This is my father’s house. I think it is a ridiculous name. It isn’t a cottage and the Ivy is pretty naff.
I always have had ambivalent feelings for the place. It is a beautiful location and it was a privilege to have been raised there but it was an austere life. Read “The Beautiful Years” by Henry Williamson.
Thank goodness there wasn’t an Owl hooting maniacally from a tree.
I am not bitter just sad.
On a far more appropriate note, if you look carefully you can see Raffalo my sister’s horse a sort of Where’s Wally game for you. Saves watching paint dry or grass growing.
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