Heads, hands and hearts.

Late in the 1970’s, my father was horrified to discover that he and my mother could no longer afford to live in Britwell, the large house they had bought when they first married. My mother was actually rather relieved that it was time to sell. The idea of moving into a home that did not need an intimidating amount of help, including the chap who came once a week just to wind all the clocks and another whose sole job was to close up the endless shutters each night, was rather welcome.

The Grove was nowhere near the scale of Britwell, but my father's brilliance still turned this dower house into the perfect country home…