I have arrived in the little town which I will call home for the next year or so.
I’m sitting at my desk, right underneath the roof of a house which turns one hundred years old this year. The Velux window is open above my head, because it is hot today, and the breeze is carrying in the sounds of birds singing, an occasional plane and some faraway cars. I can also hear neighbours chatting while they sit beneath the deluge of sunshine that is pouring out of the heavens this afternoon.
The house is on an old rambling road where every house has either butterfly bushes or rambling roses outside the front door. I think that this town might be related to the town where Milly Molly Mandy grew up. I asked my host couple about the Milly Molly Mandy books last night, and Mike says he remembers reading them in primary school, in the fifties. I grew up reading those books too. Some books really do live on for generations.