Exactly sixteen years ago this weekend we put the key through the letterbox for the new owners of our old house in Peckham and headed west to Somerset. Everything felt new and sharp for it being the first time of a new experience. A surge of well-being fell upon us as we pulled off the road above the valley and onto the single-track lane with its central strip of grass, high banks and hedges. We wound down the windows as we descended into the valley and have done so ever since after a long journey to take in the air and moisture and the feeling of having arrived. We left the car laden and opened the little porch that kept the weather from the house with a new set of keys that unlocked our way into this next life. Inside, the still smell of damp, cold chimneys, the farmer’s swirly carpets and rooms waiting to be occupied by our furniture that was somewhere behind us on the M4. 

I remember that weekend so clearly. We set up the Adirondack chairs to take in the view on the steep grassy slopes that rode up to meet the house. Earlier that week they had nestled within the calm and composure of our city garden we had lived with for over a decade, but were more than happy to leave. A move that exchanged a sliver of London sky and the limit of high fences with just a twist of barbed wire between us and a valley that rose up to the straight line of trees on Freezing Hill to the west and down into the plump folds of land to the east.