My great-great-grandmother lived in a fabulous house in Cusop, near Hay-On-Wye.
When she died she left it to my great-grandmother, and subsequently it went to my great-aunt, who didn’t actually live there. There was a couple who lived close by who kept it clean/maintained.
My mum and her brothers had lots of childhood holidays there, which meant getting the train from London, one leg of the trip being on a steam train. It was a totally different world from their lives in polluted 1950s Chelsea.
We lived in a cheaply-built tall, thin, not-quite-big-enough house on an estate built in 1970, in the Midlands. The location meant it was very easy for Dad to take Mum and us to the Cusop house and leave us for a few days while he worked.
The big old house was set high above the road, backing onto another house, in steep gardens, with terraces, woods, and a summer house.
There were four bedrooms (two in the attic), each with its own sink, except the one you had to go through to get to the bathroom.
Downstairs was kitchen, dining room with fireplace, and a lovely sunny sitting room with yellow bucket chairs. (I presume this room also had a fireplace, but I can’t remember).
There was also an outside loo, which Mum said was handy if she was working in the garden. (I personally can’t remember the loo situation at all, but there was one in the house as well.)
Across the lane below the house, was the garage, and then a rickety little wooden bridge that went across the brook, and the border, into the Welsh garden.
The brook was ace, and we spent a lot of time paddling in it.
Sometimes Granny would bring our cousins up from London, which was TERRIBLY EXCITING. They were exotic, like us but different, and with funny accents.
The kitchen smelt of proper fairy liquid (we had the cheap crap at home). Granny’s hot chocolate was different too, and better, but took some getting used to. Mum’s version was much weaker, with far too much sugar added!
We would go for walks up the dingle, in search of fortune under the Money Tree. There were serious recriminations if someone forgot to sprinkle a few coins beforehand!
Of course there were lots of walks across the fields into Hay, which was the most magical little place, for various supplies, toys/games/activities etc.
Also Dad drove us up into the Black Mountains. One Easter it was warm but there were still pockets of snow to play in, which immense fun.
Sadly, one winter the frozen pipes burst, making a bit of an expensive mess, so great-aunt decided she would have to sell the house. Our final trip was in the autumn of 1979. Dad took some great pix of all the cousins together on the wooden bridge. We still miss going there! Such a special place.
I now rent a very tatty ex-council flat up north. I’m not even sure why anymore.