Again, and for the third time this year, I'm heading home. In fact, I've been in Canada for six straight months, not counting the two 15-day getaways that I was allowed under the rules of OHIP. At least now, though, I've 'done my time' and qualify for medical care here should the need arise. So... watch this space and read about how this woman, only one year away from her seventieth birthday, gets around that beautiful little island that she calls home.
So that you can better understand my glee at boarding the flight on Wednesday evening, I shall explain a little about who I am and where I belong. I was born in south-west England and lived there fairly happily until my twelfth year when my parents decided to move, lock stock and barrel, to Hamilton, Ontario, Canada. The adjustment was tough for me; I'd left behind grandparents, aunts and uncles, and so many cousins I hadn't even taken a count. My happiest childhood years were spent living in a lovely house in the middle of a three-acre wood; there the wild flowers, trees and birds were my companions. (And yes, I talked to the trees and flowers -- as well as to myself, a lot!)
Fast forward 42 years to October 13th, 1998, when my great adventure began. With one suitcase in hand, I tearfully hugged two of my daughters, Amanda and Angela, goodbye and set out to find a place in England that I could call home.
The search took only three months, for after a wobbly start in a grotty bedsit in Bristol I landed at Ivy House Farm. I'm sure providence played a hand in my meeting the guys -- Bill, Allan, Chris and Ken -- and especially in being invited to take up residence in the caravan-cum-mobile home encircled by cedars in behind the farm house.
There I stayed, except for two separate moves to Weston-super-Mare, when each time I came to my senses and hustled back to firmly become Anne of Ivy House Farm!
So that you can better understand my glee at boarding the flight on Wednesday evening, I shall explain a little about who I am and where I belong. I was born in south-west England and lived there fairly happily until my twelfth year when my parents decided to move, lock stock and barrel, to Hamilton, Ontario, Canada. The adjustment was tough for me; I'd left behind grandparents, aunts and uncles, and so many cousins I hadn't even taken a count. My happiest childhood years were spent living in a lovely house in the middle of a three-acre wood; there the wild flowers, trees and birds were my companions. (And yes, I talked to the trees and flowers -- as well as to myself, a lot!)
Fast forward 42 years to October 13th, 1998, when my great adventure began. With one suitcase in hand, I tearfully hugged two of my daughters, Amanda and Angela, goodbye and set out to find a place in England that I could call home.
The search took only three months, for after a wobbly start in a grotty bedsit in Bristol I landed at Ivy House Farm. I'm sure providence played a hand in my meeting the guys -- Bill, Allan, Chris and Ken -- and especially in being invited to take up residence in the caravan-cum-mobile home encircled by cedars in behind the farm house.
There I stayed, except for two separate moves to Weston-super-Mare, when each time I came to my senses and hustled back to firmly become Anne of Ivy House Farm!
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