In this old house, nearly 100 years old, with it’s strange little nooks and crannies, and a conglomeration of add-ons and modernisations, there are stories held if we only know how to read them. Built between two world wars, did it lose someone to that second slaughter? Who were those first hopeful owners who made it their home. There are signs all around that the garden was once loved and cherished, and the ancient grapevine over the wooden arbour is covered with grapes again. I wonder how many children have raided that vine over the generations. Somewhere along the line a shaky lean-to was tacked onto the back of the garage, and a new room was added as a third bedroom. Had the family become too big for the original two? There’s a tiny alcove built into the roof over the wash-house. It’s so small, I have no idea what it was intended for.
Then, for a while, the house was neglected and unloved, broken windows, the walls pitted with little holes and scars of careless use, small leaks in pipes and bathroom wreaking slow destruction. Renters who cared little for the history or the future of this place. Now we are adding our story, mending and replacing, painting and weeding. Our little dog has made it his home as well. We’ve planted flowers, a bay tree, and other small trees to attract the birds, tuis and blackbirds that sing to us in the mornings. It’s a slow process, but the house doesn’t mind. Something else to hold in its memory.
of many years is made up
of small steps