There were several villages within spitting distance of the practice, which was just outside Stratford-upon-Avon. Jack was enthusiastic about living close to the surgery, declaring that he could even cycle to work in the warmer weather. Eventually we had plumped for picturesque Avoncote, largely because of the house we had discovered there. We fell in love with Wisteria Cottage at first sight. It was one of two semi-detached houses, set apart on a short stretch of road towards the centre of the hamlet. Uneven cobbles winding to a frontage festooned with lilac blooms beneath a thatched roof; endearingly small and perfect for newly-weds expecting their first child. Yes, there was a good deal of work to be done and we were going to have to throw some serious money at the place – something we could ill afford, the mortgage stretching us to the limit – but the location was ideal, and the house had such potential. We moved in at the end of April, the whole summer stretching before us, leaving several months to prepare for our forthcoming arrival.

The chocolate-box village itself, quintessentially English and slightly twee, with its small, close-knit community, seemed like the answer to our prayers. It was like something out of a Miss Marple novel. There was a village green, complete with stocks – thankfully no longer in use. It even boasted a maypole. Next to the green, a large circular duck pond was enclosed by a low wooden barrier. The spire of a beautiful old church pierced the skyline, its immaculately maintained graveyard filled with generations of the village’s former occupants. Beyond the church, a canal passed through the village, the towpath providing a scenic walk towards the centre of Stratford.

The local pub, The Green Man, was an impressively wide sixteenth-century building, constructed in honeyed Cotswold stone and adorned with numerous colourful hanging baskets. A huge swinging sign stood before its doors, bearing the image of a dark green but benign-looking male face, peering through foliage peppered with red berries.

A general-store-cum-post-office and a doctor’s surgery were only a stone’s throw from our front door. There was a little primary school, which looked charmingly old-fashioned, its yard brightly painted with hopscotch grids, and various lines and circles for other traditional playground games.

The whole area felt timeless – a complete contrast to the soulless, crime-ridden city we knew as home. I was brimming with excitement at the prospect of building our future in such idyllic surroundings and of giving our child the best possible start in life. No drug peddling on the doorstep, no worries about leaving the door unlocked for more than a minute in case someone burst in wielding a baseball bat demanding our life’s savings. The stories in the local press before we finally waved goodbye to our former home had become increasingly alarming.