Our house is old, not early settlement days old but from the early 1930s.
Same age as my mum actually.
It was built to maximise the sun in the living areas during the cold winter months and then it manages to keep the sun out during the heat of the summer.
In the autumn and spring though we find ourselves clinging to the edges of the house, following the sun to warm us when it's no longer necessary to light the fire for warmth but the mornings are chilly.
The kitchen in particular, though light and spacious is designed to get almost no direct sunlight.
Cooking in this house in it's early years was done on a wood stove, hot work I'm sure though for all but the hottest months the warmth of the cosy stove would have been welcomed.
The cook was saved from an overheated kitchen as the sun wasn't allowed to add any extra heat.
At this time of the year though, at around 7am, a narrow stream of light bursts into the kitchen, just near the stove, at the spot where I have always, though no longer, prepared school lunches.
With only Kate still at school she makes her own lunch as does the man of the house.
I always thought of this sunlight as a special little gift, just for me.