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I remember we went to that house as children.
Small,missing slanted hut among the trees,around a high hedge and old,bent under the weight of ivy gate.
We used to go in the morning with dolls,put a big blanket on the grass and pulls out small plates and cups.
It was our big picnic.
I still remember like today the smell of wild roses that grew out of the corner house,blue eyes smiling happily notes,lily of the valley growing intoxicating scent around and birds chirping in the trees.



In the summer,we pick berries and strawberries to jugs.Sometimes we invited the guys-village hooligan-on tea but they still prefer to play in the pirates.
They always climbed on the roof and a trailer to a tree torn sheet,which was the sail,tying frontlets over one eye and pretend to roll naval battles ever.
Always choreographed amazing stories about that little house.Once it was a poor girl`s house,which was transformed into a beautiful bird of paradise and flew to another country,another time it was a home the gamekeeper,who understood the speech of animals,the sometimes cottage was floating on a flying carpet like a house of great magician.
When we grew up my friends come here with their boyfriends.
More than one hurts were engraved on those trees.
A long time no one was visiting from the yard of the old hut.My friends are already married and leaving for others village.
I was not sure if this house is still there,and maybe even"turned to ashes"of old age but how I get there at all.
I followed the dog.He knows the way.
Among the tangle of ivy and morning glory,which sank my dog and my bare feet,between the tall trees boldly climbing up,among the bushes cling to my hair I saw something amazing.