IGCSE NARRATIVE AND DESCRIPTIVE WRITING EXAMPLES

GOING HOME

WRITING PROMPT: Write a description of a family home.

The sentiments of returning to my family home were immeasurable. I started feeling anxious about half way up the road and now was just comforted to be back again. As I strolled up the cobblestone walkway, the sheer nostalgia of everything I could see, hear or feel captivated me for what seemed like several minutes afterwards.

 Entranced, I relaxed on the warm wooden bench next to the wisteria ridden arbor my father had built when I was a child. Directly above me brownish-gray house sparrows were making loud cheerful chirping sounds which melted across the front garden and seemed to welcome me back home. 

As my eyes took in my surroundings, the sky seemed perfect, an azure blue hue with the softest accents of white. Only smidgens of clouds dotted this perfect picture of spring, the sun was somewhat sheltered by the gorgeous cascading climber of mauve flowers that draped above my head, providing just the right amount of warmth. 

Taking in the sweet smells of Jasmine and turning my head to the right, I could see a group of mallard ducks splashing in the small pond in the field. Some dove head-first, feet upwards, delightfully hunting for their morning breakfast as their white tail feathers wiggled in movement of the rippled waves. 

Further back, nearer the tree-line, a white tailed deer sauntered in the field as if proudly displaying his 5 point rack , while groups of boisterous bunnies playfully jumped and dove in and out of the mulberry bushes as they hopped towards the forest. Near the property line, neighborhood children in brightly easter coloured outfits shrieked and ran through the fields as the dandelions, blooming now, flew seeds into the air. I sat up and looked left, across the arbor towards the ornate wooden door of my childhood home with its stained glass windows, old-English charm and warm memories. I could still see my initials, M.S. carved along the filigree edge of the door. From the bench it had been half hidden by the curve of the overgrown rose bushes and tall hedges. 

From out here the dark green ivy that twisted up the house covering the brick was still a romantic view. The antique reds and blacks rectangles blended with the glossy shades of browns, olives and whites mixed with the occasional budding roses from the climber that decorated the walls between the ground and the impossibly high clay-tiled roof. 

I was reluctant to go inside, after all these years. So instead, I looked straight out to the garden and studied the worn out tire swing that still hung from the strong branches of the age-old oak tree–I still remember my father's deep hearted laughter as he pushed my brother and I, and the smell of mom's crisp and cinnamony home-made caramel-apple pie baking in the oven. At the furthest edge of the garden a larger wrought iron swing where my parents used to enjoy an icy cold lemonade on a hot humid summer's eve still remained, perhaps in better shape than the tire, moved somewhat ghostlike, squeaking slightly back and forth in the cool morning breeze. 

I shifted a little towards the edge of the smooth pebbled walkway, and gazed directly towards the unusually wide front door. Going inside didn't seem like such a good idea now. The wind refreshingly swirled around my body as if comforting my mourning soul, but the shadows cast beneath my feet held me back. I wasn't brave enough to enter yet, too many ghosts of the past lurked inside. I would have to walk back the way I had come, and possibly try again tomorrow.