I was brought up in a small village, which meant I was quite bored for most of my childhood. I did a lot of reading, but my main hobby was visiting an old house on the edge of the village. Actually, it was the garden I visited. The woman who lived in the house was a bit of a recluse, but she told the gardeners to let us children come into the garden, so long as we left her in peace. She said a love of plants might rub off on us, and it was possible we'd learn something about growing things. It didn't work in my case — I was just interested in running on the lawns and climbing the trees that grew round the house. The gardeners were very busy, but they didn't seem to mind us noisy brats invading their territory.

We had theories about the owner of the house: she was an eccentric millionaire; she bred racehorses — there were always horses in the field next to the house; she was a famous artist (on the flimsy evidence that someone had seen sketch books lying around). But one day I was in the garden, up a tree as usual, and a group of people wandered past with one of the gardeners. They were American, and were saying they'd come to England to see some famous gardens, and this was their favourite. I couldn't believe my ears. The gardener said yes, the owner and her late husband had created the garden almost from nothing, and people visited from all over. Now I understood why there were sometimes strangers around, bent earnestly over the flower-beds.

The house itself was a no-go area. It was huge and dark. Village gossip maintained that most of it was closed up, and only two rooms were occupied. Looking inside from the top of a tall tree, I could see signs that the whole house was lived in, but the rooms looked like something from the 19th century, with heavy, ugly furniture. Though there was electricity and modern heating, the place looked uncared-for, almost dangerously so. There must have been holes in the roof from the number of buckets placed in strategic positions. The garden, on the other hand, was always immaculate, and must have swallowed most of the owner's income.

I grew up, moved away from the village, and became a journalist. One day I heard that the a big owner of the big old house had died, and soon after that I was sent by my magazine to interview the new owners. I went first to the village pub, to get the gossip. Rumours abounded. The house was going to be turned into an expensive retirement home, or a sort of health spa, or the neighbourhood's most exclusive restaurant. I went to meet the owners, who put me right. They were well-known figures in the catering industry, and envisaged the place as a holiday retreat for millionaires and film stars to stay in, a luxury hideaway. The garden was being preserved as a horticultural treasure, but where before it had been enjoyed by children and enthusiastic tourists, now it was to be appreciated exclusively by the super-rich.

Some months later I went back to discover what had happened to the house and garden. I had expected a transformation, but apart from fresh paintwork on the doors and windows, from the outside everything looked much the same. Inside, however, there were changes. No buckets for a start! The rooms were filled with antique furniture, and the decorations were elegant. There was an air of discreet luxury — and security cameras winked from every corner. I felt, with my meagre journalist's salary, perhaps I shouldn't be there at all. Was it just me, or was there a faintly unwelcoming air about the place?

But I was being unfair. The new owners were.hospitality itself, and very anxious for my approval. As I left, and looked at the lights from the house flooding across the garden, I considered I should be happy that the place was still standing at all. Probably my memories of the old building with its eccentricities were romanticized. I was glad I'd been back, and I was sure the village was benefiting from the trade these newcomers brought, though no doubt there was plenty of grumbling in the pub about 'strangers' and 'change for change's sake'. Putting regret resolutely aside, I turned to shout, "Goodbye, and good luck!" to the owners waving from the doorway.