Dreams of Home

Going back to my childhood

I have a dream. But unlike Martin Luther King’s mine is a little more material, less elevated. And considerably less noble. Or maybe I should try another less political, more literary line: Last night I dreamt I went to… 16 Bridge St… again.

Okay, let’s skip the pretensions. Forget Daphne Du Maurier. This much is true. Often I daydream that I become wealthy enough to buy back the house of my childhood: 16 Bridge Street in Hungerford, Berkshire. My dad bought the property, a Grade II listed building, in 1964, to start his own business as a jeweller and watch repairer. The front of the house became his shop, he installed a large shop window that remains to this day, and the rest of the house was the family home to all six of us.

We were there for about three years before bankruptcy forced us to move, virtually overnight, to a newly developed council house in the village of Kintbury, a few miles down the road. A bit of a come down, I guess.

16 Bridge Street was seriously old. The date of the current building goes back to early 17th century, although it is first recorded in 1470, being the land and property of Sir Walter Hungerford and then John Dighton with common rights for two horses and four cows.