Howdy kids, were good weekends had by one and all? Mine was nothing to write home about, meaning two wholly underwhelming and utterly despair-worthy weekends have been suffered consecutively. In a bid to banish such boredom, I’ve taken to scaling the Surrey Hills like a mad man. Sunday saw not one but two ninety minute hoofs with the Little Mummy, pooches (admittedly we left them behind for walkie numero dos- don’t judge, Plum has a heart murmur thus can’t expend too much energy- well that’s what we like to think anyway) and I navigating the bridle paths of the South East like seasoned hikers. A struggling social calendar- one of the not so fabulous consequences of shunning university- did mean that I could knuckle down to some photo-faffing, however. Every cloud, eh?
I’ve spent weeks and weeks agonising over the image layout and mentioned such a maison more than a few times, so to finally bring Butterfield House to your attention is ever so slightly satisfying. The late Victorian abode- yes, I am going to get my history teacher on- is home to some absolutely brilliant family friends. The sorts of chums with whom one takes an impromptu boat trip down the River Thames in nothing more than a glorified dinghy- with a small member falling overboard and an outpouring of laughter taking priority over any throwing of rubber rings. One heck of a priceless day, that one.
The home of said chums secured a place on my mental “Houses That Are Absolutely Bloody Lovely” list just moments after stepping through the front door a few years ago. Why, you ask? The polished floors are among the many reasons; pull on your slipperiest socks and you will be shimmying from room to room like nobody’s business. There are two staircases; the stuff childhood chasing game dreams are made of. Where else, other than the IKEA catalogue, would you find a wooden swing hanging from the kitchen ceiling? Though now stashed away in the loft, such a kitchen accessory was installed so that tot number five could be pushed until his heart was content during the unloading of all dishwashers. A house of lovable nutters you say? Abso-bloody-lutely.
Aspects of self-amusement aside, Butterfield House is architecturally ahhh-may-zing and tickles more than a few of my interior fancies. So before I add yet more to the wordcount, I can only suggest your go fourth and soak up some Monday goodness.