From Clara Alden, to Mum and Dad
Hi Mum,
Hi Dad,
We made it. All four of us—alive, intact, and only mildly sticky from snacks, motion sickness, and Theo’s heroic effort to eat a peach without using his hands.
We rolled into Golden Hollow just after sunrise. Misty roads, winding like they were trying to keep secrets. Ivy had her nose pressed to the window the whole time, asking, “Do you think hobbits live here?” Then without missing a beat, “Or fairies?”
It’s that kind of place.
Even David, ever the realist, looked impressed. Though I did catch him giving that last Greywick sign in the mirror a final glance—like he expected it to chase us down with overdue council tax.
The welcome sign here is handmade—painted wood, cheerful script, and a few wildflowers tucked into the edge. It said:
“Welcome to Golden Hollow. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”
I laughed a bit. Then cried a little. Then blamed it on lack of caffeine and Theo humming the Trolls theme song for the last hour.
The cottage is straight out of one of those films you always love—stone steps, climbing ivy, and a window that looks out over a little community garden. There’s even a chicken coop nearby. Ivy already tried to name them all (in glitter pen, on paper), and Theo asked if he could sleep outside with them.
We didn’t unpack much that first day. We lit a fire, made hot chocolate, and let the kids fall asleep on the rug while David and I just sat there. No phones. No noise. Just… presence.
It’s unnerving, a little. But also—I can’t explain it—there’s room here. Room to be something other than tired.
I won’t lie and say it’s all perfect. The air smells like moss and earth, not Wi-Fi and concrete. That’ll take getting used to. I already miss the sound of the bakery downstairs from our old flat. But I don’t miss the rush. Or the thrum. Or that constant feeling like we were always late to something important.
We’re here for work (as you know), but maybe we needed the space more than the jobs.
Anyway, I’ll write more soon. Give Theo a few days and he’ll be sending his own letters—complete with stick-figure maps and dramatic tales of chicken escapades.
All my love,
Clara
x
“It’s not just quieter here. It’s kinder. Even the silence seems to know we’re new and trying.”