Why is it when I sit still and look across the little field of daisies, buttercups and clover that my heart settles? I had no idea as a child what this little piece of land would always mean to me. How coming here would flood my mind with happy memories of warm summer mornings; the sound of bees and hens around the gardens and the comfort of my grandmother's contentment of having her grands around to spoil even just for a little while.
I can still see her in the vegetable garden filling her apron with carrots and potatoes for our dinner. Her faithful tabby cat, Maggie, never far from her sight. She was precious to my grandmother and lived a good cat-life.
I can count fifty maples sitting here and remember my grandmother tapping a few for the nectar.
The dilapidated hen house that exists still today, and seems to take great pride in that, opens my memory to scenes of children filling tin pails with fresh eggs, even tiny ones from the banty hens, and brings back the sound of excitement and laughter.
I can hear the old well handle being cranked to fill the one tin cup with cold, delicious water.
I still have that old granite cup on a shelf today.
It would be rubbish to anyone else; a treasure to me.
These are memories of days gone by and the love of a wonderful grandmother.
It's no wonder, sitting here and looking about, makes me feel I have returned to a little piece of paradise.