Losing home – part two

Almost three years after my first meeting with Dali, I walked down the aisle and, in the sight of God, my family and friends, I gave Dali my solemn vow, my “I do”, for better or for worse.

In the year leading up to our wedding we had seen each other briefly at Christmas, (my first Slovak Christmas and the first Christmas I had ever spent away from home-cabbage soup, fish and poppy-seed covered bread balls seemed like a poor replacement for roast turkey with all the trimmings, but that is another story). Since Christmas our only contact had been letters and an occasional expensive long distance phone call.

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Losing Home

You need to understand about me that I am a homebody at heart.

I didn’t set foot outside the United Kingdom in the first decade of my life. School holidays were mostly spent in the magical setting of my grandmother’s home in the village of Talsarnau in North Wales, overlooking the estuary and the italianate village of Portmeirion in the distance. Occasionally we made it as far as South Wales to see my other grandmother. The furthest I ever travelled in those first 10 years of life was probably a week-long visit to Edinburgh, which, at the time, held all the fascination of a foreign country for me.