precious stones
(the places that make us who we are)
The places we love become part of who we are. I believe this fervently. I think of the many places that have made me: a ruined castle on the edge of a moor; an ice-cold stream behind a wall; a grassy field at the end of a garden; stone paths that weave around two ancient Buddha statues, some misty woods on a hill…
But right in the marrow of my bones I know that I have been formed by one place in particular — a little stone cottage in a quiet French valley. A cottage I’ve visited almost every summer since I was seventeen years old.
I carry within me the precious stones of that old cottage, and the memories that they hold. Around the door grow yellow roses, and on summer evenings we watch the bright, brief, evening primrose flowers open into bloom. There is a shady, tree-lined garden with a view of the lake in the field beyond, and a large purple hydrangea bush — grown from a cutting of my Yorkshire Granny’s. Feral cats and stray chickens periodically wander over from the farm across the road.
At the end of the garden, a rainbow hammock, in which I have some years nursed babies, and more often curled up with a book. Inside the house is a gently curved wooden floor that my Dad and then-teenage brother made with their own hands. Upstairs, on the white lime-washed walls of the bedrooms are flowers that I stencilled, back when I too was in my teens.
If I close my eyes I can see every detail of our evening walk up the lane from the cottage, a chance to watch the sun set over the fields and to peek through the windows of the tiny locked chapel up on the hill. We walk past a pond, hay bales, cows, barns, a ruined house, poppies, oxeye daisies, and — on some dusky evenings — fireflies in the verges.
There are red shield bugs too, living on the wild carrot flowers, bugs which endlessly fascinated my sons when they were toddlers. The light is golden and glowing, sun low against the hills. In the long grass along the edges of the fields, I hear the murmuring of crickets. Later, the bats will be out — swooping down over the garden before the sky becomes a shining tapestry of summer stars.
You will find me there this August, perhaps for the last time, and so, this is an elegy of sorts, for the little stone cottage that I will always carry with me. For the places that we love (even if we must eventually leave) — the places that become part of who we are.
Thank you for reading,
Laura x
PS: You can read about my final trip to the little stone cottage here:
the sense of an ending
Dear You, On the last days in the little stone cottage, I made a list on my phone. ‘3am garden’, it reads. ‘ The hoot of the owl, a frenzy of crickets. A wide sky of sparkling stars. Insects down my back. The world vibrating around me.’ I noted down details, desperate not to forget, because I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. But it was all already lost to me, …
After the joyful discovery of your magical writing here I immediately ordered your book. I am savoring it but by bit. Such lovely prose and pictures. What a delightful discovery indeed!
So beautiful!
It reminded me of the times when I too had a holiday home in the countryside. Good memories. Thank you for this moment.