One of the things I love about going home - Hampshire (UK) home - is the coming together of family and all the stories that are told. The retracing and remembering, the laughter and loss.
Many are like old firm favourites that have been told time and again over the years as we sit huddled around giving our version of events, maybe even embellishing a little here and there, memories starting to play tricks on us.
And then there's the photos that come out at any given occasion and where in the past I would cringe at the endless baby ones - not that one with the dimples....again! Now I search faces of old and new, the past and present trying to seek any kind of recognition in the faces of my own.
The story that intrigued me the most on my last visit home was one of my great grandparents - Albert and Hilda. I have heard many a tale about Hilda over the years, but I never realised they had been laid to rest so close to a place I had lived most of my life and love.
So one bright and early cold Sunday morning with hubby in tow we went looking for my great grand parents.
The story does not end there, but I can say we did find their headstone plus much to my worrying mind, another little robin followed me all the way around our walk jumping into as many pictures that I took as he could.
I know many of you have said Robins are messengers, but even the frequency of their appearance in my life recently is starting to make me think 'is this a good or bad message?'
I'm hoping the first, but just in case you were wondering...I think this is a place I would like to end up - when my time is up.
The church in the woods.