Its pale terracotta mud and stud walls undulate, textured and uneven. The upstairs window stares down, a single eye framed by an arched, spiky straw eyebrow. Green paint flakes and crumbles from the rough plank door and there is an uneven gap at the bottom, worn with age and rain, providing an entrance for toads and snow on winter days. The door latch is black with age and use but still gives a sharp click as you enter the hall. The red tiled floor is set on earth and lazily undulates as you walk along. There are two steps into the parlour, which is dominated by an inglenook fireplace, overarched by a huge black and grainy beam. supporting the chimney wall. To the right of the iron grate is the bread oven. An iron door stands guard hanging on strap hinges and securing it shut is a heavy iron bar. No longer in use it is a reminder of its once important status in this modest cottage. The room is square, the white walls a contrast to the black oak beams, home to spiders and other shy creatures. Opposite the inglenook is an open tread staircase, finishing in a trap door. Climbing up, you use your head to push it up into the bedroom above. There the wide planked floor slopes down to the eyebrow window, giving you a slightly drunk feel. The bed is supported by 2 books under each of the rear feet, which prevents you falling out of bed at night. The bed stands against the central chimney and its warm to the touch as the fire downstairs warms the whole house. There is a cupboard in one corner and inside the plank floor is raised where once there was a mouse nest full of chewed paper, wool and once a partial plate of dentures. The ceiling has the same oak beams as downstairs but tar blackened twine hangs at regular intervals where they once secured the original thatch. There is another door leading to the second bedroom where every year red admiral butterflies hatch from who knows where, so its always called the butterfly bedroom. There is a steep set of stairs going down to a door at the bottom leading you back into the long hall. Every inch, every nook and cranny of this 300 year old mud and stud cottage has a story to tell and I was its custodian for 10 short years. It was a warm in winter and cool in summer, a living, breathing home.

This is the cottage I saw in my minds eye, when at five years old, I read the story of Little Red Riding Hood. I was sure her grandma lived in one just like it. But it was another fifty years before I found it and was privileged to call it my home.