April 24, 2011
MY home, with its view over the water meadows in all their springtime lushness to
Salisbury Cathedral, is indescribably dear to me. Yet I am contemplating not
only leaving it for 12 months but leaving it to a stranger. For the sums only
work if we rent out the house.
I keep looking at the garden – as close as it
gets to perfection after repeated weeding expeditions, before the mare’s tail
grass starts filling all the gaps and more – and wondering if a tenant can
possibly look after it as I would. Ludicrous, really, since I am not a good
gardener, merely an enthusiastic summer gardener. But the thought of coming
back and finding an overgrown ruin of what little structure there was is
heartbreaking in advance.
We have just
celebrated our 32nd wedding anniversary here (cheaply, I hasten to
add, since we are saving up!) and when I think that we have lived here since 10
weeks after our younger son (now nearly 20) was born, it is understandable that
this is where my heart lies. And yet, even
when we come back, if we are ever to realise our dream of a bit of land and a
few animals, it can’t be here. The geography is against us.
Another bugbear –
I have told a few friends about our half-formed plans but am afraid to be more open about them
in case my employers get wind and deem me expendable. In due course I may deem
myself expendable but until then we’d rather have my salary coming in!
What a peculiar,
in-between world to inhabit for months on end. Every minor triumph and tragedy of the gardening kind seems exaggeratedly
important because I won’t be here to see it 12 months hence. How pathetic is
that? As if this is the only world there is …………………
No comments:
Post a Comment