On the rollin greens, near the castle

       Dearest you, 

A house isn’t a home et a home is not a house…

This was one of my most adored, I have always had different relationships with each of my homes, this one makes the book, every time.

I was 23.
Newly married.
My first child.

My first real love of privacy. The first is always the most iconic, especially when you are so very young.

Today it’s someone’s home, a woman’s everything, a man’s mortgage.

A rabbits haven.

A neighbor’s envie.

A story in a book.

A dream.
A reality.
A tucked away beauty, somewhere near a castle, on the hills.

Oh how 
I wish I kept this one. 

Well you know I am up this late, thinking about life as we know it. But here,
This was where I realized I was a writer.I would sit out on the back terrace, looking down at the rolling hills, watching everyone play their round of hurrah, golf.It was here that I often drove  through the gates of oheka, looking for Nancy. Waiting for tea.

It was here I fell in love with my privacy.  Being a wife et a full time Martha Stewart mother of kinds, very much younger. Way so.
It was here that I learnt to swim, truth is I almost drowned. Seriously. I kid not.

But my Jean, she always took of me. Always.

But mostly it was here, right here that I found the strength to go further.

Here it is, my past.
Oh we did have fun all the girls et I, we were social then, et carefree.
I even had my very own book club.

But honestly we barely read, sue, Jan, Marie, oh we spent all our time at Prime.

Eating salads, et judging all the women that made my book, the Brookvilles. Time flies when you are becoming my darlings.

Well Au revoir my slated, old aged charmed colonial, I miss you.

bonsoir et good story rabbits,

RS