When I was growing up I used to love the fields of cheshire. Every school day I was driven, in a taxi, the fourteen miles from Congleton to Winsford, a patchwork of fields stretching each side of the winding road into the distance. I also used to drive my powerchair up the lanes to Swetenham. I loved how tranquil the fields  looked, how they smelled in the peaceful country air. It’s the only thing I have really missed since moving to London: of course there are  plenty of wonderful  parks, but they aren’t really the same.

Today, however, I found something special. I was out on my usual stroll this afternoon when I decided to check out Eltham Palace. I  hadn’t really gone that way before, and I felt like a bit of exploration. What I  found, I must admit, amazed me: a beautiful 1930s house built onto a medieval tudor hall. It was  highly  romantic  and evocative, instantly transporting me back to the hot golden summers of the twenties and thirties. I half expected Ian Fleming, Earnest Hemingway  or (dare I say it) Mr. Toad to appear from somewhere.

The real treat for me, though, came when I went down the lane past  the house and gardens. It was ancient, completely untouched by the metropolis; fields, populated by grazing shire horses, stretched either side. For a few moments as I drove my powerchair along it, I was back in Cheshire on my way to school, or heading up the lanes to Swettenham.