Just beyond Dinas Mawdwwy in the north of Wales, nestled at the bottom of a great sloping hillside there is a beautiful quaint cottage. Surrounding the cottage, acres of green bracken punctuated with grey mossy rocks and arching trees can be seen from the kitchen through it’s rustic stable door. A huge fireplace warms the house through, though you need to be careful not to bash your head on the low hanging beam just above it.
In my very first few blogs of Left Leg First I described the nasty encounter I had with cellulitis last summer. The cottage described above is that same cottage I retreated to upon being discharged from hospital. It’s a very special place for me and for all my friends and we have visited it every year for the past decade. It’s a peaceful place full of character and every piece of furniture seems to hold a different story and a different memory. The mugs hanging from the rack never seem to change. The beds creak and the cupboards are full of dusty boardgames with clues to answers I’ve rarely heard of. A freshly brewed pot of tea always sits on the table and muddy boots, damp jumpers and raincoats hang in waiting by the door.