There were a lot of problems at the start, but it all came out well in the end.

[…] warehouses and dwellings of solid brick and carved stone, with doors, window-frames, and breastsummers of stout oak, replaced irregular though not unpicturesque habitations; […]

But know, these English take to liquid life / Right patly— […] The sea is their dry land, / And, as on cobbles you, they wayfare there.

For me, being futch is not about living in a single spot, in a precise middle ground wherein I can be androgynous and ambiguous […] “I'm not a femme. I can use tools.” “C'mon, it doesn't hurt that much. Butch up.” My feminist futch self finds journeying through these expectations unpleasant.