Tag Archives: river

The Way We Were

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There are a number of 10 year anniversaries in our household this July. Besides my birthday, it’s been a wedding anniversary and it’s ten years since we moved to our current home, a modernist, open plan, glass dominant house next to a river in a smallish market town. We’re only a couple of miles from where we lived- in a beautiful old, double fronted, 20s house overlooking the sea. Too large for we empty nesters, we downsized [a little]. We’ve never regretted the move but at 10 years I feel nostalgic for the old house, the great times we had, its wonderful location. I’ve unearthed a post from when we left, just to celebrate the milestone. Here it is:

A letter to the new owners of this house:

Welcome to your new home. If you can be just a fraction as happy here in this rather grand, elderly house with its unbeatable location and its creaking, gurgling idiosyncrasies as we have been you will have made the right choice. Estate agents like to describe it as having ‘kerb appeal’ and judging by the attention it is given from passers-by this may be correct.

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When we first came to look at it twenty years ago we’d no clue it would be located on the cliff top, a short stroll down a zig-zag path to the vast sweep of Bournemouth Bay, since there was no mention of its position in the small, black and white advert in the local newspaper, merely a smudgy photo of the front door. It seems incomprehensible now that a sea-front location would be unmentioned. Upon entering the house I experienced that immediate recognition that this was the house for us, even though Husband needed convincing.

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To begin with it was locked into an earnest, seventies style décor and many of the original. 1920s features had been replaced with teak-effect and wood chip wallpaper but the beautiful staircase and elegant doors were all there. We set about alterations, combining three rooms to provide the spacious kitchen/dining area that is still a popular choice today. Much later, longing to be elevated to a level where we could enjoy a sea view, we had a section of the roof cut away and the loft converted to provide a crows’ nest. It altered the appearance of the house in a way many would consider a travesty but has been the room we’ve lived in the most. The garden is unrecognisable from the bland space it was and now boasts mature borders, a beautiful pond, trees, a summerhouse and two patios. The old garage is adorned with Virginia creeper and climbing hydrangea and a riotous tangle of honeysuckle, jasmine and ornamental hops tumble together from the fence.

Every home carries in its fabric stories of the inhabitants down through the years-even if they are untold. Here there have been wedding celebrations [two], arrivals, departures, parties, Christmas gatherings, murder mysteries, milestone birthdays, air show gatherings, musical soirees, a new generation coming along to explore, visitors, a burglary, barbecues and so much more.

My homecoming from work was always a joy, the sky becoming vast as I came nearer, the sunsets stunning and the winter gales a thrill.

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Our next home is a complete contrast, having been built much more recently with a light, contemporary interior, loads of glass and an open-plan design. We are swapping our sea panorama for a view over the river and the water meadows and the garden is a wedge of lawn leading to a small wooded area containing giant trees. The historic centre of the provincial town is just a few minutes’ walk along the road. Will we be as happy there as we have been in the old house? It remains to be seen.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Solo to Africa 4-The Postscript

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My solo week in The Gambia was drawing to a close but I’d booked a trip for the last couple of days-to the interior to stay on an island, Jenjanbureh Camp, in the middle of The Gambia River.

A mini-bus came to collect me and my overnight bag and having already picked up half a dozen or so people I swung up into the vehicle to a spare seat, finding myself mixed into a bunch of jovial Dutch. I’ve always found Dutch travellers to be friendly and chatty and these were no different. And while they were all of that nationality, knowing that their language is rarely spoken outside of The Netherlands they kindly spoke English for my benefit for the entire trip.

We went via Georgetown, arriving in the late afternoon. The ‘camp’ was run by a German couple and very much in the style of ‘In Search of the Castaways’, a film I loved as a child. I was taken to my room, basically a jungle hut in the trees. Inside, a bed and had been constructed from rough-hewn timber, with a rope-pull shower adjoining. There were small, mesh-covered windows. I was charmed. My group assembled for a buffet-type dinner consisting of various stews and vegetables, which were all delicious. Over a glass or two of wine I got chatting to two women who’d travelled together and we shared life histories and plans. When dusk fell the lanterns were lit. There was no electricity at the camp. When I retired to my room I found two or three lanterns hanging there, too. I fell asleep to the sounds of the jungle around me, an unforgettable experience.

Next day we breakfasted at the same outside table under the trees then we were off down river by boat, the vessel reminding me of another film-‘The African Queen’ with Humphrey Bogart, a boat with rickety wooden decks and a wide roof where I sat with the two friendly Dutch women as the sights and sounds of the river drifted by.

There was only enough time for one more trip to the market to have tea with Gibriel and say goodbye, then I was on a plane and heading back to the UK, with a stash of beautiful carved masks and a batik picture, all made by him. But what of the chess set?

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Several weeks went by and I resumed life at home, forgetting about the money I’d paid for my hand-crafted set. Until one day, returning from work, I found a large cardboard box on my doorstep. I was certain I hadn’t ordered anything that large. I hefted it into the hall and undid the top, whereupon a deluge of polystyrene beads flowed out and onto the floor. I delved into the box and with drew a tiny, wooden figure. A pawn! I pulled out all the figures. They were exquisite! And at the bottom of the box was the chess board.

A letter was taped inside the box lid. It came from a couple. They’d holidayed a week or two after me and met Gibriel. He’d handed them my chess set to bring to the UK and somehow get it to me. They’d moved house and lost my address, then managed to find it. I was ecstatic then, not just for the chess set, but for the wonderful integrity of my West African friend and for the kind, honest couple who carried and sent this precious item to me.

My two solo holidays taught me one reassuring truth; that the vast majority of ordinary people are honest and kind. And you can’t ask for more than that.

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The River House

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I woke this morning and opened the blind to the view I’ve been treated to for the last two weeks. This morning the sunlight is dancing on the water as the river flows around this voluptuous curve in a sinuous meander, fringed by a border of mature willows whose grey-green foliage sways in a light breeze.

Across the meadow moles have toiled overnight to produce a smattering of brown hillocks. By the time I’ve descended into the living room a fisherman or two will have established a prime spot along the bank and will have organised the space with their equipment-a chair, a large, green umbrella and of course, their rods and landing nets. Some stay rooted to their chosen position all day, others wander up and down, trying various places by dipping the line in then moving elsewhere. A pair of swans cruise past in a nonchalant voyage up river and an occasional cormorant passes overhead.

Outside our back gate is a footpath that leads for miles along the river and across the path is a hedge marking the expanse of the private fishing zone. This hedge is a riot of brambles, nettles, buddleia, willow, hawthorn and wild fuchsia and is alive with small birds and butterflies-too many species to detail here.

Across the river another meadow sports a herd of cows who amble through at the same time each day, tails flicking, jaws munching, following the matriarch in an ordained timetable, their route taking them under a railway bridge. Every so often a train comes or goes behind the meadow, some to London or Manchester, some to Poole and Weymouth, making no impact on the cattle, the wildlife or ourselves.

A robin and a pair of blackbirds have already become confident enough to claim our patch of garden as their own, now that dogs and cats are no longer in residence. The robin perches on the rooftop of our new, rustic bird table and dips up and down in a proprietorial way. I have begun to reclaim the cherry trees from the suffocating killer embrace of the ivy that is strangling them and am undertaking a mission to clear the steep bank under our trees from the ferocious brambles that have had their own way for too long.

The small wedge of scruffy grass is responding to some regular trimming and digging-out of weeds by greening up and the pathways and decking are visible now that the accumulated leaves and detritus have been swept away.

So it is ours, this place; seducing us from the moment the removal men left us. We stepped out on to the balcony outside our living room on the hottest day of the year, took in the glorious landscape on our doorstep and all thoughts of our old house were swept away like a clump pf weed on the river. We’ve had to collect items wrongly delivered and return items wrongly removed from the old place. Otherwise it has become a mere stop along the bus route of our history. Now you know…