Today the weather is tepid again; weak-tea weather. It leaves you longing for something with a little more intensity. At least it is dry.

Yesterday we drove to Corn Close Cottage, the little house we rented near Moreton in Marsh sixteen years ago. Is nostalgia stronger than reality? Do we freeze-frame happy memories so that over time they increase in potency? Or are some memories so sweet that you bottle them exactly as they were?

Whenever I think of our year at the cottage in Aston Magna my brain whirrs into a haze of sentimentality. When we rented the cottage the children, Anna and Hugo, were six and four years. I was in my late thirties. Life was very sweet indeed. It was a year of the seasons: planting, growing, maturing and harvesting of the crops; followed by a snowy winter where we were landlocked for a few days; to spring full of new life: foals, lambs and calves…snow drops, frost, daffodils and crocuses and then the full symphony of summer again. These stages can be partially eclipsed in a metropolis.

Geoff and I made our way through Moreton in Marsh and turned left off the main road to the back roads to the cottage. So familiar, like an old cashmere jumper. We turned away from Batsford Stud, at the rear of the former Mitford (Nancy Mitford wrote many of my favourite Sloane novels) estate. A horse was in the field with its gangly foal. New life! Stunning views unfolded to the right of the tapestry landscape. We were then on the lane to the cottage. There were ripe wheat fields right up to the road. A farmer was poised to harvest. And then we saw the cottage. My eyes flooded with tears. Here it was – our little slice of heaven.

There was a pretty mother in the garden holding a golden haired little girl. Three handsome small boys were playing with lego at a wooden picnic table. We boldly introduced ourselves, and to our delight “Maria” showed us around the cottage. Lovely additions had been made, and they had increased the garden by buying a slice of the neighbouring field. Maria swooned about how happy they had been there. History repeating itself.

Today, we will walk and drink up the beauty here.