Wheelwrights Cottage, Somerset

If you're curious about grandma Daphne and granddad John's home, I will describe it to you. Firstly, to reach it involved a meandering drive through paper-thin West Country lanes, until just before a bifurcation you arrive at their gate. Their cottage was called Wheelwright’s, being in its past life home to a farrier, where horseshoes were often found while digging the garden. You would possibly assume the owners to be shed hoarders, which in truth is no lie, since granddad's love for them was profound.

A wooden workshop flanked you as you entered the drive, often the swing doors would be open and spilling with sawdust. A neat garden blanketed the property, with an island of flowers canopied by a weeping willow. The paddock, neighbouring the garden, faced a field of cows or sheep depending on the time of year, and in Spring it would be allowed to grow freely in abundance and flower. The path to the front door was lined with lavender and where the milkman would religiously drop fresh glass bottles of milk daily. This entrance we rarely used; instead, we headed to where we knew we could definitely find granddad and grandma, in the conservatory. Far too warm in the summer while freezing in the winter, the conservatory was where we would often reunite. Mismatched sofas sprawled across the oddly shaped room, along with endless piles of newspapers, magazines and books strewn across the floor. Cups of half drank tea and water occupied the majority of the surfaces, always faithfully accompanied by an open tin of biscuits. We would often sit there, come winter or summer, each absorbed in their own readings until granddad would break the silence by reading one of the crossword clues.

The conservatory led into the kitchen, a small but important room where we were guaranteed to find grandma's cookery classics. There was a special chair, upon which granddad would perch on (occupying the majority of the kitchen with his daddy-longlegs legs) usually making sandwiches to a millimetre of perfection, cutting the bread in paper-thin slices, spreading butter as evenly as possible and finding the balance between cheddar, ham and tomato. A small larder tucked by the toilet contained endless amounts of cereal, jam jars and grandma's true weakness: posy vases. The Snug, as granddad would endearingly call it, was all blue and by far the cosiest room in the house. A wood burning fire lay in the enclave of a brick and stone formation wherein grandad's reclining chair tucked neatly and comfortably next to it. The Radio Times forever went missing in that room and a small tin of sweets lay as bait next to his chair. Grandma's writing bureau sat stoically in the corner, accompanied by an oil painting of daffodils & drawers full of postcards.

Upstairs in the cottage, several rooms lay awaiting use but the front room was by far the one that teased our curiosity the most. A large water bowl held all of grandma's jewellery, dripping from the edge. A heavy pine chest of drawers was filled with curious and fascinating items later to become presents; kits of soap, hand lotions, scarves, games, beautiful books, hairbrushes, pencil cases. We could be sure to find something from that drawer come Christmas or birthday. My childhood and early teen summers were spent in this darling house with joy, a place that profoundly shaped me as a woman and where my love for craft developed.