The Roald Dahl I knew

In May 1962, I was recuperating from a nasty broken leg – the result of a traffic accident in Paris – at my husband’s aunt Margot and uncle Brian’s enchanting cottage about an hour outside of London in Hertfordshire. The Dulantys’ cottage, called The Fisheries, was built in the 1820s in the village of Chorleywood, in a Constable-like setting on the bank of the River Chess.

I spent the first couple of days mostly on a sofa in the living room, overlooking the painterly scene, enhanced by Brian’s peacocks. The three pairs strutted around the property, displaying their gorgeous plumage and screeching as if they were the rightful owners.

But on the third day, boredom set in. The fairy-tale setting from my perch on the couch, along with the constant screeching of the peacocks, was challenging my sanity. Then Margot gave me a book she had received from Patricia Neal, a close friend who lived nearby in Great Missenden.