Sea-side cafes in winter, with steamed up windows and limp gingham curtains...thick white cups of strong tea served by a cheerful girl...her hair dragged into an impossible beehive and sweat stains in her armpits...
The little thatched 'pub on the Atlantic coast at the end of January where the landlord lit a blazing fire and gave us huge glasses of Irish coffee...thick cream on the top and a spoon to eat it with and told me to take off my boots and warm my feet and a bowl of the soup will be here so...and it came in pottery bowls with a plate heaped high with thickly buttered soda bread...
Holding on tight to Jorge 's waist as he pedalled slowly up the steep hill from the 'pub in the mountains...drunk as a lord so he was, and laughing all the while, as the bicycle slipped and slithered on a narrow road covered in glittery ice while foxes barked and the moon hung low in the night sky...
The first meeting with our tiny foster daughter who we grew to love and cherish...she with the foxy head who would never grow old...bent double, with skinny fingers endlessly entwined, she brought us love and joy beyond anything we could have wished for ourselves.
Picking up sweet crispy apples from the orchard on the farm and wrapping them in pieces of newspaper to be put in wooden boxes in the creaky attic...ready for the Christmas.
That sweet heady scent of the two milking cows on warm summer evenings while they stood in the parlour waiting patiently to be milked...walking back to the dairy with full buckets...careful not to spill any. Then back to the house down the path lined with beds of night-scented stocks...fat brown moths hovering.
Showing a sad Asian lady evicted from her rightful home by a madman how to use the gas cooker...and she, giggling like a girl with pleasure when her food turned out just perfect...
Eating tiny savoury dumplings with a Vietnamese 'boat family' in a terribly overcrowded ex RAF house...while we listened with sheer horror to the girl who spoke some English to the tales of pirates and rape and robbery...soft gentle voiced people who recounted tales of brutality but cared enough to share their food...small children standing by our sides tugging on my sleeve to show me a picture they'd drawn of an Auntie left behind.
Struggling to steer the Land-Rover while Father threw out food for Mad Mabel, the cow who became too dangerous to approach and had to be shot dead one day when I was at school.
Driving a souped up Mini car along Borth beach at speed and having it turn over and over again...clambering out and feeling nothing but dizzy for a while...
Sitting in a remote farmhouse way up in the mountains and listening to the old stories from an elderly Grandfather while sipping homebrewed poiteen as snow fell outside in soft white flakes...tales of the dreaded Black and Tans and hiding arms in souterrainns, while little children with flaming red curly hair came in to gawp at the strangers by the fire...
The first time I saw a photograph of my Irish Grandmother and realising I was seeing myself...
Night duty at the children's home in the middle of summer with the heady scent of jasmine coming through the open French windows...cuddling baby Diane and walking around the Italian garden with her until she settled...blowsy pink roses scattering their petals and hedgehogs snuffling in the flower borders...ripe apricots growing on sun-warmed walls.
And there is so much more of course.