Over the years I've seen that confirmations of life decisions come in all sorts of guises. On Saturday I had the best indication ever that we had made the right decision buying Coneysthorpe.
It was a pheasant. It was sat in the middle of the road close to the house, and only took off when we were very close. I was so surprised as I didn't know that this country HAD pheasants.
There is a backstory. Some of my earliest memories of childhood involve pheasants, and they were all linked to Coneysthorpe. My great aunt was housekeeper at a stately home which had regular pheasant shoots. She was rather partial to the birds, but alive, not dead. So she would encourage them to hide out in her cottage garden, bribed there with lots of maize and other delicacies. It wasn't unusual to open her back door and find a live brace of pheasant sitting, waiting patiently for breakfast, as tame as the cats who were glaring at them jealously from the roof of her garden shed.
Then there were the pheasants we received from my great uncle who worked in the Estate office of the stately home. Dad used to pluck them for Christmas dinner and the cat was allowed to play with the feathered wing.
So, my heart skipped a beat when Mr Strut My Stuff Pheasant appeared, a wonderful promise of new memories made at a different Coneysthorpe.
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