My Aunt had intended to join us at my brother’s on Christmas Day, but sadly the cartilage behind her kneecap dislodged on Christmas Eve, leaving her in great pain.
By the next morning things had righted themselves and massively improved, but she was unable to drive.
Accordingly, we all decided that after a day to rest (too many busy days aren’t good for Mum), we would head over to Suffolk and take a belated Christmas to her.
Revisiting the eccentric house in a small Suffolk village brings back so many childhood memories. The variety and number of animals may have steadily reduced over the years (no chickens, no ferrets, no geese, only one breed of deer, even the faithful old donkey Wilhelm, a wedding present from my late uncle, finally passed a few years back), but it’s still a place of magic to a city kid.
As we cut down ivy from the old garage and the front paddock and chop mis-shaped carrots in the industrially root-chopper for the muntjacs, I hope little R and J have been touched by the same magic.
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