At last, we've settled into No. 2 Doe Park just off School Lane, among the ancient beech trees and moss of Much Woolton, Liverpool. Woolton, at 200 feet, is the highest spot for miles and was once the site of an Iron Age camp. We live across the lane from the grass sweep of Camp Hill park, named for the camp or its myth. In Camp Hill park is a Victorian walled garden, a small and blue-bell filled forest, magpies, stock pigeons the size of cats, and a magnificent view down to the John Lennon airport and the sparkling Mersey beyond.
Doe Park is a collection of 5 houses looking in to a shared grassy green. Our neighbors are "Neighbor Jane and Dave", "Across the Way Jane and Dave", Neil and Louise, and Julie and Scott and their big, pink Weimeranner, Bleu.
Everyone is rather dauntingly friendly. They all gave us "Welcome to Your New Home" cards when we arrived. I met Neighbor Dave face down in the gravel of the drive, with his arm down our shared drain hosing out a clog. He then mowed our little garden and lent us a 1898 map of Woolton.
Our green catches the last of the afternoon sun, the pink and rosy brick of our houses surrounding it is very Mediterranean. Louise and Neighbor Jane were drinking wine in the sun, and talking about Spain (Louise hadn't wanted to give her dad a watch for his birthday, so she took him to Seville). Everyone was laughing and Louise's husband, Neil, came out to join us with their baby, Madeleine, and a large glass of something golden with ice. I said, "That looks refreshing." and he said, "It's Magnus. It's a cider. Try it." And I did. And it was.
