Sometimes, I daydream. I allow myself to indulge in a cliche. My ideal home. A home imagined in memory of childhood books, films, travels, loves.
The house in my mind is a rustic house with flowers around the door. A busy, wild front garden and an expansive back garden with weeping willows for hiding under, apple trees for pie-making and an old tree stump, loved and kept for summer potion making. The children run through the trees collecting leaves and shrieking. It is a happy place.
Inside, through often-open double doors, there is a kitchen, with reddish stone floor tiles, an AGA in the corner, and the smell of fresh bread and finger paint. In the centre of the room, a large, wooden table – the centre of our home, a place for cooking, craft, games and meals. (The table above is from Verty Furniture – beautiful, isn’t it?)
In the adjoining room, an open fire, huge sofas and comfy chairs, covered with oversized cushions and rugs. A dresser (like this one from Willoby’s Furniture) filled with far too many nicknacks – little bottles, coins, pictures, carvings, Victorian utensils, school-trip keepsakes – just like the dresser I remember from a childhood spent in my mum’s kitchen.
And of course, everywhere, in every room, there are books. Thousands and thousands of books. Books accrued through childhood, through university, through pregnancy, through times good and bad. Every one with a story within, and the story of how it found its way into our home. Liberated from their storage boxes at last, the books sit dustily on shelves of all shapes and sizes, like these from Satara Furniture.
It’s a goal of mine to make that house real, but if it stays a daydream, it’s still worth it.
Product imagery via Verty Furniture. This is a commissioned post for Verty.