There is something intangible about the love of a house, something which evades explanation, something that lies deep within our psyche. Our love of Cothay is all-pervading; it is our home, our way of life.
Despite the closure of the garden, this week has as usual, been as busy as ever. At last we managed to collect enough well-rotted manure to spread over most of the garden. Wesley drove our mini-digger a mile up the hill through the spooky wood to the stable yard at Thorne St Margaret, followed by Janâ€™s husband Steve towing the trailer, as Ma is terrified of driving her car attached to the trailer. Rose and Ma helped with the shovelling. It took three journeys and most of the day and we were all completely exhausted by the end.
On Friday, fifteen Italians came to see the house and to walk around the garden. We gave them lunch in the dining room, as the tea room was closed for the winter. I was obliged to sit on a large senorita’s lap during lunch; quite exhausting as there was nothing I really liked to eat. I became rather hot folded against her ample bosom; Ma said one should never be rude to our visitors, so I sat still.
Mother bought herself a Smart TV, what a waste of money as she is unable to work it; her grasp of technology leaves much to be desired!
What a secure possession the past is. The happiness and beauty of long ago cannot be impaired, for once enjoyed it remains forever locked in our hearts.