The Beginning

Perched on the edge of my seat, peering through the windows of the taxi, my insides were bubbling and fizzing with anticipation for a sight of our new home. The taxi bumped its way along the pot-holed lane; a lane so narrow that there was only room for one car. It swept us around a corner and the land fell away to our right and we gazed out over grassy fields and scattered clumps of woodland. To our left tall beech and pine trees marched uphill. “Almost there,” I called, twisting around and smiling back at two sleepy but expectant faces. My breath caught as I spied the Castle, framed in the center of the windscreen. We were going to live next door to a ruined castle! As I child I played in the woods surrounding the castle. I continued to be drawn to the castle as a teenager, a place where I found calm and refuge, and I would often bring a schoolbook, such as a Shakespeare play or an Austen novel, to study in the shade of a tree. Over the past month I have rhapsodized about the Castle and its mysterious woods to the girls, who have patiently humoured me. They are much more intrigued by the tree house and rope swing in the garden of their new home. A deep pit in the gravel track that the taxi had turned down jostled the girls more fully awake. “We’re here, look” I announced as the taxi swept to a stop in front of an old stone cottage. It didn’t look much like a barn, though it had once been one. It was long and low, and it was gorgeous. So many roses, creamy white, cerise and Amelia’s favourite, sumptuous red, scrambled up the warm yellow-grey stone walls, and peeped in at the windows. The girls glanced at each other, excitement in their eyes, and united in motion, they scrambled out of the car and towards the greyish blue front door.

Gazing through the rose-framed window of her bathroom at the fields and woodland.