When my father passed away last year we were faced with mountain of grief we are only just beginning to process – in these circumstances 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.

For them the house was a step up the social ladder and a chance to raise their family in a semi-rural setting.

My parents were 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 70’s until this year it has been the one constant in the ever-changing landscape of the lives of myself and my two brothers. 

The four walls of the house have been witness to the trials and tribulations that took place within our family over a 47 year period.

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.

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 plumbs of smoke. With Dad’s friends 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 around an enormous table. 

Summer evenings sat on the doorstep as we played in the garden or on the road and winter nights around the fire listening to the wind whip across the roof.

In the depths of the winter 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, kick can and hare and hounds.

It was by no means as idilic 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 over and over again 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 that was once great and beautiful and belonged to us and our childhood

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

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

It is not our house any more  – we are simply the custodians waiting for a 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 constant in our family life. 

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

Now that has to change and we must leave it behind.

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