There was a time when, as young girls living in Italy, my sister and I would curiously inquire:

“Daddy, is England up in the air, among the clouds?”
“Daddy, is English our secret language?”

These questions, which we delighted our father with, encapsulate the enchantment of our summers with Granny and Grandpa.
Nothing was more exciting than spending the holidays in Park Pale, Dorset, where they used to live. The thrill would start as we embarked on the journey, whether at Pisa airport or along the country roads leading to Park Pale. Park Pale. The name was enough to get us wound up. And as we drove down the muddy lanes that led there, the excitement quickly turned into laughter, screams, and - eventually - tears. We could not possibly keep it all in.

We cried before arriving just as we cried, every single time, when we had to leave our spot of paradise. Park Pale was like entering a world of fun and creativity, full of new and exciting activities as well as old favourites that we could not miss and had to be repeated each year. It was much more than a stream of activities, it was first and foremost a feeling that Granny created for us, the feeling that she indeed lived among the clouds in some magical world.

Each year, we did indeed make a list of “Things We Want to Do in Park Pale”. The list was often overambitious, but Granny never let that discourage us. In fact, quite the contrary, she made it her priority to tick as many activities off as possible. Some of our evergreens were:
-          Playing Poo Sticks
-          Making Lavender Perfume
-          Swimming in Ringstead
-          Baking Cakes and Biscuits
-          Dressing up and Acting (…she even managed to get Grandpa involved as a priest!)

Age difference wasn’t really that perceivable with Granny. It always seemed like she loved doing exactly what we did.
As children, any food or smell to do with England brought us back to Granny’s magical world and thus instantly triggered our excitement. I’m not talking about very pretentious triggers, in fact among the top three are: raisins, earl grey tea, and burnt toast.

The light in Granny’s eyes and her young spirit were for me a sign of her unwavering faith in life. She loved lending a helping hand and had a smile for all, no matter their background, looks, or age. I remember her inviting the postman for a cup of tea once in Cob Cottage and treating the lady delivering flowers to her as if she’d just received a pile of gold. In fact, I don’t think she would’ve cared so much about the gold.

Two years ago, Granny took me with her on a trip to the isles of Scilly. There, I had a special chance to listen to her stories about life and about her parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents. Granny’s thirst for life was ever-present. One morning we were snuggled up in bed together and she started telling me anecdotes about her father, her eyes lit up. Then, at the breakfast table, we were told conditions weren’t promising to make the crossing to Tresco island but that the boat was going to go out anyway. Slightly concerned that she could fall ill with the strong wind and heavy rain, I asked:
“Granny, do you think it’s sensible to go?”
To which she answered, “we can’t always do what is sensible in life”.

The blackberry walk in Ringstead was one of the last moments I had with Granny. One morning, en route to the White House, Granny expressed her desire to pick some blackberries along the way. So, eager to savour some time with her, I joined her on the walk. Though her steps were slow, I found no impatience within me; rather, I treasured the opportunity of being there with her. As we ambled along, I couldn't help but reflect on the pace of life, witnessing Granny's serene acceptance of her own. Waiting for her didn’t make me feel impatient; rather, it deepened my appreciation for her journey at that stage of life. Yet, despite any limitations her body imposed, Granny embraced life with contagious enthusiasm.

I truly didn’t feel any age gap between me and her, our connection was ageless. I believe she felt ageless too, as she would often remark, “you need to remind me I’m not 34 but I was born in 1934”. Her way of life imparted me with profound lessons in living each moment to the fullest no matter what.

The last time my sister and I spoke to Granny was on a videocall while she was in hospital, and she said to us:
“Can you believe you’ll have a grandmother who is 90? I better start behaving myself”.

Perhaps she really wasn’t ready to start behaving herself. In my heart, I feel that just as she was open to life, so she was to death. I believe her faith guided her in this transition too.