Windrush                                                                               

Julian writes:
"I was born at Windrush.  
Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Hubert (they were really great-aunt and great-uncle) had bought this rambling Georgian house at Inkpen by the Berkshire downs in the 1920’s as a home for their four children and five nephews and nieces. The Aunt had leftish  political views. They lived without ostentation. Somehow the staff, cook, nanny and a gardener had survived war-time austerity. 
As a boy I remember being picked up at the railway station in the old black Morris.  Pebbles covered the drive into the house making a memorable scrunching noise as we pulled up to the front door.  The Aunt with her tiny stature and clipped Edwardian speech greeted us at the entrance.  The two dogs Jeremy and Jonah joined in the welcome. 
A handsome staircase led up from the hall.  At the bottom was a grandfather clock and gong, which was struck to summon the family to meals. We ate in the dining room leading off the hall.  Silver candlesticks adorned the large mahogany table.  Breakfast was self-service on the chiffonier under a silver cover: sausages, eggs and fried bread.  I never ventured into the kitchen behind the green baize door through which cook brought the food.  The book-lined study where Hubert spent most of his day was another no-go area.  Opposite was a drawing room with an open fire and here we spread our toys on the floor and were tolerated by the grown-ups behind their books and newspapers.

Everything was comfortable but slightly shabby, with redecoration a rare event.  The bath plug was tied to a tennis ball and the brass beds so high that I had to climb on a suitcase to get in.  Warm houses have only become the norm in the present generation.  In those days Jack Frost adorned the morning windows with his delicate patterns.  Jug and basin sat on the marble washstand.
Family walks with my mother pushing a pram might be round the lover’s walk, which surrounded the big front lawn.  The tennis courts had been taken down and the concrete lined leaky fish-pond was drained and empty, a magnet for small children brave enough to slide down its steep sides. We might perhaps venture into the village and watch the activities at the saw-mill. Occasionally we would borrow the aunt’s car for a picnic on the downs under the gibbet.  
I was still only eight when, after Hubert had died and the “children” grown up and gone, Aunt Dorothy sold Windrush and moved to Dorset.  My memories are inevitably thin and tinged with rose-tinted nostalgia".



Windrush



Aunt Dorothy and
uncle Hubert



The expanding family