It was all I knew: a radical, hippy, back‑to‑nature fantasy where children and adults were meant to be equals. But was it as idyllic as it seemed?
It is July and we have packed up our house. We are what is called a Single Parent Family. It is 1978, and being a Single Parent Family is not good; we are the only children like this in our classes at school. We’re leaving behind our climbing frame and our garden, and our guinea pigs, Victoria and Albert, and we’re going to live in a mansion. We slide on the sweaty back seat of the car for hours. At the bottom of the drive, Mum pulls open the car doors and we fly outside, landing on a gravelled courtyard. A giant house rises up like a fairy castle, so big we cannot see where it begins or ends. We scramble up stone steps – me, my sister, Claire, and our little brother. I am six years old.
After we arrive in our utopia, sun charges through our days. It sends rays through the 100 grimy sash windows and around an 18th-century monumental staircase. In this house we move from the “we” of a family to a “we” that is collective. There is rupture and upheaval, cutting and pasting. Those first weeks, there are meetings about everything. The world must be made up: the house, the people, the language.
Continue reading… It was all I knew: a radical, hippy, back‑to‑nature fantasy where children and adults were meant to be equals. But was it as idyllic as it seemed?It is July and we have packed up our house. We are what is called a Single Parent Family. It is 1978, and being a Single Parent Family is not good; we are the only children like this in our classes at school. We’re leaving behind our climbing frame and our garden, and our guinea pigs, Victoria and Albert, and we’re going to live in a mansion. We slide on the sweaty back seat of the car for hours. At the bottom of the drive, Mum pulls open the car doors and we fly outside, landing on a gravelled courtyard. A giant house rises up like a fairy castle, so big we cannot see where it begins or ends. We scramble up stone steps – me, my sister, Claire, and our little brother. I am six years old.After we arrive in our utopia, sun charges through our days. It sends rays through the 100 grimy sash windows and around an 18th-century monumental staircase. In this house we move from the “we” of a family to a “we” that is collective. There is rupture and upheaval, cutting and pasting. Those first weeks, there are meetings about everything. The world must be made up: the house, the people, the language. Continue reading… Family, Books, Culture, Society, Social exclusion, Life and style
