Houses in which we spent our childhoods may be places with dark associations if, for example, our memories of those childhoods are unhappy. And happy and positive memories are often mixed in with sadness, such as memories of pets or of loved ones who have passed away.
There is one house which has never faded from my memory; a large eighteenth-century house in Cornwall, surrounded by a garden full of hydrangeas. We only visited the house once, on a day in August many years ago, when the hydrangeas were covered with massive blooms of pink and powder blue and the winding, shaded lawn led on to a distant view of what was then a space-age telecommunications facility gleaming on the higher land towards the sea.
We were there, my brother and sister, my mum and dad, for just one day; the house was reached by a long drive-way lined with tall trees; the front door, with its fan-shaped light, was reached by a bridge over what I perceived to be a kind of moat; inside there were Turkish and Corinthian arches and beautiful cupboards with delicate panelled glazing.
The house was rented by a distant relative; as someone who lived in a semi-detached house on a new estate, I’d never imagined that such places could exist, let alone that people might live amidst such grace and beauty. And we only made one visit, to part of the house; from the hallway, I had the briefest glimpse of the beautiful rooms beyond we were never allowed to enter; we ran around the garden, among the hydrangea blooms, and I remember the telecommunications facility gleaming in the early-evening sun.
I have a photograph of that day hanging on the wall above my desk; my brother and sister and mother and the two distant relatives, a black and white photograph taken by my dad, who isn’t in the picture, as he often wasn’t.
I recently discovered that this elegant and beautiful house is up for sale. On the website there are photographs of the interior and views of the garden. How much I would love to return there and return inside the house.
Yet to do so, I would need to pretend I was a potential buyer of the house, when in fact it is way out of my price league.
I’m aware that estate agents are often troubled by people who make a habit of visiting houses up for sale, which they have no intention of buying. I wouldn’t have the nerve to pretend I had the financial means to buy the property when I don’t. And so this beautiful house will remain unvisited by me, only to be glimpsed from the road, incomplete and mysterious.
