Tuesday, 25 April 2017

'Home' for Easter.

I left Yorkshire when I went to London as a student and never returned, it's well over half a century since I was a permanent resident there. Even so it's the place that I think of as home. Once my parents' house had been sold the thought of visiting it once more was daunting. It had always been a door that was open, lift the latch, call out, 'I'm here!' and walk straight in. The new owners were happy to show me around, anxious that their alterations didn't upset me. I was delighted to see what sympathetic restoration they were doing to the old house. Everything was fine until it was time to leave, then the familiar sound of the door sneck undid me, the sound that had marked all my comings and goings. I had walked through that doorway on my wedding day.
But, how lucky am I because the door is still always open and the welcome as warm as ever.
Photographing the latch.

Lorraine  has decorated the porch with flowers.

And an Easter branch in the sitting room.

I went upstairs to admire the super new bathroom.

Before my wedding the house was full of relatives and they had used up all the hot water by the time I came to have my bath - the bride-to-be was left to have a cold bath!The bathroom then was very plain with an old cast-iron roll-top, claw foot bath that I loved, green 'marble' lino on the floor and white walls. Some time later on a visit home I discovered to my horror that my father had 'modernised' the bathroom, rearranged the walls, thrown out the lovely old bath and replaced it with a truly hideous canary yellow suite. Now the new owners have happily sent all that yellow to the scrap heap and put a fine roll top back in place. The room looks far grander than ever it did before!
Only the window is familiar.
The bathroom decorations amused me.

Easter involves a bit of chocolate eating and the First Born brought this elegant little box.
All the white chocolates had disappeared before I could get my camera out!
We looked in Betty's window to see what was on offer.

Then it was back to the bolthole to eat cakes for tea
and a Yorkshire tart!


  1. Looks like a wonderful time was had. My Mom died when she was 40 and afterward I never had a home to return to. Most of my life I have dreamt of houses; guess I have been trying to find my way home.

    1. Oh, Donna, what a desperately young age for your mother to die, I am so sorry for that. My parents lived into their nineties and a reason that I love to return to the village that was 'home' is that I am known there as Margaret and Walter's daughter. I often walk through my childhood life in my night-time dreams - don't know what Freud would make of it!
      Looking at the posts on your blog I think you've made a home to be proud of.

  2. How lovely that you could really go home again. I have often thought that I would love to see the house where I spent my first 12 years, but I know I would probably be disappointed because in all probability, it will be much smaller than I remember. I have, though, checked it out on Google Earth, and it looks as if it has been well taken care of and the trees that I climbed are still there.

    1. Maybe, how delightful, now I can picture you as a wild little girl climbing high up in the branches! (I spent a lot of my childhood hanging upside down or swinging round the tree trunk on a rope.)

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