Yesterday,
almost exactly 44 years since we first saw it, our old house up in the hills
ceased to belong to us. New owners have moved in, with excited plans and hopes
for their life there, and DH and I have been left with our memories of the many
years it was our home.
I
remember the day in 1973 when we went to view it for the first time and how we
seemed to be travelling through a green tunnel as we drove from the village up
the sunken road with its over-arching trees and high hedges, until we emerged
at the top to a glorious view over the hills of Mid-Wales.
I remember how we turned
off the road and went down a rutted lane until we saw the sagging roof of the
decrepit old farmhouse, which was all we could afford, and fell in love with it
there and then.
I
remember years of scrimping and saving until we had enough money to do the
necessary renovations and how we still managed to have a very happy life with
our two young children in its shabby rooms and lovely surroundings.
I remember
them playing outside in the summer and sledging down the big field in the snowy
winters we had in the 70s and early 80s.
I
remember the horrendous months of renovation work, during which we stored most
of our possessions in the garage and camped in one room after another to let
the builders get on with their work unhindered. It was during those months that
one of the most indelible memories of all was formed, when early one morning I
raced downstairs in my bare feet to the kitchen at the sound of the telephone
and stood shivering on the rubble-strewn floor to hear the news that my mother
had died.
I
remember, indeed I will never forget, how the new bathroom created by the
renovation work gave us one of the most wonderful views any house could have
and how this ash tree through the seasons provided a leitmotif for our
life there.
I
remember our children growing up there, learning new skills, discovering their
potential, until first one, then the other, left for university and a new life
across Offa’s Dyke in England. I remember how they came to visit, first alone,
then with partners and children, especially at Christmas when the dark old
beams made a perfect backdrop for decorations and tree, but also in school
holidays and half-terms.
I
remember the bedroom I turned into a study and how I spent almost every free hour
of three hard but rewarding years, studying for ordination alongside my
full-time work in the library. I remember DH helping me by typing my essays on
one of our earliest computers, stopping from time to time to suggest I rethink
or reword sections which were unclear or badly-expressed.
I
remember how, after my first diagnosis of cancer, DH suggested we could add a
conservatory at the back of the house where we could sit and look across to the
distant hills. I remember the fun of planning it and doing much of the work
ourselves, and how it was there that we watched Grandson#1 take his first unsteady solo
steps one holiday weekend. I remember sitting there a couple of years
later with my youngest sister and her fiancé on a sunny summer afternoon, as we happily
planned the wedding I would conduct for them.
I
remember how we decided to turn the old cowshed across the farmyard into a
holiday cottage, which I advertised in the church press, and how for several years a series of
tired clergy came with their families to enjoy the peace and the glorious
views.
Later,
after our six years living elsewhere while I was in full-time parish ministry, I
remember how we moved back there when I retired and realised that it had never
really stopped being home.
But
now it has. Now home is down in the valley, with a view of the hills above us
and of the river at the edge of the garden, while a new family discovers the
delights of living in that very special place, and we are content.
