Twenty-one years ago, almost to the day, we arrived at Daggle Cottage (the name, I later discovered, meant the smear of mud or excrement on a sheeps backside). I remember sitting under an ancient apple tree that stood on the half-acre lawn, looking back at this gloriously eccentric agglomeration of buildings old and new, with more than 20 rooms, eight rooflines, three staircases and even two kitchens, for heavens sake, amazed and unbelieving that anywhere so extraordinary could be ours. A family grew, old friends came to eat, stay and even live and neighbours became our new friends. The garden in particular became my beloved personal refuge and most weekend afternoons were spent digging, planting, pruning and weeding with the sport on Radio 5 nattering in my ear. The 1,000 year-old church at the end of the garden provided a beautiful view and a sense of timelessness. And whenever I turned into the lane that led to the house I had a sense of coming home that Id never really known in my life before. Tonight is the last time we will sleep at Daggle Cottage. Like many boarding school children I long ago built high emotional ramparts against the forces of loneliness, loss and pain, and I would not have maintained such a long career as a writer without a constant urge to seek out new ideas and ways of working. My planning application for improvements to the next place is already lodged with the District Council. But even so, I cannot help but see this new departure, towards more modest, mundane surroundings and away from our own little corner of paradise as something utterly heartbreaking.
Posted on: Tue, 22 Jul 2014 20:42:48 +0000