the heath
‘We’re off to the heath!” Such excitement whenever my father made this announcement. It happened perhaps just three or four times a year and when it did it was always a special day. Almost seventy years of summer sun – for we only ever went there when the sun was shining – have passed and the memory of those innocent days still bring joy. Much later the heath became my place of refuge when sadness threatened to overwhelm me; under the great tree that had witnessed my journey into adulthood, its shade restored and healed me. Many summers have passed since I last sought the shade of the great tree Going to the heath involved ritual. The ritual included packing the picnic that my mother had been busy making; the ‘paste’ and cheese sandwiches, rock cakes that required the currants to be removed before being eaten (“no, mummy, they look like eyes”) and the steel Thermos flasks of scalding hot water for tea. No tea bags in those days so teapot, loose tea and strainer were all added t
