Chapter 5 #2
“Harriet…” She sighs. She was probably about to give me a spiel on why I’m wrong, but she’s given up. I can see it in her face. “Have a nice holiday.” She shakes her head in judgement of my choice.
“Thanks.” I pick up my bag and head down the stone steps to where my aunt is stood. She grabs my bag off me and throws it in the front boot.
“Let’s get out of the moody manor, shall we?” She giggles.
I climb in the passenger seat of her car. My legs can barely get in with the number of bits and bobs in the footwell. Aradia notices my struggle.
“Sorry, I’m not the most organised person. And I just love things. Just shove stuff in the back.”
I grab a handful of scarves, gloves, magazines, Harrods bags full of biscuits, and a book or two and plop them behind me in the footwell of the back seat.
Which also has a stack of wicker baskets and blankets.
The car has a distinct smell of cinnamon and sage.
It’s calming and cosy. With a clunk and splutter of the engine, the car starts and we leave London Town.
On the journey Aradia doesn’t stop talking.
She talks about everything from holidays with my mother when they were young, to her travels around India, China and America.
She has done it all. The life she has lived makes me envious.
From sleeping under the stars on the Great Wall of China to exploring and living in the Appalachian Mountains for a year.
She has met many famous people as well. She speaks about studying yoga in India and how her practice was perfected under the guidance of a guru.
I am besotted with her stories of life. She has no fear of the world and isn’t enamoured with money and things. Just experiences.
As we come off the motorway after what seems like a long journey, the greenery becomes vast and deep.
We drive down small country roads for a while longer, under a blanket of tree branches that sprawl over the top of the road to reach each other.
Houses are far and few between giving the idea that this place is isolated and secluded.
We turn down another small road which leads us to a small village.
“This is Brindlewood.” She smiles proudly.
It looks like a village straight out of an Enid Blyton book.
Charming cobbled and whitewashed cottages with thatched roofs line the small road that runs through the village.
Flower borders are kept beautifully, and you can see the village is well cared for by its residents.
A village green sits in the middle which seems to be the centre of the village.
The post office, butcher’s, cafe and grocer’s all lead on to the green.
A few bistro sets are set outside of the cafe.
In the middle of the green is a signpost with Brindlewood at the top.
Three little boys are playing football while their mothers are sat at the cafe drinking tea and chatting.
Beside the road runs a small stream which weaves to the other side, so we pass over a little cobbled bridge.
It runs alongside the last few cottages of the village which each have their own tiny bridge to get to the front door.
There only seems to be fifteen houses max in the village.
Aradia informs me there is also a farm just the other side from Brindlewood and a few cottages on the outskirts but less than forty people live here.
The village hall ends the row of cottages. It’s joined to a small stone church which doesn’t look big enough to fit ten people in, let alone forty.
We carry on down the road and turn off again into a dirt driveway.
Probably a five-minute walk from the actual village.
The dirt road is surrounded by forest as far as the eye can see.
As we approach the end, a large, cobbled cottage comes into sight surrounded by a white picket fence.
Its thatched roof bathes in the low dusk sun that has made it through the clearing where the house sits.
The front of the house has about twenty large wooden garden beds growing all kinds of vegetables.
A long metal archway weaved with green beans goes from one box to another creating a walkway under them.
Then another one with huge orange pumpkins hanging down from it like Halloween lanterns.
Wild foxglove grows all around the border of the house along with dahlias, echinacea and hydrangea bushes, giving an array of colour to the green backdrop of the forest.
A small porch roof stands over the sage front door which has a beautiful stained glass window in the middle above a gold letterbox and knocker. A wind chime hanging near the door tinkles in the breeze. Window boxes sit proud under each white wooden sash window, filled with colourful flowers.
Aradia pulls up just outside in a parking spot which has the worn tyre marks from its use. I’m still staring out of the window at the wonder of this fairytale cottage. How could anyone want to leave here ever?
“Welcome home, Harri.” She squeezes my knee before killing the engine and opening the door.
She steps out of the car and makes her way through the wooden gate and up the stone path to the front door.
I climb out of the passenger side and take a moment to take in the clear country air.
Before Aradia makes it to the front door it swings open and a rush of white flies past her.
A small woman dressed in a white flowing nightgown with white and grey long curly hair runs in bare feet down the path towards me.
“You’re here!” she shouts. “Oh my gosh, Aradia! It’s our Harriet.”
The woman embraces me with her arms, squeezing my ribs. She’s strong. She lets go and looks up at me. Aradia has made her way back to us and is standing near the gate.
“It’s me, darling. Grandmother. Granny. Cerci. Whatever you want to call me, I’m just so happy to finally see you again.” Her voice is soft like Aradia but filled with the excitement of a child. She pulls both my hands into hers and stands to look at me.
“Again?” I question.
“Well, I met you as a baby, my darling, but then your mother felt it was best to have some distance.” She studies my face. “Oh, you look just like Cassandra. Absolutely beautiful.”
I smile nervously.
My grandmother is stood in front of me, her tanned skin aged with sun exposure. But just like Aradia you can feel the warmth flow from her. Her dark blue eyes light up when she speaks. Her hair wild and free. You can just feel the life flowing through her veins.
“Thank you for having me by the way,” I say to break the weirdness of someone staring at me.
“Oh, nonsense.” She takes my hand and leads me up the path past the rosemary planted by the gate and Aradia who is smiling at us. “I’m so pleased you have finally come to stay. So much to catch up on and learn from each other, don’t you think?”