For some, their house is simply that; a house. A roof over their heads to provide them with the basic necessities in life such as a warm place to sleep, electricity to power their devices, a kitchen to cook their meals and a place they store their possessions. A house is purely bricks and mortar.
For me, my house is my home, 'my castle', and the place I feel secure and at peace. It has it's own personality and I'm a firm believer in the 'feeling' you get when you walk into a well loved home - the walls although brick would tell a million stories if they could talk, from not only my time occupying it but owners of decades past.
The first time I viewed the house I now lovingly call home, I quite frankly wanted to walk back out of the front door and never return. It was in a very sorry state having been repossessed and left empty. The amount of work needed to make it habitable was overwhelming but luckily my parents were the voice of reason and after several months we were handed the keys to begin what was a very testing few months of (quite literally) blood, sweat and tears. I was just 18 years young sitting my A-levels before beginning university.Over the space of 3 months we had the whole house rewired, replumbed and fitted a new kitchen as well as creating an en-suite by using some of the bathroom and then taking some of the hallway to rectify the space lost. My parents are luckily masters of DIY (they are currently building a detached house from scratch) and luckily with their help managed to do the majority of the work ourselves to keep costs to a minimum.I think the amount of hard work put into the restoration of the house has definitely played a large part in cementing my emotional attachment towards it. Not only has it been financially rewarding but it has also changed me and seen me grow as a person as well as watched me develop into a wife and mother.
And so I begin the blog of 'the home that made me'.