For the first few years of my life, we lived in a small village in the West Country. There were four houses in our road.
The first was owned by a farmer with young adult children. We lived in the second. The third had a middle aged couple with no children at home, and the fourth had a couple we assumed were married but, according to my father, were brother and sister. We children were a bit scared of them because their surname was Badman and the house was a very run-down old cottage with no electricity. We decided that the sister was a witch because she had a hairy chin, very few teeth, and always wore black clothes.
In many ways it was an idyllic spot and we had a huge garden which looked over open countryside. However, my mother hated living there as we only had one car, which my father used to get to work in the town four miles away. As a result, she was stuck at home all day. The village was so small that even then (early 1960s) it had no shop, school or church. It did have a pub, but she wouldn’t have been able to go in with four young children in tow, even if she had wanted to!
When I was 6, we moved into the nearest town and lived on a road of houses that had either families with young children or retired people.