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.
