If I could place a pin on the map to mark where my story begins, it would land in the modest town of Törökszentmiklós, in Hungary’s Jász-Nagykun-Szolnokcounty. I was born there and spent the first 19 years of my life immersed in its rhythm. When my train nears the familiar landscape, a deep, inexplicable calm washes over me.
In many ways, time seems to have paused in this town. While the railway crossing where I used to wait for passing trains on my way to school has long since been modernized, the stone wall surrounding the Reformed cemetery still leans precariously, as it always has, slowly disappearing under a thick blanket of ivy. On some of the old house gates, you’ll find bicycle baskets wired on in place of mailboxes. These small, timeless details help shape the town’s lasting character.
With a population of just under 20,000, life in Törökszentmiklós is simple.People still greet one another on the street. Many prefer bicycles over cars, as distances are short and easily manageable. The town’s charm doesn’t lie in grand architecture or tourist attractions—there are no luxury hotels or famous landmarks. What it offers instead is atmosphere: houses built by hand, a deep respect for nature, and a community where connections still matter.
On Saturday mornings, the market becomes a living memory. Locals rise early to buy fresh bread from the bakery along the main street. Some step in just for a hot coffee, the perfect companion to a first cigarette. The scent of smoked ham and pickled vegetables drifts through the morning light. Wooden stalls sizzle with lángos and sausage. A line forms in front of the dairy for pre-orders. Vibrant fruits and vegetables evoke memories of summers spent in my grandparents’ garden—the source of my most treasured childhood experiences.
In that garden, I felt safe. Back then, nothing else in the world seemed more important. I can still picture it vividly: the scent of the soil, the warmth of a summer breeze, the rough texture of the cracked earth beneath my feet. I walk the path again in my mind, my gaze darting from flower to fruit, colors swirling in every direction. It was the garden at its most beautiful—an explosion of life and color that no work of art could match.
If God resides in nature, He surely lingered here. My grandfather may not have been a religious man, but he believed deeply in his garden. In shiny apples, juicy peaches, and fragrant tomatoes. He cared for them with love, and they repaid him in abundance.
My grandmother cooked every day with what the garden gave. What we couldn’t eat, we sold. A small white stool by the gate displayed the day’s offerings, prices pinned on slips of paper with straight pins. The neighbors appreciated the produce. Many older residents still sell this way today.
I remember the apple harvest like a festival. Every September, woven baskets filled with ripe fruit marked the changing season. I’d wait all summer just for that moment.
Later came the peaches—each tree watched daily for signs of ripening. My grandfather would search the branches carefully, offering the ripest finds to us. One peach, bursting with juice and sweetness, held all the flavor of life itself.
The garden continued past the fruit trees into a patchwork of vegetables: kohlrabi, savoy cabbage, cauliflower, parsley, carrots, onions, garlic—all neatly arranged. We picked green beans at dawn, while the dew still lingered. I loved those early mornings, chatting with my grandmother as the sun slowly rose.
Beyond the vegetables stood the cornfield, tall enough to get lost in. I smile, remembering how Grandma boiled fresh corn in a giant red pot for hours. The first harvest always tasted the best—maybe because we had waited a year for it.
I brush past the tall stalks in my memory, stepping out into bright sunlight again. I shield my eyes, but they fill with tears. Slowly, I walk back. I close the old garden gate behind me—and offer thanks.
As a child, I longed to grow up and see the world. And I did. But no matter where I go, my heart always leads me back here. Back to where every thought and feeling is true. Back to a place where love and nature are still the essence of life.
This is what Törökszentmiklós gave me—and continues to give me. And the greatest joy of all? Knowing that when I see that crumbling wall, those wired-up baskets, and the garden in bloom, it’s not just my heart that stirs—but my family’s alongside mine.
Photos: Anett Gyenge-Rusz
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