Shortly after my parents divorced in 2012, our family home in Hertfordshire was sold and my dad moved into 48 Wingfield Drive in Potton, Bedfordshire. He also bought a black and white Springer Spaniel – ‘Badger’ – who, because of a hereditary condition in Spaniels, rapidly began to lose his sight as a puppy. By this time my younger brother and I were both in University in London and, after finishing our first terms there, found that we no longer had the same home to come back to.

This was new territory for us all.
Potton became a place in between places for myself and my brothers – not exactly home but something like it. It existed for us as a kind of retreat from London, but it lacked all that we knew to be a part of our previous collective life as a family. New pieces of furniture, bought hastily to fulfill some recently discovered need in the new house, now sat uncomfortably next to the old pieces we had come to know well – the grandfather clock that had never worked, the desk where all the old and miscellaneous coins of the world would sit in the front drawer.

Each morning at 6am my dad would take Badger for a walk. I would always try to join him when I could. Through mist-covered mornings when the grass still kept hold of the night’s dew, Badger and my dad began to explore their new home.