Sue celebrates her special place.
The last vestiges of autumn’s glory still clings to the trees, pale gold and copper against the damp-blackened bark and vivid green of the English countryside. The stone-built cottages, many of them still roofed with ancient slabs of sandstone, or the dark grey slate that echoes November skies, look warm and cosy with their lights casting an orange glow to soften the shadows.
There is something reassuring solid about these homes that have seen so many people pass through their doorways over the centuries. Their chimneypots vary from the purely prosaic to the fanciful, creating a landscape all of their own high above the village streets. Even the ruined castle on the hillside has a permanency about it, though after nearly a thousand years it is a mere shell of its former self.
It is no wonder that so many people come here on holiday in the summer, when even…
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