Years ago, we lived in a back-to-front cottage. The back door faced the long driveway that led to the road, and the front one turned towards an endless paddock of chewing-the-cud cows. Around the cottage was what the real estate woman had called a yard: “It’s nothing fancy,” she’d said on the day when she’d shown me the house. Her yard was my garden, and my garden was my kids’ magical world. They loved the untidy grass, the crabapple tree,…