It seems that every GPS system in Britain is stubbornly programmed to completely ignore Kitehill Lane. Wedged in between two major roads, this part of the town of Edgeton nestles among stretching fields and patches of woodland, yet is not at all well known. In fact, I would argue that the chaps at Domino's Pizza play rock-paper-scissors to decide who'll deliver our order, because the poor fellow that ends up with our address will be circling the area for hours trying to find us, pointlessly attempting to contact us on his mobile, the ntework on which will not be working.
You see, Edgeton covers an area of 1,959 acres, a greater part of which is arable land, meaning it has to be navigated via a network of country lanes that one may loosely associate with a bowl of spaghetti. Yet while this does mean that I can wake up every morning to a view of dew-damp fields and trees whose leaves have been edged with intricate patterns of frost, it also means this has to happen at 6:30 AM due to our neighbours' delightful cockerel, who then seems to hibernate for the day. At least we don't live next to a pair of old-aged pensioners. No, last year's Christmas card from our neighbours came signed from 'The neighbours from Hell', so I can't complain they're dull.
From my understanding, they have been living in the area for a while, and farming on the land, although now a lot of it has been sold. Their family used to own our house too, which turns out to be part of the reason our pizzas are always squashed and cold by the time they arrive two hours late. How does the history of our property affect that we eat at midnight on Saturdays, you may ask? Well, all of Windmill Lane used to be part of a much larger farm, and to keep things simple, somebody decided to name every one of the houses the same thing. There's Mayleaf, Mayleaf House, Mayleaf Grove, Mayleaf Barn… need I go on? And conveniently located down a one-way road that few seem to acknowledge the existence of.
Nevertheless, once you've got used to the fact that nobody will ever kick a football over your garden fence, or knock on your door for trick-or-treat, you do realise it is a truly pleasant place to live.
Our house is spacious, and located at its front, after a stretch of emerald lawn, is a sprawling orchard of the area's renowned Victoria Plum trees. Each and every year as the summer rolls round innumerable amounts of the shiny purplish fruit swell in the boughs of the trees; each year the adults shake their heads and proclaim that after such a plentiful harvest next year's will be nowhere near as abundant. Yet they seem to be mistaken, as year after year we collect bags and bags of the succulent fruit. The only problem is, you can't eat plums for three meals a day, even when presented in a myriad of forms, whether that be plum jam, chutney, sauce, crumble, or whatever other disguise my affectionate Mother manages to come up with for them. In the end, after the freezer is crammed and every friend and acquaintance has received a bagful, only then will it be accepted that we have not allowed the fruit to go to waste.
Then of course, there are the joys of the letterbox. Being located at the top of a gentle slope, our property has a rather extensive driveway leading up to the actual house, and due to the clearly tight schedules of local postmen that simply do not have the time to drive up that terribly long ten metres, our letterbox is hammered to the gate. I say 'letterbox', but would like make it clear that this rusting, ancient, metal cuboid is far from a suitable container for our post. Thought it was bad enough having to go out in the rain to retrieve the newspaper? Well, at least you won't be the only one to get wet, because the paper will be soaking by the time you've grabbed it. That's right, the beloved contraption leaks as well.
Yet despite all the downsides, all those things I might rant and rave about, this is home. It's the place where no noisy neighbours disturb us at night, because all you'll be able to hear upon stepping outside is the eerie call of a passing owl or the whistle of the wind. There are no street-lamps to block out the twinkling glow of a million stars in the sky, and no view could possibly replace the one outside my window: the rolling green of a field patched with purple clovers, and several horses grazing peacefully behind the silhouettes of leafy trees. To me, the grass on this little patch of land could never be greener, even when blemished with the occasional molehill or pothole.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have some soaking post to sort through while I wait for my week-old pizza.