In January 1947 my mother suggested that as Gale was now nearly three and a half Peter and I ought to have a weekend together leaving her to baby-sit. So, rather nervously, we left her in charge one Saturday morning and caught a coach out of London. I don’t even remember what county we went to, but there were beech hangers. When the coach stopped at what looked like a nice pub we got out and went in for a drink. I don’t think we knew the name of the village, but the pub, although a bit posh, was very welcoming. Large coal fires were burning in the bars and the solid-looking tables and chairs were old and well polished. The beer was good too, and so was the ploughman’s, plentiful and not ridiculously expensive. So we asked, and they did have a double room which we booked. Yes, they did evening meals – when would we like to eat? – as it got dark so early perhaps at seven.

We explored the countryside round and had afternoon tea in an afternoon tea shop – villages had them in those days. Then we people-watched and talked, enjoyed our very good meal, more drinks before an early bed.

Next morning we got up pretty late, but not too late for a Sunday morning breakfast of bacon and eggs – obviously rationing was not very strict out in the countryside. The sun was shining as we left the pub and the air seemed quite warm. Peter was carrying his walking stick, an essential accompaniment for a walk. As we passed the last cottage we heard the unmistakeable sound of a hunt in the distance, then saw, weaving its way between the beech trees on a hillside, first the dogs and man with a horn, then the well-groomed horses carrying men in pink coats and women in black, a couple even riding side-saddle. We both disapproved of hunting but despite this found the sight entrancing – trees and ground both thick with the rich tan of leaves framing the picture. It was magic.

For a while we were silent as we left the village behind, content just to walk together – then we began to talk, to talk properly about our future. Peter certainly wanted to continue teaching, but we didn’t want to share my family house for ever. And Peter had always said that eventually he wanted to live in the country, and to write. I had always lived in London, and was not sure if Peter’s dreams of authorship and a country cottage were just pipe dreams. Maybe if we uprooted he would find he didn’t like it after all! Anyway he really liked the job he had, and we were still paying off his college debts and the Kent Education Committee and had no savings or furniture.

So I made a bargain.

“All you need with which to write a book are determination, paper and pen. If you will write one, then I will live in the country.”