A Bit of a Guddle

We are living in a cave. I try to see past the primitive walls of crumbling plaster, but all I see is the plaster dust that coats our clothes whenever we get too close. The normal daily mess of a young family is less agreeable when accompanied by the extreme chaos of a home under construction. It's hard to find anything when nothing has its place.

And still we are tearing down the walls, loosening the plaster and raising the dust to accommodate sheets of thermaline. We are draining the system and replacing the radiators, the cold spurring us on in our endeavours. Someday soon the walls will be coated with new plaster and paint, and the bare boards hidden beneath new carpets. 

A lady from church summarised our situation perfectly when she commented that we're in a bit of a "guddle". After taking in the blank expressions on our faces she kindly explained that guddle is a Scottish phrase for mess!

Currently our house is at its worse, but in the coming weeks we'll watch our home emerge. 

I've Met Someone

That is to say I've made my first friend. I didn't expect it to happen so soon. Last time it took a lot longer. 

I met her on the nursery run. It started with the usual hellos. But then one day we walked home together, Moth hand in hand with her beautiful dark haired daughter. 

And we found we had a lot in common. When I told her about my first move from the Westcountry to the East coast, she told me a relative of hers did the same move but in reverse. She, too, has lived in different parts, and only recently arrived to the village.

Last weekend we joined her family and friends for a small gathering on Guy Fawkes Night. I brought homemade pumpkin pie and her husband set off fireworks in the garden.

Perhaps to some this seems a small and insignificant thing, but to me it's worth recording. It's good to have found a friend. 

Space to Breathe

I don't have to go far these days to find fields and open spaces. I can see them from the upstairs window, abundantly green and beckoning. Beautiful views are to be found just around the corner, or down the road. There's always somewhere to walk when escape is needed. I am writing again because the inspiration is all around me, no longer drowned out by an urban landscape,

Local traffic passes our front window, but at less of a frequency than it did before; the by-pass diverts the rest. At the back of the house we could be anywhere. 

Our home has a long way to go, but as I take in the beautiful mess before me I see the potential. I close my eyes and see the home we're going to make it into. By the end of the month, the asbestos will be gone and the bare walls will lie in wait of our vision. 

Here is my haven. I've finally found the space to breathe. I love this place. 

First Visitors

They arrived eighteen days after we did, and on their departure, they had been with us for a third of the time that we had ourselves lived there. 

I wasn't sure that I was ready for a ten day visit from my in-laws, but they were doing us a favour after all, by bringing up our second car. 

And for all the chaos of our newly moved state, it was pleasant spending time with them. In ten days we made memories that could not be made over a cup of tea, once or twice a month. We were able to explore and share a whole new world together, and watch the children bonding with their grandparents and uncles. 

And such a joy it was to behold the care and attention of Moth and Ever's youngest uncle, and in return their delight in him. As the time progressed I saw the youngest uncle lay aside his electronic device more frequently, and instead lose himself in the games of his nephew and niece, just seven and nine years his junior. Moth would call for him, searching the house for his new playmate, and it was his hand that he sought when we were out for the day. 

But as enjoyable as the time was, their departure came with a sense of relief. My in-laws have a tendency to fill up the space around them, something that my claustrophobic self has found difficult over the years. I often find myself closing up in their presence, making myself smaller in order to accommodate them better. That evening Sewel and I basked in the stillness again, thankful for the memories but equally grateful for the calm and space that followed. 

Being on the Other Side

It's a strange state of being, when you've been anticipating something for a long time, and you finally emerge on the other side. I am overcome by a sense of euphoria and also disbelief. For many months I have tried to envisage aspects of our new life here. Waking up in our home. Village life. The first day in my new work place. 

It still hasn't quite sunk in, even a month on. I almost expect to open my eyes and find myself back in the midst of transition, with half-packed boxes and chaos strewn across the room. It's been like this with any big change in my life. I remember my pregnancy with each of my children, nine months of wondering who I was carrying inside me, what they'd be like, and afterwards, not quite believing they were really here. And meeting Sewel for the first time after a year of talking online. That didn't seem real either.

One day reality will catch up with me, and I won't think about it any more. But for now, strange as it feels, it's also pretty wonderful to be here at last. On the other side.

The Hardest Part

It wasn't the decision to put everything in motion, or the lengths we went to in preparing our house to go on the market. Although I remember well the challenge of condensing down our belongings, and the long, late nights spent, towards the end, filling cracks, painting, rearranging rooms to bring out their best. 

Nor was it the long weeks on the market. The offers that were made just four days in, only to come to nothing. The positive viewings, and the time we spent hoping in vain for a genuine offer. The barren weeks that followed Easter, where the viewings themselves seemed to become a rarity.

Even the packing and the move itself did not quite compare, although the last few days were frantic and adrenaline-driven. Working to tight deadlines. Little sleep to be had. A long journey northwards, following a full day of physical labour. We drove into the night, knowing the end was near.

The hardest part, although not by a long shot, was saying goodbye. Not so much to the place that's been our home for the last five years, but to the friendships forged there. Work colleagues. Families we've known through baby classes and toddler groups. And, most painfully, a church where we've found so much love and acceptance. Whenever anyone said how much they would miss us I felt such a surge of guilt, humility and poignancy. It was immense.

Although not especially sad to move on, I found myself leaving a piece of myself behind. A piece I can live without, but a small part of me nevertheless. It belongs now to the people who cared about us, the people who will stay in touch and hold on to the memories we've shared together. It will be with them for as long as they remember. Just as the piece I hold of them will stay with me until I forget.

Life at Sea

 

Our vessel is 20 foot long and moors just around the corner from us with others of her kind. At full capacity she holds about half the contents of our home. 

It feels as though we've been at sea since January, when we first started loading her up with our possessions, by the box-load. But the real voyage is still to come, with journey's end in sight, just three weeks away. 

For a long time we've ridden the tides of uncertainty, navigating the seas of limbo and waiting. Now our course is set and this is the homeward stretch, although I know the most challenging part of the journey is yet to come. 

Soon we will empty our vessel and she will contain someone else's belongings. It will take a far bigger vessel to transport our whole life northwards.