I’m dreaming of visiting the village where my great grandmother used to live. Our family still owns her little hut with a well in the front garden and a toilet at the back of the house. I haven’t been there for about ten years, maybe a little less; eight or nine.
Our family also owns a piece of woodland there and the wood itself was planted by us, too. I’m not sure whether I remember it, or remember it through stories and photographs, but I was there and was three then; we were all there. Me, my mum, grandma and grandpa, grandma’s sisters and brothers and their husbands and wives. My uncles and aunties and cousins, around the same age as myself.
I don’t remember any other time when we were all there together, although it could have happened again, when great granny Marysia died, but I don’t have many memories of that.
Maybe we’ll visit The Great Fields (this is how the name of her village translates) soon. I think end of the summer would be the best time. August, preferably, the harvest. But at the same time I’m dreading to find, that it’s not at all like I remember it any more. I’m dreading to find new, tacky pavements running along the main road, tarmac, where there used to be paths made of limestone and fossils, and other signs of the stinky progress.
But we should find out what it’s like, this year or another.