Showing posts with label moving house. Show all posts
Showing posts with label moving house. Show all posts

11.7.12

Old studio, new studio




The final moving day was just too traumatic for words - I'd been cleaning for days and still hadn't finished packing when a very hot and bothered Andy rolled up with a van which was too big to get up the lane. So we had to hump the last annoying odds and sods down to the main street, with an audience of various neighbours. It was humid, frenetic and exhausting. There were a few swear words uttered. We ended up leaving one or two things behind out of sheer frustration with it all. I said a last goodbye to the garden - the new tenants will find some healthy potato plants and Swiss chard.

Goodbye to my my old studio space - goodbye to the mouldy corner too!





Final packing - the cats.





Last one out, lock the door!



 

Goodbye to you at last, tiny little cottage - we had ten cramped but happy years in you, though Lord alone knows how we all managed. 







The hot weather finally broke as we left the village and the first rain for weeks started to fall - thank goodness the cab had excellent air conditioning. The cats howled all the way to Shropshire.






But they settled down later that evening, in their new quarters  - the kitchen, which is actually bigger than our old cottage drawing room






After all that, I only needed one thing, and could only find one thing to drink it out of.



 



Andy had already been here for some days on his own, and had unpacked what he thought were my most important studio things. My work desk, of course.



 


And some of my best treasures.


 



But there was still all this to deal with -


 


- which is now sorted. Most of my stuff is staying in boxes, as we hope to move into our own place before Christmas. (Famous last words?)






 That's better. Hello new, temporary studio.






And hello to having no proper garden - although I do have tomato plants, thanks to Andy's kind mum - whether they will come to anything in the wet, grey summer we are having, remains to be seen.





And - hello Shropshire! From here we can see Wales - there's nice.


6.7.12

Taking possession



A week after we dumped a van load of letterpress gear and furniture in our friend's barn, they returned to help us move the bulk of our things over to our new  - and temporary - home a few counties away. That morning we found a mysterious bag of cheese scones on the doorstop and I nearly wept, thinking of the good friends we were leaving behind. Getting the garden dug over and pots ready was also hard, remembering  the many happy summer harvests we'd enjoyed there. But not so sorry to leave behind the barking dog next door.





My poor studio - look away now, if you are ever contemplating moving your creative space after ten years. It hurts. Did you know that book cases whimper softly as they are emptied?






Our friend the fantastic Frank also gave up a day and loaned us the use of his van to help us. He is brilliant; a stylish cricketer, meticulous furniture restorer and all round good chap. He's shifted a lot of my junk around over the years, including helping me to collect my letterpress studio a few years ago.




This next shot describes why we are never again living in a 'character' cottage with twisty stairs.




 It is amazing how a huge pile of boxes...





...can go down so quickly...






...when there are many pairs of helpful hands...





...to clear it all...




...within less than half an hour! It was reminiscent of the famous Amish barn raisings, which have always made complete sense to me.




Naturally it was one of the hottest days of the year, but better than rain.





Strapping the futon base to the van roof.




And off we went in convoy, Custard the dog leading the way by nose.




Finally - our new base for the next few months. We made it!




While the vans were unpacked, we went off to collect the keys from nearby Market Drayton. We have left behind honey coloured Cotswold stone and gained black and white half timbered architecture.




We returned to this. Oh dear. That was just one van load.




And then we opened the doors. That's Andy's dad down there - more helping hands. 






Look - a corridor! Not had one of those before. And see the height of that ceiling - no more bumped heads.






Of course, I have the biggest and brightest room for my makeshift new studio.






Andy's lovely parents were there and his mum provided tea, served on my proofing press. They were splendid and stayed behind to look after the place.







While we drove back to the cottage. Again. Across the winding River Severn -





- to collapse with the cats. Still confused, but maybe not as confused - or anxious - as we were.


17.5.12

Packing up the cottage







Oh little cottage. I knew as soon as I stepped over your threshold ten years ago, that you were far too small for us. Two tall people - one exceptionally tall - and all my *stuff*. But I fell in love with your 240 year old stone flagged floor, your vintage cast iron woodburner (which has caused more than one chimney fire), your characterful beams.   Who knew that we would mould ourselves so snugly into you and fit even more *stuff* into your many corners and up the walls? 




Looking back as I pack up my thousands of beloved books, I find it incredible that we've managed to live in such cramped - if picturesque - conditions for so long. There is no way of stretching or moving with ease, no comfortable head height. Indeed, there is an ancient original beam (I think it basically holds you together), which has knocked poor Andy's head many a time.



Not forgetting the time I fell down your quaintly narrow, winding stairs and almost broke my neck one Christmas Eve.




My book collection seems to have mysteriously doubled in size. Ten years of village fete book stalls.






 So now, at last,  we are finally on the move. Paintwork is being re-touched (though goodness knows, you weren't exactly in tip-top shape when we first moved in).


 


Time to cull some old cricket bats and donate them to the village fete jumble. There will be more cricket one day, another place and time. These old soldiers have done their time.



Paperwork is sorted.




With a certain ginger secretary lending a helping paw.





 We share  Rodney's bonfire across the way. Taking him tea and biscuits later by way of a thank you.



         



As I continue to pack up (two weeks so far and counting) I  find treasures I packed away for safety ten years ago, which are only seeing the light of day now. 






When will it all end?



 


Where are we going?




To the glorious, bosomy county of Shropshire.  If I ever finish packing, that is.