Passing my old home.

This is a road I hardly ever take.
I left this house 17 years ago. In the days when a few of my family were still alive and my children were young, one very young.
But I had to go past it on the way to a 90th birthday party today.
I have known the house since I was eight. It was a delight then for a child as it had been a children's home, with rose gardens, and a huge walled garden with an orchard of Cox's apples, pears and glass houses full of black grapes, and what I imagine was a goat house, with tiny mangers and stalls.
There were bedrooms with names over the doors, cupboards for toys and clothes and the cellars were a treasure trove. Old corgi cars, wooden toys, and dark rooms with no lights.
We roamed freely. Climbing up onto the roof, up the trees, into empty hearted giant oaks, and of course the ruined church. There was a rope hanging from the bell tower, we swung from it, disturbing the jackdaws. No adults interrupted us, we just had them in the background as food stations. And lifts to the cinema.
No one was whisked off for cricket, music lessons, or anything improving. We were kings and queens of the woods. The only harm I came to was approaching the curve into the village at high speed in a badly built, brake free soapbox (or maybe wine-box) on wheels. We thought it was a go-cart. I ended up using my chin as a brake when I lost control.

The years went by. I lived there from the age of 16 when I went to work with my uncle into the world of magazines. After a few years I lived in London, Australia, Ireland, and then returned here with a young family as it was all 'to be mine'. I was asked back to learn the ropes and be with my very ill uncle for the remainder of his days.
I had lived with medical students in Australia when travelling. I had learnt a bit here and there. Enough to be a bit of a know all.
So I pestered the doctors, and would not accept my uncle's illness was inevitable for his age.
A second opinion was sought, I was right and he was operated on.
I was about to have my third baby. He flew off to Hong Kong to convalesce.
My son arrived, a beautiful boy. My uncle returned, brown, healthy and full of vim to start suing people again. This had always been a big preoccupation of his.

The suing of course failed. It ook about 36 months from start to finish. And the house had to go. I packed up the family and after a spot of renting moved to a tiny warm cottage which is about the size of the dining room in that vast and very chilly house.
It was a bit of a time. It seems so recent if I see the place again, so I avoid that route. There is no need for me to pass that way.

When I was driving along the familiar roads towards it this morning, the roads I rode bikes and walked for so many years I felt a bit sick. With that full burning feeling we get when we are carrying a child. I stopped to take this photo and my hand was shaking.
This surprised me, as I have been so gung-ho about having to go, and losing it at the eleventh hour.
After the lunch I turned back, I decided to avoid the village, and went home another way all together.
As I drove, it occurred to me that I had never 'said goodbye' to the place. It had all ended in such a jagged way. I had never admitted that it hurt. It had all trickled away so slowly. If three years is slow.
I feel better about it now. No more pretend. It was a bugger of a situation. They were the maddest of times.

I might write a book about this crazy stuff one day. This is about 7% of it.