I consider myself very lucky to have a room of my own. It’s a room that was once my children’s playroom, and then a TV room; but now it’s mine. And I’ve waited a long time for it … and, sometimes, I think it’s waited a long for me.
It has two windows, one facing north, the other west. To the north, beyond my big screen, I can see onto a drive, take a peek at who’s coming – and perhaps duck down; to the west, the other window looks out over a lawn, once a tennis lawn, framed by ancient beech trees and rampant rhododendrons, and where I often see deer: nibbling, chewing, staring back at me.
My room is in a house that was built almost 150 years ago, a house I moved into 15 years ago. It’s a house that’s played a huge part in my writing, and where my children grew up. But my room in this house is not just the room in which I’ve written three novels, it’s a room which has seen history and had many identities; it’s been a library, a study, and a dining room; celebrated Queen Victoria’s golden jubilee and diamond jubilee; witnessed the advent of mobility – with trains and cars – and technology – with the wireless and telephones, and two world wars.
Now, it’s a creative space, my sanctuary. Filled mainly with books – on shelves and in piles, it’s cluttered with photographs and postcards, lucky charms and talisman. There are paintings hanging upon its walls, crystals lying upon its slate sills. To say I love this room is an understatement. This room and I are connected in a profound way. I have sailed seas and crossed continents in this room; I have lost children here. I have lived lifetimes in this room.
The Memory of Lost Senses by Judith Kinghorn is out now.