A week or so ago, I was travelling by train between Bournemouth and London. As we swept through the New Forest I looked out and saw the woods and heathland that I had so often played in as a child, when my grandparents had lived on the fringes of this most ancient (and inappropriately named) of landscapes.
Nana and grandad resided in a village not far from Ringwood, seemingly full of retired people and bungalows. I called it up on Google maps and despite not having been there for nearly thirty years, I recognised immediately the birds-eye road layout. I clicked through to get the street level view and, sure enough, I had alighted on the correct road – Heather Close – just one junction along from my grandparents’ home.
The yellow trim on the bungalow’s garage door and fascia boards had gone, as had a pond and rockery in the back garden. But the little stone birdbath still stood in the gravel driveway and a large rock bearing the name of the house greeted visitors just as it had back in the 1980s, when I would regularly climb it like some sort of miniature mountain.
Subscribe to Independent Premium to bookmark this article
Want to bookmark your favourite articles and stories to read or reference later? Start your Independent Premium subscription today.
Join our commenting forum
Join thought-provoking conversations, follow other Independent readers and see their replies