We decided to come home the 'pretty' way today. We had stayed overnight about 10 miles from the village that was my childhood home. The gently undulating chalk hills brought back strange feelings of unidentifiable nostalgia. As we drove past the small housing estate that had been the dairy farm, I remembered collecting extra milk, cream and eggs. There was a fierce pig who made us jump by putting its legs on the sty door and grunting loudly at us.
We looked at my first home - I have dim memories of my sister's birth. I remember sitting grizzling on the back doorstep as my Mother left us in the care of the sharp tongued 'Auntie Joan' next door.
Utterly amazingly - my second home, built by my parents had not changed at ALL. The metal window frames were still there. The tree I fell out of was a stump, but still recognisable. We walked what had been my daily dry weather route to school across the allotments. It was only about 400 metres. It seemed such a long way aged 6 or 7.
We played all the time in and around the spring which bubbled under the willow tree. That tree was surrounded, now as then, by brambles and stinging nettles - that was where I landed when I fell!
I saw again the ditch I tried to jump - dared by the big boys. The village is, as it was then beautiful, but not nearly so rural. It has grown to accommodate commuters to the nearby city.
It was fun revisiting the past, but I am truly happy in my life now. I can see though, that nostalgia could be a very dangerous emotion if one was dis-satisfied at a later moment in life.