by Laura Bernardeschi Nelson
When I lived in a flat, privacy was something I never thought much about. My neighbours were only above or below me, and our paths rarely crossed. There was silence, space, and most importantly, a feeling of freedom behind my own front door.
But since moving to a semi-detached house here in the UK—specifically in the North East—things have changed. I now feel surrounded. Neighbours to the left, to the right, behind and in front. The gardens are so small and crammed together it feels more like a holiday camp than a place to rest. The sense of living in a tourist village, where everyone watches everyone, is overwhelming.
The Geordies, while famously friendly, can also be too present. They’re loud, they love to gossip, and it’s hard to keep them outside your space—both literally and figuratively. I’ve made the conscious decision to avoid any kind of communication with the neighbours of the house. It’s not rudeness, it’s self-preservation. I don’t want to be part of the gossip machine, or to be constantly interrupted by casual chats over the fence.
My hedge has become my closest ally. When we bought the house, the hedge had been damaged—cut brutally on their side, leaving mine bare and sad-looking. It seemed to be dying. But I couldn’t let it go. I watered it, nurtured it, gave it space and care. A year later, it’s stronger than ever, and finally starting to grow into the living wall I hoped it would be. It’s reclaiming its role as a barrier—protecting me from the constant curiosity of next door.
And while I tend my hedge with love, I can’t help but notice how my neighbours treat their own gardens. They’ve filled their patios with Italian trees—cypress, olive, lemon—all stuffed into pots far too small, left dry under the northern sun. These are trees that need care, space, and grounding. Just like people, really. Instead, they become decorations. A shallow nod to Mediterranean beauty, reduced to neglected ornaments. It feels like a metaphor for something deeper: a kind of hypocrisy in admiring another culture while ignoring what it truly needs to thrive.
Sometimes I fantasize about living in an attic apartment—right on the top of a building, with only the sky and the seagulls for company. A place where no voices drift through thin fences, no footsteps echo down shared driveways. A quiet space where solitude isn’t something you have to fight for, but something built into the architecture of your life.
Until then, I have my hedge. And maybe that’s enough—for now.
Laura Bernardeschi Nelson artworld and travels 