Big changes and new carpet terror

Last October, I drafted the tentative beginnings of a post which would hint at a new adventure being planned by The Gardener and I. 

I didn't go on past the first sentence because it all felt too uncertain, too unsettling, with too many unknowns to answer any questions that anyone might ask. We were about to embark on a somewhat unusual change of home, location, lifestyle, and I was less than sure that it might work out well in the end.

But now we've embarked on this new life, and I can write about it. Perhaps the very act of writing will help make it more real to me, and help restore my feeling of being grounded in my home, a sense which has got lost somewhere in the move and the half-unpacked belongings that haven't yet found a place to be put away.

About two years ago, during and after the ghastly and wounding experience of trying to sell the cottage and buy a stable conversion, when I had to choose between an unhappy sale and my own mental wellbeing, I pledged never to buy and sell simultaneously ever again. Next time, we'd rent somewhere and sell the cottage empty. Easier said than done, with cats and a dog in tow, but not impossible, we hoped.

And suddenly, a little ad appeared in the local paper, for a mews cottage, attached to a large manor, which was to let. The Gardener spotted it, and insisted that we try to view it. I wasn't keen - winter was approaching, I wasn't ready for any upheaval, and certainly not for trying to market our home in the current economic and politically unstable climate. But I went along with him, on condition that his first question to the agent was about pets being accepted; if the answer was no, we'd go no further.

But the answer was yes to cats, unsure about a dog; the owner (with four cats of her own) would like to meet the dog before deciding. At which point, we knew things should go well; amiable and placid Flossie usually makes a good first impression. She came with us to the property, and having a tennis ball in her mouth and therefore not another thought in her head, was introduced to the owner, was politely hopeful that the ball might be thrown for her, ignoring the bold cat who strolled up to sniff her and the tame duck that crossed in front of her, and successfully passed the Dog Acceptability Test.

It was a dismal, wet day; we drove round to the back of the lovely manor and viewed the cottage, which had stood empty for some months and was definitely in need of some freshening up, and somewhat to our own surprise, decided to apply to rent it. The formal process via the agent took a surprisingly long time, but in early December, all was ready, with fresh paint and new carpets throughout. 

Except that we were not. The family were spending ten days with us over Christmas and New Year, and the prospect of moving into a newly-carpeted house with a small child, a muddy dog and a bunch of cats over the festive season was too challenging to consider. Instead, we paid the first month's rent but spent the holiday in our own cottage, where spills and stains would not be catastrophic, and the cats knew where they fleeing to if the toddler proved too much for their genteel nerves. 

We had a lovely time together, brought everyone over to show them the new house, little E declaring the manor "a palace!" and enjoying being able to pedal his little tractor up the traffic-free drive. When they had returned home to London, the serious business of moving most, if not all, of our belongings, commenced in earnest.

Tractor driver, his Grandpa and Flossie visiting "the palace".

Much of my trepidation about the move seemed to centre on those new carpets. Apart from an old Persian rug in our sitting room, our own cottage has hard flooring throughout the ground floor, is very muddy boots- and animal-friendly, and we are all too aware of the wear and tear, the hairball, dog hair, and mud-related stresses our floors must endure. So far, I have been right to worry; this cottage is surrounded by evergreen oaks, and leaves, twigs and other outdoor debris find their way in quickly, supplementing the usual  grubby impact of the animals. I vacuum daily, unheard of for me; I wipe and fret. We are already resigned to the prospect of eventually having to replace those once-pristine carpets when we leave. 

Our own cottage will be spruced up in the next few weeks, and readied for marketing; neglected jobs such as painting window frames and making small repairs will be carried out next week, and then the sale board will go up. Beds and sofas remain in place there; we had no room for them here, acquiring instead a large sofa bed for when we have visitors, and they help ease the sense of unlived-inness that grieves me when I go back to my old home. I am awash with mixed feelings; I loved the cottage so much, but am ready to let it go, trusting that someone will buy it to love it too.

The 'new' bit - front door 1914

So.... where are we now? In what feels like the middle of nowhere, yet half a mile from the sea and fifteen minutes' drive from our old home, in a mews cottage, not in the least cottage-like, but more of a little wing attached to the back of a once-grand house, now part-crumbling and decaying, set in greatly-reduced grounds. Interestingly, the converted stable we had wanted to buy two years ago once formed part of this manor's estate. 

Our cottage is extended and completely modern inside, and cosy when the boiler co-operates; the mullioned windows at the front give it a historic look, despite the slightly incongruous cat flap cut into the solid front door, and behind us is a 14th Century ruined abbey. 

A huge Magnolia Grandiflora grows up through the abbey ruins, a treat for us when it flowers in summer.

The manor's heyday in the '60s came to an end with the mortal blow known as Death Duties. The current owner, who saved it from further ruin 20 years ago, holds it all together, but we fear its years must be numbered. 

The lovely door on the right is our shortcut to a huge rear courtyard.

We hope to stay here until we succeed in selling our own home. This will give us time to cull the heaps of belongings that fill our bedroom, ("This looks like some terrible fly tipping incident!" I complain) and to continue to reduce the contents of fridge, freezer and pantry that had to move with us, but that really don't have enough room here. Culling and decluttering are not easy for either of us, but we must, we really must.

It will give the cats time to grow accustomed to the malevolent presence of Erick, the owner's dominant cat; their initial excitement at having trees, a huge courtyard, ruins, to explore, and French windows to run in and out of, was tempered after a few days by Erick's arrival to pounce on Scooter and let him know who was the boss.

Scooter on Neighbourhood (Erick) Watch. 

Erick refusing to let us drive away without him.

I lit some little candles during one pre-Christmas visit; this is our hall window.

The manor is lived in all year round, and in parts is very grand indeed, with a friendly and helpful owner. Another couple live in a huge trailer to one side. Between five adults now in residence, we have 9 cats and four dogs, a tame Muscovy duck who appeared last autumn and whose previous owner could not be traced. 

The duck sometimes makes determined dashes to get inside before we shut the front door. Thwarted, she makes shrill little noises of disappointment (Muscovy ducks don't quack, apparently) and waddles stoutly off. Sorry, dear girl, but you can't come in. I have my terrifyingly-new carpets to think of....

Our bedroom window.

There is much wildlife here, deep silence and total darkness at night, no visible street lighting, no traffic, and absolutely no mobile signal. Last person home at night locks the big gates at the end of the drive; The Gardener hates them as they and their padlock require physical force and do not yield easily, especially in pitch darkness. But once inside, we become part of a tiny, somewhat eccentric community, not reliably connected to the digital outside world. We love it.

Postscript: Today I felt miserable and out of sorts, resenting being a tenant and not really in charge of my own home, and I noticed that Flossie was also rather mopey. Homesickness had hit us both. So we drove back to our old house. Flossie and I walked round our familiar circular route, then I pottered about inside the house, gathering things to bring back with us. I wrote a to-do list of jobs to be done there at the weekend, and M, our lovely friend who lives up the road and raises the blinds for us each morning, called round for a cup of coffee and a chat. The Gardener joined us, bearing long-stemmed thank-you roses for M, and then we left, Flossie and I feeling brighter and more settled after a therapeutic visit home. 

If I could pick up my beloved cottage and move it to a quieter, leafier area, I would, and never part with it. But instead, I will let it go, enjoy the present and be open to whatever happens next.... 

To Be Continued.