggs come from, and so one day she hides in the family’s chicken coop to watch the process unfold (spoiler: it’s a chicken’s butthole). When the parents finally find her, despite being sick with worry, they don’t scold her. Jane’s Mum notices her daughter’s sparkling eyes as she recounts what she saw and recognises the significance of the moment. This is something special to be nurtured in her child, and so she does. And we all know what kind of life Jane Goodall went on to live.

I’m reminded of all this after an experience I had recently. A few months back, KB and I stayed out the back of an old theatre in a small country town. It was a stopgap between house sits and we’d discovered it on a recommendation from someone in the area. The theatre was being restored by a couple and when we arrived, we were offered an impromptu tour by the husband. An excitable man who I’d have guessed to be in his late fifties/early sixties, though he was clearly inhabited by the spirit of a six year old, eager to show his parents around his classroom.

He arrived with a literal bang, bursting some plastic packaging, the kind you’d find in a parcel, as he entered the auditorium. Very much pleased with his entrance. Theatrical, well-timed.

I’ll call the husband Bob, and wife Wendy.

Wendy: ‘Oh God! Don’t burst those. You don’t know where that air has come from’

Bob: ‘Well, the package was from China. So it’s Chinese air’. Turning to us, grinning now.

I suggest this could be an exotic feature of the theatre, but my comment wafts away into the ether without reaction, along with the Chinese air, as Wendy handballs us off to Bob and he escorts us through to the foyer. Here is where the tour starts. On the wall is a board covered in historical photos of the theatre in various states of restoration, and he runs through an eye-watering 25 year timeline detailing the painstaking, achingly slow work: removing the floor, cleaning each individual floorboard and putting it back. Putting a roof in. Rebuilding the stage, the auditorium. Rebuilding everything essentially. And the unfathomable amount of money spent. ‘The curtains alone were 80k’ he says.

He tells us all this as if for the first time. After 25 years on the clock, all that work, time and money and the theatre still unfinished; it hasn’t affected his energy. He’s buzzing.

He runs us through the shows next. The theatre mostly features cover bands performing greatest hits. One each month. Fleetwood Mac, Creedence, a guy called Vince the Prince spinning soul music. Even a Taylor Swift one, which he agreed to put on reluctantly, threatening the younger locals that they better turn up for it.

In the auditorium now he tells us how he makes paella for the patrons, and shows us photos on his phone. And that outside there is someone playing the piano before the show. There is tea, coffee, and three different types of lemonade. Plus alcohol of course, but ‘we don’t serve drunk and unruly people’ he says, suddenly adopting a serious tone. ‘We’re very strict on that kind of thing’. He’s looking at me squarely in the eyes. I think back to the Chinese air joke from earlier, wondering if he’s marked me down as a clown. One for the booze, not the lemonades. Also, three different types of lemonade??

I stir him up about his pointed remarks, and he laughs and brings us outside, finishing the tour here with a final flourish. ‘This is the bell I ring, I’ll show you’. He reaches up and clangs the bell rigorously despite us standing roughly a metre away, then bellows with full force: ‘LADIES AND GENTLEMAN, THE SHOW IS STARTING!’

It’s a strong finish to match the start. A roughly hour-long blistering performance for a mere two people. One can only wonder how many times he’s done it this week.

Earlier on I’d asked him how he has the patience for this kind of a long term project and he responded sombrely, explaining how lucky he is to have his wife. How she’s stuck with him through all this, and what they’ve both had to endure.

What I am angling for is why though, what would possess someone to do something like this, and so I press him further. He tells me how he’d been driving along the main street one day and spotted his cousin walking along, and so he pulled over to say hi. It just so happened they were positioned right in front of the theatre. And while most people might pause to comment on the old derelict building they were standing in front of and be done with it, Bob decided he might like to buy it.

He ends on this as if this might be a normal reaction, so I forge on. But why a theatre? Does he have a background in theatre? There are easier ways to make paella for people, and to luxuriate in up to three different types of lemonade. And to this he tells us about his primary school teacher that encouraged a love of the arts. That all the boys got taught sewing and cooking. They enjoyed music, that sort of thing.

This, I realise, is as good an answer as I’m getting.

I’d been expecting something more than this. A well-rehearsed origin story that drew a clear line to how he got here. If I’m honest though, perhaps the main reason why I found Bob so fascinating is because of how different we are. His conviction in an idea reveals to me the recurring lack of it in myself. As someone who has trouble committing to a TV series, and gets a cold sweat when wielding a permanent marker, deciding to splurge on a theatre is incomprehensible to me.

When you talk to Bob though, the answer is clear as day. This is where he is meant to be. You could say he fluked his way into this life based on an almighty bet, but Bob might just be someone who trusts his instincts. To him, buying a theatre was obvious.

Afterwards, KB points out that she’d noticed how much I’d lit up chatting to Bob about all this stuff. That I’d looked like a kid in a candy exotic fruit store. Perhaps this is something worth investigating in myself.

Vincent Van Gogh - not to be confused with Vince the Prince - once wrote this line in a letter to his brother: ‘A great fire burns within me, but no one stops to warm themselves at it, and passers-by only see a wisp of smoke’.

The sentiment he seems to be expressing in this is a frustration at his own inner passion being unseen, and unrecognised by others. That the outside doesn’t match the inside, and the loneliness that comes with that.

The reason I like the quote though is because of the visual metaphor Van Gogh conjures up. That of a great fire within us, that warms others and even ourselves. Chimneys billowing out smoke above. Sometimes we’re lucky enough to stumble onto it by accident, other times we need the help of others to stoke the flames.

I hope the year ahead looks like that for all of us. Whether it be a hobby, project, newfound obsession or something else. That we might watch closely not just ourselves, but others too, for a wisp of smoke. A sense of a roaring fire below, or for eyes sparkling like embers, fizzing like a freshly poured lemonade.

P.S. Speaking of Van Gogh, I spotted this a little while back out on the road. And in testament to the aforementioned quote, I did in fact spot a wisp of smoke coming out of the exhaust. Here’s hoping there wasn’t ‘a great fire within’ though.

There we are. How are you by the way? Like a dog with its head out the window of a van, my eyes are watering lately from the speed at which 2026 seems to be rolling in. January often feels like a write-off to me in that way. I will have only just found my feet, and then suddenly February’s right around the corner. And of course you just know that March is hot on its heels. And don’t get me started on April.

Anyway, thanks for being here again in 2026. I’m looking forward to sharing more with you across the year. Definitely drop me a note in the comments and say hi. And give this post a like (click the heart icon) if you enjoyed it.

That’s it. Take care and have a great week.