When my sister and her family renovated their home, a kind absent neighbour a hundred metres or so away offered an empty place to stay through the worst of the refit. Left behind, though, was my sister’s noble cat, with a plan in place to return daily, topping up bowls and delivering encouraging pats as they navigated the steady stream of tradies together.

But then a funny thing happened. The cat, having got wind of its family relocation, promptly upped its own four little leg-sticks and wandered down the street, crossing the road, moving into this temporary abode with them.

The cat’s home, as it turned out, wasn’t anchored by location, but by the company of the oddball bunch of humans who slung jellymeat and jowl rubs in its general direction.

I’ve been thinking about that cat a lot over these last three years while living out of not much more than a suitcase between Auckland, Boston, Spain, London and now Sydney with our small family unit of three.

What is it exactly that makes a place a home?

What ties you to an area where all the sensory touchstones of familiarity seep just a little deeper under your skin, triggering that strong emotional response? A feeling you get from the moment the plane wheels touch down or the suburb is reached. Perhaps ignited when nostrils are........

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