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For the past two decades I have been drawn to the sleep Somerset market town of Glastonbury.

This lure has nothing to do with the celebrated music festival (which actually takes place seven or eight miles away on a farm near the village of Pilton, but just happens to take its name from the closest town), but there is an ingrained history about the place that I love.

It’s a Bohemian place, but that only adds to the draw of the town – in Glastonbury you can be who you want to be, wear what you want to wear, follow what beliefs you want to follow and nobody bats an eyelid.

I moved to Somerset from West Sussex, just along the coast from Brighton. This is a city that badges itself as welcoming and warm, open and kooky, but, while I like the coastal resort, I have always found that Brighton tries to be Bohemian, while Glastonbury just is.

The Avalon town has a spirituality about it that supersedes the mythical visit of Joseph of Arimathea (the uncle of Jesus) a few thousand years ago. There is an undefinable connection to something about the place, something I’ve never been able to put my finger on, but which I have felt, certainly over the last ten years or so.

Driving to Glastonbury from Sussex, when I get my first glimpse of the Tor from the outskirts of Shepton Mallet, my shoulders have relaxed and I have felt like I a coming home.

Not everybody feel it, I know, and, while we get that sense of home from somewhere in the world, I appreciate that Glastonbury is not going to be it for everybody. But for me, that love, that peace, that security is what drew me to make the move down here last month.

All I would encourage you to do is to find that place, find your space, find your home and connect with it as often as you can, in any way that you can.