The house where I was born was featured on Countryfile (BBC1) yesterday. The programme was concerned with the restoration of the Stroudwater Canal that runs beside the house. The Nutshell was built in 1778, at the same time as the canal. It was originally a warehouse for the cloth mill at the bottom of the lane. When my parents first saw it, the house was for sale cheaply because it was so run down. My newly-married parents snapped it up, for it was all they could afford. I loved its many rooms and winding stairs. The top floor had bare floorboards and sash windows without curtains, it was only used for storage. Attached to the house was a large orchard with apple and plum trees. The disused canal next door was the marvellous territory of wild plants, water birds and fish. Just down the towpath was an estate of pre-fabs that were later demolished. I lived there until I was nine and have many happy memories. Indeed I’m still in touch with one of my childhood friends from those days, who now lives in Orkney. Exhausted from all the work they had to do on the house and from raising three small children, my parents moved to smaller house on an estate some 25 miles away. But I never liked it there and always pined for the wild environs of The Nutshell.
Do any of us ever forget the house where we were raised? Our
early environment shapes us, for good or for ill. Those days have been a significant influence on my writing. I'll leave you with an old poem which features some of my early (mis)adventures with my younger brother Robert, who passed away in 2010.
Swimming Lessons
To settle the matter, I nab our Pinky
The ripples spread.
Hell, could he be right?
A bedraggled head bobs
and she starts to paddle.
Triumphant, I turn to Rob
but he's already trotting to tell.
we perch on the canal bank
he begins to dance on the water.
I clap and shriek, but his wellies fill.
I fling out my arm – he can't reach.
Struggling, he slides under.
