Chapter: The Broadmead Years (1959)

In about 1959, when I was eight years old, my world revolved around a large, gracious house in Llandrindod Wells. Its name was Broadmead, and to this day it remains one of the most vivid places in my memory — a house filled with warmth, peculiar characters, and the sense that childhood could stretch on forever within its walls.

Broadmead belonged to my grandparents, Reginald and Freda Perrott. To me, they were simply Grandad Reg and Grandma Freda, two steady pillars in the shifting landscape of childhood. The house was impressive — the sort with deep windowsills, polished banisters, and a wide hallway that seemed to hum quietly with its own stories. Every floorboard creaked as if to say, Someone has walked here before you, and someone will walk here after.

Although Broadmead was my grandparents’ home, they weren’t alone there. The top floor was let to two tenants: Aunt Eira and Mrs Simkins.

Aunt Eira wasn’t related to us by blood, but in those days any respectable older lady who kept an eye on you was called “Aunt.” She was a schoolteacher, and she carried herself exactly as you might imagine — tidy hair, sensible shoes, a voice that could silence a classroom or soften into kindness in an instant. She lived with books neatly stacked, papers arranged in orderly piles, and an air of gentle discipline.

Mrs Simkins, who lived in the same apartment, was quieter and more reserved. She spoke softly, kept her rooms immaculate, and always seemed to be in the middle of ironing something or organising something, as though running her own private ship up there on the top floor.

When I stayed at Broadmead — and I stayed often — my grandparents’ tenant-lodgers became part of my daily life. Aunt Eira in particular took me under her wing. She would appear on the stairs, purse in hand, and say, “Come along, Stephen,” in a tone that suggested no argument would be entertained. And off we would go.

Some days she took me to the school, empty except for the echoing footsteps of teachers preparing lessons. I marvelled at how different a classroom felt without children in it — a vast, quiet place waiting to be filled with noise and questions.

Other days she brought me into town, where I learned the shape of Llandrindod Wells through her eyes — the shops she liked, the people she knew, the little corners she thought “a growing boy ought to see.” Sometimes she simply took me for walks, explaining things that adults thought children didn’t notice: how the clouds sat differently over the hills, why certain flowers grew in one spot and not another, how to behave in a proper manner even when no one was watching.

Back at Broadmead, life followed a comforting rhythm.
Grandad Reg was always busy — never fussed, never hurried, just a steady sort of man who seemed to understand everything that needed doing.
Grandma Freda had the gift all grandmothers of that time seemed to possess: she made the house feel safe. Her presence filled the rooms — the smell of her cooking, the sound of her soft voice, the way she seemed to know exactly where I was at any moment.

To a young boy, Broadmead was almost magical. The stairs were long and winding, perfect for adventures. The hallways felt enormous. The rooms held little surprises: an old photograph, a forgotten trinket, a drawer that hadn’t been opened in years. I spent hours exploring, inventing stories, and simply existing in that gentle world my grandparents created for me.

There was no rushing then. No sense of time slipping by.
Just Broadmead…
Just Grandad and Grandma…
Just the quiet shuffle of Aunt Eira’s shoes and the distant clinking of Mrs Simkins’ teacups upstairs.

Looking back, those Broadmead years were some of the most peaceful and secure days of my early life. They anchored me — a calm, dependable centre from which the rest of my life would eventually spin outward. The adults might have thought it was simply babysitting or keeping a child occupied, but to me it was something far greater.

It was belonging.
It was home.
It was the safe beginning of a life that would later become far more unpredictable, adventurous, and at times chaotic.

But whenever my mind drifts back to childhood, it always returns first to Broadmead — to that beautiful old house, to Reginald and Freda’s kindness, and to the gentle guidance of a schoolteacher named Aunt Eira, who walked me through the world one careful step at a time.