Season of mists

Day 18

Before hefting myself from bed to sofa today, I paused by the window to gaze at my garden, and discovered one sure thing - from the drooping and dropping of petals and leaves, the abundance of berries in the hedgerow, and the withering chill in the air - Autumn is most definately here and the last, lingering days of summer are finally over. I love Autumn generally, with it's fresh winds after the heat of July, and the richness of it's fruiting after the floral dance of summer. Next week, however, I am travelling back to a place that is always sunny and clear and dry, and I am bright with anticipation.

As you know, I had a difficult childhood (because of my mother's raging mood swings), but there was one summer that none of that mattered. One summer - that in memory at least - is always safe and bright and free and happy. The summer we spent at Sissinghurst.

My father had a summer contract in the Kent countryside nearby. Mum would bundle us all into the car and we would drive out to drop Dad, then head for the nearest Pick-your-own farm, always on the lookout for things to stretch the budget. For every punnet of strawberries or raspberries we picked for them to sell, we could pick one for ourselves to take home, which Mum would then make into jam for the winter. So that was breakfast - sitting in a strawberry field with my big brother (working industriously - nothing has changed there) and my small sister wandering around, finding the biggest fruit, until her her pretty blue eyes beamed out over a bright red strawberry-smeared smile.

At lunch time, the car packed with the dazzling ripe smell of summer fruit, we took our picnic lunch to where Dad was working. We ate cheese and tomato sandwiches out of the back of the station wagon or leaning on a tree, and drank orange squash in that comfortable silence one gets after hard work.

Then it was magic time - Mum drove us to Sissinghurst Castle for the afternoon, and we were free. Even the name, the sussuration of it sliding off your tongue, evokes peacefulness and light. As a fanatical garderner and herbalist, this was my mother's dream place. I was terribly glad that we were usually alone there, as she would frequently snip of cuttings from the plants and secrete them in her pockets, to try and grow them at home.

It was always sunny there. We would run around and play hide-and-seek and explore. My brother was fabulously brilliant at making up games that made you feel grown-up and important, and required lots of silently sneeking up on each other without being seen. They were the happiest days of my childhood, without exception.

So next week, I am not going back to the real Sissinghurst, but somewhere better - to the Sissinghurst in my head, my memory and my heart. We are going to read 'Sissinghurst' by Adam Nicholson for my book group, and I'm so excited. As soon as this ear infection goes down enough for me to get out to the shops, then it's sod the groceries - I'm off to Waterstones, and a wonderful, rambling trip down Memory Lane - surely one of the best addresses in the world.