My Living Room by Irisi

My special place is my living room.

When I think about the memories that drift into my mind, my heart falls asleep and drifts off to Pixie land. One of my favourite memories is when I and my family are full after a tremendous dinner, because we would snuggle up on the sofa, we would hug each other and we would watch movies, funny or sad, together. There are so many memories that I have had, so many, that in fact, I can’t remember them all.

The smells that have drifted into my nose make me relaxed and calm. I have smelt the gorgeous scent of my mother’s cooking laid on the table, the aroma of scented candles, and my favourite one, the freshener that let out Madagascan Vanilla that excite my nostrils. It probably won’t excite you that much, but if you come to my house, you WILL get excited, believe me.

The sights that excite my eyes are the photos of me and my family embracing life together. There are photos of me and my family at Regents Park, having a picnic together, then later on we would take photos of us on the boat, sailing down the river, enjoying the view. Photos of me as a new-born baby, with a little white hat on my head. Photos of my birthday celebrated with a party and a big cake. Photos of all of my family celebrating Christmas and New Year with presents and the presence of each other.

The sounds that have vibrated against my gentle ear are the marvellous, joyous “sounds of laughter and the ‘Clink’ of the glasses after a toast has been raised. The sound of laughter, as we hear the jokes from the Christmas crackers, the sound of the forks being tapped against the plates as everybody east the glorious food. And during the meal, he who dares to have the pleasure, raises his glass, and proposes a toast wishing us “The best start to the New Year” or “ Merry Christmas everyone!” and then I have the delight to hear the ‘Clink’ of the glasses.

I have tasted lots of food around the world, but I wouldn’t even consider comparing them to my mum’s cooking in which I have eaten in the comfort of my own home. Tastes of freshly baked cakes with sugar icing on top, the delicious smell of curry, “crispy on the outside and juicy on the inside” turkey, delicious Russian salad, meats and my favourite, the one that is eaten last of all at Christmas, I give you… the creamiest tiramisu ever eaten, made by my dad.

I would usually put celebrations under memories, but they are so special to me, I feel like they should have their own paragraph in this writing. I can’t even remember the first time me and my family have not celebrated a celebration, no matter how important, in our living room, together. For example, my mothers birthday. The day before, we would go to the flower shop and select a beautiful selection of flowers, then hide them in the car with a pack of profiteroles, then really early in the morning, when my mum is asleep, my dad would sneak out to his car, get the flowers and profiteroles, and place them on the table with my card, oh did I forget to tell you about the card? I and my dad would usually order a card from Moonpig.com. Then, before she would wake up, I would tell her to lie in bed and I would secretly, make her a cup of coffee and bring it to her in bed. Then she would get up blindfolded (by me) and when she opened her eyes, she would see our gifts.  Oh such happy celebrations!

It may seem to you so strange that I would create a paragraph about the way we made it, but to me, a special place begins by choosing the colours together then painting and building it together. So first, we went to B&Q and chose the colours that we wanted, cappuccino brown, and light brown. Then we went home and started to paint it. It was so much fun; we dabbed each other with paint and had the best of fun. Then we went to IKEA and bought the furniture, a couch, a TV, a coffee table and places to put our C-D’s and etc.

I mean, can anybody resist all this?

Can YOU resist all this?

Petit Port, Guernsey by Genevieve

My Special Place

 My special place is Petit Port, a huge beach on Guernsey, the island where my grandparents live. It is accessed by a flight of steep concrete steps built into the side of the cliff; there are about two hundred.  At the top of the steps, the whole main beach is visible, the small side-coves hidden by rocks.

Most of Petit Port is filled with golden sand that begins after a rocky section by the concrete staircase. This sand stretches for about 100 metres. The beach is in the shape of a trapezium, with the widest part by the sea. The sand is fine, and the colour of golden syrup.

Dotted by the edge of the beach, near the sea, huge rocks sit surrounded by rockpools. These rockpools are a deep cobalt blue, sometimes stretching to a metre deep. When the seawater touches them, they ripple and undulate for ages before returning to their usual tranquillity. The rocks themselves tower over you, covered in barnacles and shells. Sometimes they are shaped into little channels by the constantly-moving water.

The sea on Petit Port is a shimmering, aquamarine blue that feeds hungrily on the sand. It stretches out with hardly a ripple on its surface. It’s freezing cold, though- its beauty is only for the eye to experience, as it doesn’t taste too good, either. When the tide is in, it covers all of the sand and comes almost up to the steps.

Sunset is the best time to climb down to Petit Port. The tide is out and the redness of the sun leaks out onto the sand, sea and rocks, turning everything crimson and gold. It was at sunset that I first discovered this beach, as I walked my grandparent’s dog and set him loose on the pristine sand.

My Living Room by Humaira

                                             My special place

My special place is the living room in my house, it’s where I go if I need to escape all the noise and the outside world, it’s where I can stay in peace and think with a clear cool head, and also where I can read without any interruption. The room is always left alone except on any special occasion or if I use it. For some reason it always has this cool cold atmosphere, for as soon as I enter that room the cold air starts attacking me, stabbing at me until at long last I get used to it.

The room also has its own scent surrounding it, a scent that consists of rose and a spice I can’t really put my finger on. But the scent is divine, calming, natural, and just perfect.

I glanced at the beauty surrounding the room, streams of sunlight pouring into the room from outside the windows, reflecting on the glass tables, chairs and the glass cabinet that holds the glass ornaments, most of this room is mostly glass, except the cream coloured walls and the blood red sofas.

The biggest reason this room is special to me is because of the photographs that surrounds the room, a whole bunch of memories, and that is why my special place is my living room.

By Humaira

Chalkwell Beach by Tilly

My special place

The stunning view of my Chalkwell Beach, always makes the corner of my mouth creep up into a slight grin at the first glance. The beauty of the water is so mesmerising. The temptation of the water has lured me in many times , I have previously jumped off a wall into the sea before, wearing my scarlet summer dress, just because of the waves. As I clamber over the wall surrounding the beach there are a dozen beach huts, all different colours. I am sad to say, but we do not own a beach hut of our own, but have often ventured over the top of the others.

 The sand is pale. It is lightly topped with grey pebbles and slimy green seaweed. But last, is the glistening turquoise water that reflects the suns rays over the beach. All I see is calm.

            As the beach is our regular part of the wide stretched land, my head is flooded with cheerful and exuberant memories, though sorrowful memories do come too, no matter how utterly rare they are. Last summer the sun was a blaring concentrated heat that burnt my winter pale skin. One day we had brought a small and discreet picnic to the beach. The sandwiches were cheese, it was slowly melting, and of a lovely supermarket taste. The crisps, well to be totally honest were wet. They were soggy and had a horrible texture. My sister and I were bored of the repulsive food and secretly threw it into the ocean.

            We jumped form the sand and headed into the shining water, beneath us. It chilled us but we still dived in. After being at this beach for such a long time we were simply bored and started to make up songs and dances. We had choreographed our own dance moves for a song called Popular from the musical Wicked. We showed our performance to our family and everyone was in fits of laughter. My mischievous cousin Sam had his new video camera out and videoed our dance. He still has that file and to this day has still not stopped trying to eternally embarrass us, and to the people we least wanted to see it.

            Splash. The waves settle down on the sand with a splash. This is the overpowering sound I hear when I think of the beach. The tough, blowing wind whistles in your ears on a cloudy day. The pebbles grind against my feet as we step onto stones. On a sunny day you could hear the children’s playful giggles from down the beach and the splattering of ice cream to the floor of the beach. The aroma of the hot doughnuts flow down the beach, emmanating to nothing. The strong scent of salt water lingers around my nostrils till I dive into the ocean and the smell of the water is all around me.

This is my beach.

BY TILLY

Dorset by Rosie

My Special Place

The Journey

I have only been to my special place once, but the memory will remain with me always. I discovered it when on holiday in Dorset at Easter. I remember having an argument with my brother, and crossly trudged up a muddy lane, wanting to be alone. My boots squelching satisfyingly in the oozing mud. A whiff of wild garlic made my nose fizz. The trees yawned and swayed above me, creaking like an old man’s ancient limbs. Their leaves whispered reassuringly and let golden sunlight peep through and dance on my shoulder. It tickled my face and hair igniting them with gold, fairy dust. Ferns like green fingers made a frayed curtain over the wild garlic covered banks. I found an interesting mudslide and scrambled eagerly up it. At the top there was a huge gate half swamped in mud and wild flowers. I vaulted it and peeped curiously through a marigold encrusted arch.

Through the arch I found a field. But it was no ordinary field. Daisies, marigolds, buttercups and dandelions littered the grassy, mossy carpet. I was alone. Alone with the azure sky and the sound of chirping birds. It was a wonderful feeling. It was as if I was suddenly free. Free to circle the open sky with the magnificent, dominating hawks above. I sat down on the soft grass that was my cushion and began to weave chains of flowers. I hung the necklaces, bracelets, rings and crowns round my golden head. I sat and dreamed of goodness knows what! I looked around at this heavenly place, never wanting to leave. The view behind me was astounding. Hundreds of fields were sewn together by the hedges decorating their sides. It looked like a patchwork quilt. The tiny tractors and insect people below me teetered about like dolls little imps and fairies from a dolls house! Suddenly it was time to go home. I slowly got up, annoyed at having to leave, but that feeling didn’t last long. I was calmed just by looking at the natural, innocent beauty around me.

I skipped past the lovely little river at the bottom of the derelict farm yard, past the marigolds sleeping lazily by the side of the gravelly path leading to the cute cottage that I was staying. I gave a cheery wave to the cows behind be that were dozing in the field and sleepily munching and chewing on the fresh green grass. In my room as I got ready to go to the local pub with my family after a strenuous game of Monopoly, I gazed out of the old, fantastic feature that was the window. It curved graciously out, leaving a beautiful window seat on which I had placed an old vase I had found in the kitchen. It was filled to the brim with shimmering marigolds, daffodils waving their smart yellow trumpets about and a delicate bouquet of blossom that filled the room with a wonderful, fresh scent. I had found all these pretty flowers in the garden and had produced a gorgeous posy. The double bed I was sleeping on was like the bed in the Princess and the Pea, the only difference being that every night was filled with a comfortable, soft slumber rather than an uncomfortable bruising!

The lane we had to walk down, to get to the pub, was fairly steep. On either side there was a shallow ditch lined and filled with little red stars and forget-me-nots. The pub, I seem to remember, was called The Horse Shoe. Its interior was typical for a pub but welcoming. All the bric-a-brac to do with horses and blacksmiths you could collect lined the ancient walls. The pub had a homely feel and the food was… DELICIOUS! After I had finished dessert which was a scrumptious bread and butter pudding, I couldn’t actually move. How I was going to be able to stumble down that dark lane home I did not know. But somehow I managed it and was soon slipping away to the land where dreams came true, under a mountain of blankets and quilts. I sighed. Aaahhh… and drifted off!

 By Rosie

The Rope Swing and Pool by Maud

My Special Place

The memories of a muddy ramp and stinging nettles take me to Sussex, to a rope swing in an amazing garden. The rope that is as strong as a bull swings greatly from a humongous tree. The tree towers above like a giant, overpowering a colony of ants, the only way to even seem as high as the tree is to swing on the rope! Even though the frayed rope seems untrustworthy, it’s as stable as a column in a castle. The higher you trudge up the squelchy ramp the higher and further you swing. When up there in the clouds your spirit is free to roam and you feel like you are 1000 feet tall. But your incredible time can be spoiled by the stinging nettles. When they attack they bring pain and agony to you.

The pool, the freezing bucket of joy. The place where I go numb with delight. It is caved off by fences and plants and there Sky (our friend’s dog) goes swimming with me. The tiles are all different shades of blue. It’s shape is curved and at the shallow end there are slow descending stairs leading to the bottomless surface. And when the thermometer goes in to test the temperature, when you hear the shrieks of joy you know the temperature is high. But when the grunts of disappointment reach your ears you know it’s bad news, the temperature is low.

The feeling of damp feet and soaking shoes and the sound of a deafening whistle. The green field, as boring it may seem, has memories that are unbelievable. Like the time Sky went outside, in the night and in pitch black, we were standing ankle deep in mud and marshy land. Surprisingly Sky was foraging through the nettles and thorns. After wrenching him out, causing his harness to come off, we had to drag him up the stony path to the comfort and warmth of the bungalow. The neighbouring field houses deer and sometimes cows. Behind the pool there is a forest of apple trees, holding enough apples to feed the five thousand. And down a steep ramp you get to the tennis court. I am not the biggest fan of tennis but my friend and I can pull enjoyment out of the picking of the weeds. They scatter themselves under and over the artificial covering of the ground.                                

My special place may not seem too special but it’s special to me!

                                                Maude

My Garden by Hannah

My Special Place: My Garden…

When, when I look, look back, I find, I recall wonderful memories and images, thoughts of the past, but none as so special as the ones of my garden. My garden is a whole world in itself, like a book that’s never been read but everybody knows the story. And I am going to read you that book, tell you that story, my story.

When I enter the garden, great quantities of colour and light flood my bewildered eyes. I look around at the blossoming flowers; the roses, their pink petals structured beautifully, and the foxglove, quite risky, almost poisonous in their ways. I also see tiny daises, dotted freely on the lush, green grass, and the fresh magnolia tree, in the corner. I wave ‘Hello’ to one of my neighbours as they peer out of one of the archaic windows of the old houses that surround the garden. I live in one of those houses. It’s not the grandest of houses, but it’s home, and it’s nice to be able to visit the garden whenever I want. I visit it almost every day, on my way to school, when I go to the supermarket, any time, whenever I want to. But the best thing is coming home to my garden; however I’m feeling, it raises me up.

Sweet sounds meet my ears when I walk down the rocky path that leads through my garden; the sound of the restless breeze moving the knobbed tree branches back and forth, and the sound of the bumble bee humming merrily to itself. And, as I look, and hear, all the little birds singing harmoniously in the trees, and the mellow shouts of children playing, I think to myself how queer, and also how miserable the world would be without sound. But, but I suppose, some people don’t know what sound is, they cannot hear. They cannot hear the little birds, or the children, oh, how dismal and colourless their life must be!

However, most probably, in the future, in about 200 years, or so, my little garden will be no more. The whole world will be in the ‘Space Age’, and no one will care anymore. They won’t care about the roses, nor the foxglove, or the magnolia tree, or bees, they just won’t care, they’ll just forget. My little garden will die, but the thoughts of it will live on in my mind, in your mind, and in everyone else’s who have read this story. My story.

By Hannah