I have vague impressions of Mother cooking, and bringing in the turf, and rushing around seeing to everyone.

Ours was a ‘country house’ with a yard. I remember as one approached the lane outside the village, the gurgle of water from a nearby stream and the whispering poplars that bade one welcome. Even on the calmest of days those poplars sighed their gentle tune. Turn quietly to the right, and there was ……HOME !!!!!

The first things to catch the eye were the fuscias and the Veronica shrubs beside the doorway. The rough yellow ochre walls had two small windows and the doorway was bound on top by the projecting eaves of the brown thatch.

Entering that doorway – a main door and a half-door, to keep the hens out and admit more light! – one was in the kitchen. It was semi-dark inside but gradually the brightness and the heat from the turf fire prevailed and gave warmth and definition to the interior.

Most of the furniture was made by a local carpenter. 

I wanted to be like him!

More ……………..