Can a cottage in the country break your heart ?

It feels that way right now. Thirty-one years ago we bought our slice of heaven. A 17th-century thatched Northamptonshire cottage at the foot of a hill, on the edge of an ancient forest. We were newly married and smitten with our life in the country; a long-held dream of mine since I was a child. Sundays were taken up with long walks in the forest followed by a pint in the next-door pub.

We furnished it simply but beautifully, adding a few antiques and the odd stuffed owl when funds permitted. Then along came children and they learned how to appreciate the English countryside with their own version of the road safety code whilst looking right and left "No moo cows no horsies".

Seasons came and went, Easter egg hunts in the garden, harvest suppers in the village hall, the annual Summer Village show where the boys would show off their vegetable animals, and egg-cup flower arrangements. Flowers and foliage for the church would be gathered from the hedgerows and of course our Christmases were indescribably special. The boys learned how to light a fire and roast chestnuts and Santa would be welcomed with a sherry and a mince pie having had no trouble getting down the chimney into the cavernous inglenook fireplace. Carol singers would arrive on Christmas Eve, the pathway lit with candles. One year I was even invited to ring the handbells at Southwick Hall. 

We lent it to friends, neighbours and relatives and rented it (below value) to villagers. That rusty-red upholstered sofa must have traveled hundreds of miles up and down the A1 over the years.

Mr Haughty the Barn Owl was joined by Mr Snooty the Fox, Stoaty McStoat face and Dean the Pine Marten. On arrival for the weekend we would walk in the front door greeting our bolt-hole with a cheery "Hello Cottage" and set to loading up the fridge with lunch items bought in Oundle, hunkering down for a cosy night in or a BBQ in the garden depending on the season.

The deeds to the cottage were kept busy in Hunt and Coombes' office in town - First purchase, first near-sale (aborted), second near-sale (aborted) first actual (and very reluctant) sale to neigbours, re-purchase from same neighbours along with the adjoining cottage, first sale of adjoining cottage and today second sale of our beloved No.2 original purchase.

I spent yesterday choosing photos of the cottage to display in a photo memory frame. They don't really do the place justice. You can't capture the heart of a place with a camera. It just doesn't work. The removal van has just left having deposited what was left of the contents in our garage here in London where it will all sit and gather dust.

I should practise what I preach and remind myself of the mantra I'd try to teach the boys - "Don't be sad that it's over, be happy that it happened". I now realise why they never really bought into that. Of course I'm happy that it happened but as much as I try to fill my head with cliches such as "new chapter" and "time for new memories", I am truly sad that it's over.


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