They move houses mainly at night when traffic's much lighter. It's common, though, to meet a house when driving. Once, Dad, unused to driving on hills, took "a shortcut" across the mountain to see Gran. Boy, was he angry when, turning into the bottom of the road, he had to give way to a house. Five miles an hour to the summit. Mum said it had taken the cathedral a week to cross the road. Dad got even madder when we spotted that behind the house's net curtains, a family was moving about, having breakfast, reading the newspaper. Their little boy waved to us, smiling. Then all the traffic suddenly stopped moving. The road was too narrow for the house to get past and some rock had to be chopped off the side of the mountain. The boy jumped out and ran back to ask if I liked games of cards. Dad growled at him "No, he hates them!" Anyway, it was more fun watching the lorry driver and his mate - out of the cab now and stripped to the waist – chipping away at the mountain, though Mum was so upset, she started crying. Last year, back in his home town, Dad took us to see the house he was born in. Tram tickets aoss town no longer cost two pence as before, but he said the road looked the same. Round the corner, we'd see the house. But - it just wasn't there. Dad couldn't believe it. The garden he'd played in,the patch of long grass. For the rest of the day, he just wasn't himself. And he'd never before looked so long and so deep into the eye of a grazing sheep.