Sitting in the corner, surveying my surroundings, I notice the things others overlook.
The snail on the bird table, the scattered seed at its base, the gentle bleating of lambs in a nearby field. I decide to visit them. Pushing my chair back I knock a pot, the rich aroma drifts towards me as vibrant orange petals float down onto the weathered tiles. The clicking of my shoes on the patio is greeted by a chorus of birdsong. I glance up to see the birds but my eye is drawn to the trees, towering at the top end of this haven. The yellow tiles spread out like a desert, thankful for the oasis of potted plants randomly placed throughout. As I weave through the pots I look down and notice the moss growing over the corner of a tile, olive green in colour and slippery looking. I reach the steps, uneven and wet; I take great care in avoiding the cracks. Ignoring the pebbles the dogs kicked up I wander up the meandering path.
I pick up the damp, fresh fragrance, so much nicer than the average smell. Droplets of water have collected in the tulips that were planted earlier this spring. The large grass arena that I step into is enclosed with varying types of roses. Soft pink roses, deep red roses and my favourite, the white roses. I walk around, taking time to smell them. Stepping off the path the grass soaks my now bare feet. I can feel the blades shifting underneath my weight and the impressions of my feet make me laugh. The plum tree is nearby but I can’t get any closer for the fallen fruit keeps me away. Its royal purple colour; keen to stand out against the dull brown bark. I sneeze, startling a bird in the plum trees canopy. As it flies off, the tree shakes and I am sprayed with the morning dew that had settled on its leaves. The water drips off my arms and onto the grass. I bend down. An ant is struggling to get over a stick so I remove this obstacle and he carries on his way eager to take home his find.
My feet are getting cold now so I head towards the bench. Its wooden frame intertwined with the tiny flowers at its feet. The bench is wet so I tiptoe to the nearby shed. The rusty padlock unwillingly creaks and the door swings open. A musty smell sweeps over me. It takes a while for my eye to adjust to the light. Tools lay scattered on the floor, tucked into a bed of cobwebs. I spy a cloth hanging precariously from the lawnmower. Reaching across I quickly grab it and jog back to the bench.
I wipe the bench over and sit down. I look around. The wind has picked up and a gentle breeze stirs the leaves on our apple tree making the birdfeeder swing, its mesh casting interesting shadows onto other branches. The greenhouses tall pointed roof can hardly be seen and the tomatoes; not quite ripe, remain hidden by my house.
"Rosie” my Gran calls. I can hear the chink as my tea is placed on the patio table. Leaping up from my seat I dive onto the path and hop the steps two at a time, careful to avoid the wet patches. The blur of bright colours wash over me and I stumble as I reach the last step. I sit at the table. I am lucky to have such a gorgeous retreat. Before I have time to eat any tea the gentle aroma of the flowers and lullaby of the birds carry me off into a deep sleep.
I was having one of those crap-weather-bank-holiday days. You know, when you do things that you can never be bothered to do any other time.
I decided to sort out some drawers. In one of our many muddled drawers I found 'My Special Place'.
It was written by Rosie, four years ago. She was fourteen years old.
When Rosie left year eleven her English teacher told her that after completing her A levels she would almost certainly be offered a place at Oxford or Cambridge should she apply. As you may know Rosie decided not to follow that road.
Ah well. She's happy, she's beautiful and I am so proud!
I have scanned it in for you to read. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I do.
