My favourite places

When we were first married Glyn and I started taking our annual holidays in Wales. I remember long sun drenched days when the children were small and ran on the beach near Aberystwyth, rain filled days one year when we were on Anglesey and one holiday when we stayed in a caravan at the edge of a cliff overlooking Clarach Bay.
Clarach Bay proved a magical place for me, where green velvet hills reached down to the sea and where we sat with a glass of wine every evening for a fortnight watching the sun sink beneath a crimson horizon far out over the water. At that time we had not yet completed our family and our last dog Sophie was still young and spent her time running on the beach each morning fetching sticks. It all seems so long ago. My baby daughter is now 26,and my dog Sophie has been gone for many years. It sometimes feels that that time was just a dream.


Once we spent our summer on the Llyn Peninsula renting an old farmhouse which had stunning views over Cardigan Bay with the mountains of Snowdonia looming blue in the distance. Once back home in Leeds I joked that if I ever went missing from home I would most certainly be found somewhere on the peninsula. The combination of mountain and sea and the quality of the light over the water were irresistible. For many years the certainty of returning to North Wales the following summer sustained me through cold dark winter months.


After my husband passed away suddenly I knew, almost instinctively that, although I loved Yorkshire, I needed to leave Leeds. I had had enough of landlocked city living and needed some space, and I longed to live somewhere by the sea. My first thought was of moving to North Wales but then, after speaking to friends, I decided that I would go and investigate the possibility of living in Spain. Emigrating to a hot country suddenly appealed to me. I wanted to run away as far as possible from the cold hurt of my loss and so I booked myself a holiday – the first holiday I had ever taken alone. Under the summer sun, with orange groves stretching as far as the eye could see I fell in love with Valencia, the area I had chosen to investigate. I spent my time traveling around the area luxuriating in the heat, swimming in the warm blue sea and enjoying the hospitality and friendliness I encountered. The idea of living in what appeared to be paradise became ever more appealing and so, on my return to England I began to prepare to sell my home.


Before the house finally sold I decided to spend Xmas in Spain. I arrived at the coldest and darkest time of year when the night temperature fell below freezing. Various difficulties became apparent which I had failed to consider in the summer heat. Firstly houses in Spain are built to lose and not retain heat and the villa we had rented for the season was like an icebox at night. A calor gas heater provided the heating and I, with nerve damaged hands, was incapable of actually lifting the gas bottles. Other heating was provided by a fan heater which ate electricity at an alarming rate. The days were warm and sunny – it was even possible to sit out on Xmas day in a tee shirt and celebrate the season with a glass of wine. But the nights were a cold and uncomfortable nightmare. There were problems with the language – I was insufficiently prepared for a life without English speaking neighbours. I drove in Spain but always with my heart in my mouth, being unsure of which way to go at roundabouts and crossroads, misreading road markings, and managing to lose myself on many occasions.


My two children flew in, and they too blew hot and cold over the idea of the move to Spain. True, it might be wonderful and provide them with some kudos having their mother in Spain living in a villa complete with swimming pool where they could invite their friends for summer holidays. However, they could both see that the country was not for me. I looked at the mountains and pined for England. I had never experienced homesickness before and the feeling was devastating. The soil was red; the park had no grass just some trees and a stony path or two. The landscape was dust and rock, resembling a lunar landscape to my eyes attuned to the blue green grass of England. There was no water anywhere and never once did a cloud darken the sky. The sun shone all day every day and I tired of the harsh light and the bright colors. I yearned for England.


I realised, almost as soon as I arrived that I could never live in Spain. My dream, born of desperation and grief was an illusion. I returned home, took my house off the market, and decided to stay in Leeds and make the best of my life there. Shortly after my return I met the man I will soon marry and now find myself living on the Wirral. It is not quite North Wales, but when I walk along the seashore I see the Welsh mountains beckoning from over the River Dee and I am reminded of the holidays I spent there with my late husband and my children. The shore is either beautiful or interesting depending on which way I walk. My late husband was in the merchant navy when I met him and as I watch the tankers and container ships turning slowly into the mouth of the Mersey I think of the sailors on board coming ashore having spent many weeks at sea and I try to remember the stories my husband told me about his seafaring days and his homecomings and I feel a connection with his spirit which I did not feel living in Leeds, even in the house we had shared for so many years.


Shortly after meeting my new partner, and soon after my return from Spain, I was introduced to the beautiful county of Shropshire and we spent a few days at the Long Myndd. I had never been there before, but, standing on top of the Myndd and looking across the green valley before me, I recalled the miserable Xmas I had spent in Spain and finally knew that in returning I had made the right decision. I love living in the UK. I love the green countryside, the hills and hidden valleys, the little country cottages, milltowns, market towns, and villages. I have no desire ever to leave these shores again for longer than a week.