I lived such a life on my grandparents subsistence farm in early post-communist Romania, where we only bought store made bread and nothing else for months (and even that was optional, but store made bread tasted better than homemade).

I would LOVE to go back in time to that house on a summer night, 0 light pollution, starry night, just the crickets and occasional sound of the hooves of the cows or horse against the stone pavement in their yard when they went for a drink, or the dog being happy you visit him outside when you take a piss.

Or the late evening dinner on the high porch, people across the stone-wall fence returning from the fields in their horse pulled carriages overburdened with hay. Or the strong sense of community of the people gathered at their out of the gate benches smaltalking in the evening.

Or the rain-invocation rituals that involved splashing the village virgins dressed only in leaves in their late evening procession. Or the taste of milk straight after being milked out of the cow (I don't know how I never got sick), or the taste of fresh butter, or cheese or whey cheese.

Or fetching sheep milk from the herd manager over the bouncy wire bridge, starry night, accompanied by swarms of fireflies, wind whispering through the alder leaves.

Or the cows opening the iron gate with a thud in the evening when they return with the communal herd.

Or riding the horse without a saddle because my shoeless feet hurt from walking over freshly scythed grasslands.

Or returning with my grandpa late in the night from a long trip up the mountain to his lonely uncle's house. We brought him meaty treats and he showed us the squirrels in his roof attic.

Or to hear my grandparents extraordinary survival stories or stories about supranatural occurences.