LUXE Serendipity magazine

As we drive through the red gates of Beamish, time seems to fade away behind us and, as we turn down a farm track, we find ourselves travelling back to the 1820s on a sleepy Sunday afternoon, with nothing but the farm animals for company and a sense of peace settling over us almost immediately.

A gaggle of geese turns in the clearing ahead, their honking carrying across the fields, and as we emerge at the top of the hill, a scene worthy of any Turner painting unfolds before us, with horses standing quietly in their coats, geese wandering across the grass and the rolling countryside stretching away beneath the soft afternoon light, and for a moment it feels as though we really have stepped out of our own time and into another.

We arrive at Drovers Rest a stone cottage overlooking the Durham dales and the world seems to become still, with not a sound in the air apart from us and the occasional noise of the animals outside, and as I step into the little 1820s cottage and look through the windows towards the rolling fields, I feel an enormous sense of relief, as though I have been carrying the weight of the modern world around with me without even realising it until now.

My partner’s anxiety, however, rises slightly at the thought of being away from all the mod cons and everything we have become accustomed to, although this thankfully drops considerably when he discovers that there is still internet, which somehow feels like a very twenty-first-century solution to our nineteenth-century adventure.

I look around at my surroundings and take in the small farmhouse kitchen, the table and chairs, the Chesterfield, the grandfather clock and cabinet, and the old bathroom with its brass fittings, and it reminds me so much of my great-nana that there is an instant familiarity to it, as though somewhere in the past I have seen all of these things before.

Candles have melted into their holders as if they have only just been snuffed out, the shutters are open, pots are scattered everywhere, and the whole cottage feels as though somebody has simply stepped outside for a moment and might return at any time, which is what makes it feel so much more than a place recreated for visitors; somehow, it feels lived in.

It really is a time warp.

This is Beamish, and this is the beginning of our journey back in time, and I cannot wait to see where it takes us.

I look out at that view and sigh, because there is something about it that makes you stop thinking about everything else and simply be present in the moment.

Later, one of the most beautiful sunsets begins to spread across the fields, the light slowly changing as the day comes to an end, and I find myself watching it for longer than I normally would because there is nowhere else I need to be and nothing else competing for my attention.

I run a bath and then mash a brew, and somehow these ordinary little things feel different here, perhaps because life has been stripped back to its simplest form, so I smile as I prepare the ham cobs and make tea, imagining that this is what evenings must once have felt like when there were fewer distractions and people had the time to simply sit, eat, talk and enjoy being together.

I sit reading in the candlelight and the dim glow of the oil lamps, watching the shadows move gently around the room, and there is something incredibly relaxing about being surrounded by such quiet, knowing that outside there is nothing waiting for us except the darkness settling over the fields and the occasional sound of an animal in the distance.

Eventually, after my bath, I head upstairs, and although it is a little chilly in the bedroom, we have the warmth of all three of us sharing one little bed, huddled together beneath the blankets, and somehow the cold only makes the whole thing feel more cosy, more intimate and more connected.

It is a wonderfully simple night, and as I drift off to sleep, surrounded by the people I love and wrapped in the quiet of the old cottage, I feel a closeness that I realise I have missed.

I wake the next morning to peace and birdsong, with the soft sounds of the countryside drifting through the open shutters and the gentle morning light beginning to fill the room, and for a few moments I lie still beneath the blankets, enjoying the warmth and the quiet and remembering what a wonderfully cosy night’s sleep we have had. I greet the sunrise from the balcony and it wraps me in its warm glow.

It takes me a little while to finally get up, and it is only later, as I begin to get ready for the day, that I open the blanket box, lift the heavy lid, and find the blankets tucked away inside.

I take one out and gently place it over my sleeping loved ones, and in that simple act I feel an unexpected tug at something deep within me.

There is something about the blanket, its weight and warmth, the familiar smell of old fabric and the simple act of unfolding it and placing it carefully over the people I love, that makes me think of my maternal grandma and the comfort of being cared for as a child, of those small, almost invisible acts of love that stay with you long after you have forgotten the details of the day.

For a moment, I feel the pull of her.

Perhaps it is because this cottage feels so familiar, or perhaps it is the way that stepping away from modern life has made me more aware of the little things that connect us to the people who came before us.

I think about the women who wrapped blankets around their children, who prepared meals, lit fires, made tea and cared for their families in ways that were often quiet and unremarked upon, yet became woven into the memories their children carried for the rest of their lives.

And now, without really thinking about it, I am doing the same.

I pull the blanket a little higher around my sleeping loved ones and smile, feeling that familiar maternal instinct rise within me, grateful for the warmth of the people beside me and for the strange, beautiful way that the past can sometimes bring us closer to those we can no longer hold.

Perhaps that is what I am beginning to understand about Beamish.

It is not simply the buildings, the costumes, the horses, the cottages or the way everything has been recreated so carefully that makes you feel as though you have stepped back in time.

It is the memories it awakens.

The smell of old wood, the candlelight, the brass fittings, the blankets in the box, the quiet of the countryside and the simple rituals of everyday life all seem to reach backwards through generations, touching something familiar inside us.

Sometimes you need to go back to basics to appreciate what you have in life, because when everything else is stripped away, it is not the things we miss that matter most, but the simple moments we so often overlook  – a cup of tea, a warm bath, a good book, a beautiful sunset and the warmth of the people you love beside you.

And perhaps that is why, sitting here in this little cottage in the 1820s, I feel closer than I have done in years, not only to the people beside me, but to the people who came before me too.

For a little while, the past and present seem to meet in this small room.

My grandmother is there in the blanket, my great-nana is there in the cottage in spiit, I walk their shoes, and feel connected.

And my loved ones are here beside me, sleeping peacefully beneath the warmth of something that has somehow carried more than just its own weight through time.

I look around the little cottage, listen to the birdsong outside and smile.

Sometimes going back in time is not about leaving the present behind.

Sometimes it is about remembering just how much of the past we carry with us.

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