I love it when it rains. The rain brings back memories of my childhood, when we lived in our old house made with iron sheets and wood—la caze tolle, as we called it. I feel that my childhood was the best part of my life. At least I could curl up and sleep better than I do now. I am not ashamed of admitting that I grew up in poverty. Unlike those who have moved from rags to riches and wish to amputate their childhood days from their lives as if that period were a diseased part of the body which must be cut off and thrown away, I feel no need for such erasure. I feel no sympathy for them.

My childhood is a source of inspiration for me, a reservoir of memories I will cherish until the day I meet my maker. I am not saying I am a rich man now, but I can afford the material comforts I wish for. My childhood, though spent in poverty, had no adverse effect on my happiness. It is said that children live in happy ignorance of the harsh realities of life. I do not, however, entirely agree with that opinion, because I was well aware of my parents' financial constraints. I knew we had little. I also knew it did not matter.

My parents, to whom I owe everything I have today, never complained. They never made us carry the burden of their poverty. We always had food. Our basic necessities were, for us, top of the range. We had simple food, home-grown, plucked from my father's garden, which tasted delicious. I still remember how it tasted: full of flavour, delicious, humble. And we were healthy children.

I remember the hot cow's milk we used to have before going to bed every night. It was delicious and exactly what we needed for a good night's sleep and young, strong bones. That humble food kept our stomachs full. We had a roof over our heads, under which we slept peacefully. Our house at that time did not lack anything in material comfort. We just had what we used in everyday life. Nothing expensive or complicated or merely for fancy. We had what we needed to live a good life.

It was a desireless living where only happiness mattered. And we did not need a king's palace in order to be a happy family. There were holes in the roof, and it was not just rainwater that came through them—happiness entered our home through every possible opening. Winter was special because you could look forward to a good night's sleep. It was cold, and the warmth of the cosy bed was appealing. Summer was beautiful and airy. The sea breeze made sure to keep our house cool.

We are now grown up, and we have to face the pressure and stress of the adult world. But whenever I can afford it, I escape into my childhood days. I also compare life then and now, and all I can say is this: we have made life complicated. I only wish we could live those days again. For once more, before I die, I would love to see happy and humble people. But gone are those days when genuine humanity existed, far from this modern world which is far too complicated to live in.

The iron-sheet house of my childhood had no insulation, no climate control, no modern conveniences. Rain sounded like drumming on the roof. Wind whistled through gaps in the walls. In winter we piled blankets. In summer we opened every window and door. We adapted. We made do. And in that adaptation, in that making do, there was something we have since misplaced: the understanding that happiness does not require perfection.

My parents worked hard. They worried, no doubt, about money, about our future, about whether they were providing enough. But they never transmitted that worry to us as shame. Poverty was a circumstance, not a judgement. We were poor, yes. We were also loved, fed, sheltered, and fundamentally secure in ways that wealth cannot guarantee. There is a difference between having little and lacking what matters.

I watch people now, people with far more than we ever had, and I see them perpetually dissatisfied. The house is never quite right. The car needs upgrading. The holiday was good but not perfect. The job pays well but demands too much. There is always something missing, always something more required before happiness can be permitted. This is not prosperity. This is a different kind of poverty—one of spirit, of perspective, of the capacity to appreciate what is already present.

The vegetables from my father's garden were not organic because we could afford the premium; they were organic because that was simply how vegetables grew. The milk was not artisanal; it was milk, fresh and warm, from a cow my father knew by name. The clothes were not minimalist by design philosophy; they were few because few were all we had. We lived simply not because we had read books about simple living, but because complexity was a luxury we could not afford. And in that enforced simplicity, we discovered something that intentional simplicity often misses: it was not a lifestyle choice. It was just life.

When it rains now, I sit by the window and listen. The sound is different on modern roofing, muted, polite, easy to ignore. It does not drum. It does not announce itself. It does not wake you in the night with the sensation that the sky is speaking directly to your home. I miss that. I miss waking to rain and knowing it immediately, not because an app notified me but because I could hear it, feel it, sense its presence as a tangible thing rather than meteorological data.

I do not romanticise poverty. I am glad my children will not grow up as I did. I am glad they have warm houses and full plates and choices I never had. But I also hope they understand, somehow, that having more does not make you more. That comfort is different from contentment. That a house with holes in the roof can still be a home filled with happiness, and a palace can still be a place of misery.

We have made life complicated. We have added layers of necessity that previous generations would not recognise. We have convinced ourselves that we need things we do not need, that happiness requires conditions it does not require, that simplicity is something to be chosen rather than something to be lived. And in doing so, we have made happiness harder to find, not easier.

When it rains, I remember. I remember a time when rain was not an inconvenience to be avoided but a presence to be acknowledged. I remember a time when food tasted like food because it came from soil we knew. I remember a time when family was not an obligation scheduled into a busy life but the centre around which life organised itself. I remember, and in remembering, I understand what we have lost in the gaining.

Perhaps that is why I write this. Not to convince anyone to return to iron-sheet houses or give up modern comforts. Not to claim that poverty is noble or that struggle builds character. But to suggest, gently, that we might reconsider what we think we need. That we might notice what we have rather than fixating on what we lack. That we might permit ourselves, occasionally, to be content.

My parents gave me more than material things, though they gave those too as best they could. They gave me a childhood where happiness was possible without wealth, where dignity was not dependent on possession, where love was not conditional on achievement. They gave me memories that return with the rain.

And so I will keep remembering. I will keep returning, in memory, to that iron-sheet house with holes in the roof. Not because I want to go back, but because I do not want to forget what mattered then and what still matters now, beneath all the complications we have added.

When it rains, I remember. And I am grateful.