Never been before, so I made sure to include it on our itinerary this time as we traveled through through the UK. In fact, during my research I stumbled upon a darling Secret Cottage tour, where a local husband/wife open the door to their very own thatched roof home, located in the heart of Moreton in Marsh, just outside of London.
A small team of their friends picked us up at the train station, and treated all thirteen of us to three well-timed spreads of delectable treats and tea, along with a guided tour of the neighboring villages that make up the Cotswolds. It was like having friends that lived in the area pick us up and show us around. It was quite simply, heavenly.
What stood out to me?
The DOORS.
It is always the doors.
When I was a child. we spent lots of time on the road. Literally, months at a time. We did not have a home of our own. We lived in our car. Much of the day was spent driving around, praying for the mercy and goodwill of a sympathetic relative, or often times, strumming the guilt strings of one of daddy's gambling buddies in hopes one would open his own door to us. Occasionally, when we did finally pull up alongside an abode of possible respite, I would lean my little torso out the car window, eyes opened wide in anticipation, fixating on the new mysterious door in front of me.
I found each and every entry way fascinating...
What was it like after the door? Who lived there? Are they nice? How did they get a house anyway? I need to go potty...This place is pretty. I smell something really yummy cooking...my tummy burns. Do they know how lucky they are?!
I wanna see inside. Please let us in...
Stepping over the threshold was always an awe inspiring moment for me, much like when our eyes adjust to the sudden light after coming out from a darkened room. It was an acclimation of sorts I never quite met though.
Doors, and the world beyond them: bedrooms with comfy mattresses and clean sheets and soft pillows, and heavy blankets for when it was cold, spinning fans for when it was hot; food to chilled and heated too, cooked; somewhere to bathe with running water and a sink to brush my teeth, with my very own tooth brush! All of this was a foreign entity to me; a very real place for many, not part of any reality I had ever known.
I desperately wanted a door of my own.
From a very young age, I found a deep longing to experience that kind of life only others lived; to brave the long arduous drive to this enticing land of the homeowners, to unlock the mystery of their ways--and may be (if I was fortunate) I too would live a comfortable life behind my own door one day.
I thought about this on our recent adventure abroad. My friends and I not only saw several pretty unique doors scattered among the Cotswolds, we were shown a gorgeous mansion owned by British actress Rachel Ward, that has been in her family for generations. We were granted passage through the (side) doors of a palace inhabited by a queen; doors normally reserved for heads of state. The general public was so anxious to see what was beyond her majesty's door, they pushed and clamored until we were all sardined into a big clump waiting to get a peak at how the monarchy spent her days.
Doors of all shapes and sizes, scattered all over the UK, were waiting for us to feast our eyes upon them, so we peered and pondered and peered and pondered some more, all the while never quite satiating our desire to acquire personal knowledge of what lies beyond the doors of the rich and famous. We looked until we were too exhausted to look anymore, because there is something about a place of residence, that we all find intriguing. There is something special about a place you don't have to knock first to enter.
I was reminded of this during our flight home. The plane seemed to cross the Atlantic in slow motion.
I was tired, frustrated and losing my patience. I was done.
Here's the thing: I love to travel. I am brave, and resourceful. I eat to get by. I am able to walk anywhere, and my sense of danger is fine tuned, my sense of directions sharp. I remain calm. I pay attention. I am like Macgyver: if I encounter a problem, I can fashion a safety net our of a hair pin and some dental floss. I am fearless, and self sufficient. A gift from a childhood lacking in everything.
But when I am done, I wanna be home. Behind my own door.
I worked hard to have my own door.
I designed my own front door.
Hired a talented artisan to take my glass and iron design and make it a reality.
I now love my door!
I don't have to knock first before I enter MY DOOR.
You know when you've been gone on a long trip, or on the road for hours, and you cannot wait to get home? Well, much of my childhood was spent on a road trip that did not end for a very long time. We just kept driving. And driving. And driving...for months on end. All I could fantasize about was walking through a door that was mine. I wanted to land somewhere.
That is what I was reminded of on the plane that night crossing the ocean.
I wanted to go home. The home beyond that glass and iron door, with a wreath I had hand made just for me. The door I possessed the key too. A home where life beyond that door is a good honorable life I made for myself...
And guess what?
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