MOAT HOUSE, OLVESTON Near Thornbury Castle and Aust Ferry, there is first Tockington, and then, Olveston.  I approach the long-forgotten familiarity of Church Lane: its turns and gradients. Over thirty years on, Moat House looks heavier, rather than lighter.  Its occupant answers the door: Reginald Crouch; recently retired Methodist lay preacher; ninety-three. He does not know me, but recollects my late parents; together, we remember his late wife, Daisy; through her, I remember myself – my inner child: I bring my stilted past into the doorway of the present. Daisy, fresh as infancy, is imploring me to play more, to put on shorter dresses; to be open-throated. Moat House has an aroma of home-cooked meals, floral soaps, pre-motorway hedgerows. The place seems heavier now, like its owner: who slowly uncovers his past; embraces his present – those visits from middle-aged sons; grandchildren.  Safe on his threshold, safe within the frame of Methodism – he begins his goodbye. Copyright © JENNY JOHNSON