A piece of prose detailing the emotions and reactions of somebody re-visiting a place that seems familiar, and the experiences he enjoys
Haunting owl-calls sounded, as he approached, just before dawn. He saw it launch itself determinedly from the ancient oak, unaware of anything but the prey below. He trod so carefully that damp grass sprang back when he'd passed, and the sweet smell of morning dew made his nostrils quiver with delight.
Undisturbed for many years, the small wood around the house was alive with the early morning calls of waking birds. Dewdrops, like diamonds, shone rainbow-bright from cobweb settings. Natures necklaces at the rising of the sun.
An urgent impulse had driven him to come here, after a desultory glance, at a photograph in a shop window. He'd been summoned by some wizardry that only nature understood.
Four centuries since these foundations were laid. Years which, in some way, called to his very soul. As light breezes set leaves shivering, almost noisily, he felt at one with everything around him.
The strident sun was rising majestically behind the house, which seemed to shiver with the sudden warmth, wrenched unwillingly from slumber. His eyes drank in the wondrous sunrise, awestruck. It seemed almost sinful to intrude.
At last, he was standing reverently before this building, which shouted history from every brick. Old walls upstaged by lush green ivy, determined, seemingly, to overwhelm the crumbling stucture. Despite it'ss neglect, it was a proud building, haughty in its open invitation.
They'd said he'd not need keys. Unoccupied for far too many years. Stepping through the solid, old oak door, he was overwhelmed by deja-vous. Giddy with the heady wine of prior knowledge that he couldn't have. Never in his life had he been here before.
Yet it felt just like re-visiting an old friend. Peeling paintwork was compelling, crumbling plasterwork so familiar. No surprise that the hallway presented a broad sweep of an intricate wooden staircase. Once highly polished, as it curved magnificently upward, it still cried of craftsmanship long since forgotten.
There was a tangible feeling of belonging. Intrigued, he headed into the musty interior, to what he 'knew' to be the kitchen. Sloping, worn stone flags were the floor. He stood before the huge old open fireplace, 'feeling' the cook's apron 'brush' his thigh in passing. The phantom aroma of roasting lamb wafted over his eager face, and suddenly he was drooling.
The house vibrated with times past. Laughter of children. Joy and sorrow.
Family history. All this and more shouted from the very walls, and he exulted in the joy of it. He closed his eyes and pictured the splendour that this place had known.
This wasn't simply an old house. It was a treasure-trove of memories, and he unconsciously danced to music that had once reverberated round the happy household. Time passed, unnoticed, as his transportation through a thousand unkown memories enveloped him. Voices echoed, eerily, as he lost himself in delicious wonder. Parting from the house was somehow painful.
As he walked, reluctantly away, he knew he'd re-discovered the ancient roots that all men crave. Looking back, he sensed the house smiling in some inanimate way. He had to buy it. Once, in a life he'd never known, he'd been deliriously happy here. He wanted that feeling again, this time round. He was finally coming home.