When my Father passed away last year we were faced with a mountain of grief we are only just beginning to process – this is of course to be expected.

What I didn’t expect was the depth of the sadness at the prospect of saying goodbye to Sapgate Lane – a house which has been in our family almost half a century.

Perched at the top of a hill in the semi-rural village of Thornton – every square centimetre of that house holds some precious memory for me.

My parents bought the house in 1977 when I was two, my brothers four and six.

Mum and Dad had both been born into working class families and had grown up in modest but big terraced houses. Go back another generation and their parents were part of large families living in tiny cottages.

Sapgate Lane was a far cry from these humble roots – detached, four bedrooms, gardens and far reaching rural views.

From the late 1970s until this year it has been the one constant in the ever-changing landscape of the lives of myself and my two brothers. 

As a home it was loud and always busy – the doors were flung open most of the time, whatever the weather.

We usually had at least two dogs and two cats, a collection of hamsters, gerbils, mice and the occasional pony tied up outside.

The porch was full of muddy wellies, riding boots and trainers and plants in a varied state of life and death.

The décor in every room was bright, flowery and loud and under a constant regime of change as my Mother fell out with one design of bright flowery wallpaper and changed it for another. For a good while the outside was painted bright yellow.

It felt like there was a continuous stream of people going in and out of the house; whether that be friends of mine or my brothers, various kids from the street, family or neighbours. 

Back then – I guess before social media – it was perfectly normal for people to just turn up. My Mother’s friends were often nattering away in the lounge under plumes of smoke and Dad’s friends periodically arriving to stare at various cars or motorbikes in the drive.

My Dad ran his TV repair business from the garage and it was stacked high with televisions, wires and cables. People would turn up to drop televisions off or just to chat.

There were birthday parties, family milestones and Christmases with grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins around an enormous table. 

Summer evenings sat on the doorstep as we played in the garden and winter nights around the fire listening to the wind whip across the roof – the house was so high up it was always windy.

In the depths of the winter the snow seemed to pile up to the windows. I have many memories of digging our way out. 

We played football on the road using the neighbours wall, hide and seek in the garden and kick-can on the pavement at the front of the house.

It was by no means as idyllic as I’m perhaps making out. There was always someone shouting. The rows and family arguments were legendary – with doors slamming and various family members storming out on a very regular basis.

But we always came back – it was our haven and somewhere which represented continuity and safety as we all negotiated the perils of childhood and early adult-hood life.

It changed beyond recognition in 1999 when my mother suddenly became terminally ill with cancer and died aged 51.

Dad’s attempts to honour her memory by keeping it exactly as it was, ironically, only illuminated the fact she was gone.

She had changed everything in the house regularly and dramatically – carpets, curtains and furniture. For the next 25 years the house became quiet and would see little change in décor.

Despite this, it still felt an enormous comfort for me to return, particularly with my own children and be where we had all experienced so much life and happiness as youngsters.

I could feel my Mother’s presence in the house whenever I visited and it was a wonderful gift to have.

When my Dad died last year the house immediately became dark and lifeless. If a house can have emotions it felt sad and lost.

It has broken my heart to go over with my brothers and clear the house of trinkets and memories – some of which I’ve kept but many we have had to get rid of.

It felt like we were dismantling 47 years of something once great and beautiful that had belonged to us and our childhood

We also knew, however that the time had come for a change and it had to happen. 

Last month, after much renovation work, the house started to look different. It felt like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon – it had come back to life.

It is not our childhood home any more – we are simply the custodians waiting for new owners to fall in love with the place as my parents had done all those years ago.

Without any of us really realising it Sapgate Lane had been the sixth member of our family. The sturdy constant in our often turbulent lives. 

It will be extremely difficult to say goodbye when the day comes to hand over the keys.

I feel remarkably fortunate to have grown up in this special place and had that permanence throughout my childhood and early adult life.

Whatever had happened in our lives;  job losses, divorce, break ups, grief and fall outs there was always Sapgate Lane to go back to.

The time has come for that to change, we must leave it behind and move on.

For now, we will hold the keys and prepare for when a new family arrive and begin their own adventure in a place we have been lucky enough to call our home for so many years.  

Finally….. if you’re interested in a lovely house in Thornton