A moving tale

How many homes have you lived in? Moving house is one of the most stressful things you can do in life, as I'm beginning to find out.

I live in a two up, two down character cottage. Built, I think, in the 1500s, complete with wood burner, creaky floorboards, nooks and crannies, one of which happens to be beside my bed and, like an upturned letterbox in a door, is ideal for that bedtime book.

I moved there on February 8, 2010 at 2.00 in the afternoon. It’s about the only date from my 63 years on this planet that I can remember with such precision. Apart from the birth of my first child, Beth, an occasion I marked with a poem that included the line ‘it was on this day at 9.31 she opened her book at chapter one’.

It was obviously a seminal moment because I was fleeing a broken marriage and wanted to move back closer to my children. Indeed, I remember showing my excited teenage daughter around and her turning to me as we mounted the stairs.

“Oh Dad I love it. This is so you. In fact…” she mused, stopping on the step and turning to partially face me, “I can even imagine you dying here.”

I quickly informed her that I was never going to knowingly move into the house that I intended to die in. There would always be one more on the horizon. One more chapter to be lived and one more dream to be realised.

As quaint cottages go, GHC was perfect, but I was determined not to die there.

Which brings me neatly on to why I’m writing this Substack and breaking what has been a bit of a silence. I’m in a quaint coffee shop, fuelled by a jacket potato, cheese and beans, plus a Bakewell slice. Yes, I’ve become one of those chaps sitting in the corner with the laptop open and ignoring the passing traffic.

“One more Americano with hot milk please,” I say to the nice lady owner. It’s my ‘go to’ choice after years of being scared of coffee shops. White instant is not allowed for being too simplistic, although I’ve managed to spruce it up at home by introducing several heaped spoon fulls of hazelnut flavouring. Visitors in the know are now quick to grab one of Pete’s coffees even if they’re just dropping off the grandchildren.

Meanwhile, back at the cottage, our perspective buyers are checking things over. Yes, we’re moving! The couple whose offer we’ve accepted, albeit painfully low, are showing their daughter around just like I did. I can imagine the sound of metal measuring tapes and murmurings about what will fit here and what will fit there. I just hope they don’t notice that the boiler door doesn’t shut properly, fresh paint is evident on the mildew spots under the bedroom window and several of the paving slabs on the patio outside need replacing (bloody hard to find the right ones or I’d already have done it).

Sixteen years I’ve lived in Grosvenor House Cottage, so named because it can’t decide whether it’s a house or a cottage. I’ve never said this to the walls (they have ears you know), but it’s definitely a cottage. It’s just that being mid-terrace, it has a house on one side and a cottage on the other, which might explain everything. This mixed moniker has played havoc with the man from Evri who finally found our front door last week after 15 years of failed attempts. In fact, I probably have pictures on my phone of parcels at front doors from every home in neighbourhood.

I’ve been wanting to move for quite a while. Time for a new chapter. Maybe even the final chapter with regard to putting down a new set of roots. GHC has been fun. One of those happy houses where you can feel a comforting vibe emanating through the house.

However, I’ve now come to realise that it had its limitations. Things that didn’t matter when I moved in now seem to have taken on a whole new importance. A conservatory, a garden, a place to park my car, a kitchen big enough to sit in.
On top of that, I resigned from my local golf club at the end of last summer and that has now become another reason to seek pastures new. It was a sweet little nine holer that I played a major role in saving from oblivion but I have to admit that the prospect of a bigger club carries a great deal of appeal.

While I’m on the subject of being a temporary nomadic golfer, I have to say that I was shocked at how quickly those responsible for the health of the game in this country despatched me to the waste heap.
When I was no longer a member of an affiliated golf club, my CDH number was instantly scrubbed from existence. For those who aren’t sure what that is, the CDH number is personal to you and relates to your ‘official’ golf handicap. Mine was 5.1 and was held at my club and by England Golf. Last April, like all other club golfers in England, I paid an affiliation fee (approx £22) along with my subscription. Surely then, my handicap should remain active for a full 12 months? It appears not.

England Golf jumped at the chance to take over the WHS (World Handicap System) because it has given them ultimate control over golfers in this country. If you don’t pay a yearly fee to the blazer brigade from Woodhall Spa, then you are not recognised as a person, I mean a golfer.

And what does England Golf do in return for this multi-million pound income? Not a great deal I would say. Unless you play in county championships or represent your country in amateur matches.

If I had my way, more clubs in England would break with their affiliation and take their handicaps in house. That way they’d be far more accurate and the club would benefit from thousands of pounds in saved affiliation fees.

All right, so I’m no longer in the coffee shop and time has cascaded forward to the beginning of the Easter holidays. Time does that. It cascades where it once meandered. I long for those meandering days, but sadly they’re in the past. Time waits for no man.

The house we had found (a week or so before) is now a late forgotten entry in the history books. It had been detached and had had a ridiculous view over the Pevensey levels. You couldn’t hear the rush of time, like you can with our current place, close as it is to the A25 and all those people in a dreadful rush to get to all those places. No, here it was just bird song and, as we felt ourselves falling in love in this nest of tranquil bliss, we were rudely wakened by our builder friend as he administered a nasty shock. Something about four-inch walls and barge poles was the gist of it.

“I’d offer £100k less, knock it down and build a proper house,” he said. The words were harsh and unforgiving, but the tone was empathetic and mournful. Thank God we took him down there to have a look.

Wafer thin walls meant this house would be woeful in the winter…

but the views were stunning.

Perhaps detached is a bit out of our reach. The last time I lived detached was as a young teenager. I used to have a fabulous motor-racing circuit that looped all the way round the property, including a chicane that weaved along a stone path which snaked through the rockery. Such speeds were attained on my tricycle that frequently I was on two wheels rather than three.

So, the search continues and the myriad of balls, with varying degrees of consequence, are all back up in the air. How far away from family? Is oil heating in a rural setting acceptable? Is there a garden? Is there a sun room? What about a downstairs loo?

We had a chat about bungalows in the car this morning when I was roundly admonished for suggesting that single storey affairs were where you go to die. Get a bungalow and my daughter might be right. But then again, if everything else fits into place then a bungalow it might be.

The question is where? I’ve drawn numerous circles on RightMove in Herstmonceux, Tavistock, Sheringham and even the Cotswolds. We’ve become immersed in EPC ratings, wood burners, overgrown gardens and floor plans. We’re zooming in on Google satellites and ‘driving by’ on Google maps. It’s all quite tiring. Our friends are quick on the draw with all the relevant clichés like, “Something’ll turn up,’ and “Well, it obviously wasn’t meant to be,”. In that way it reminds me a little of internet dating.

Part of me knows that I shouldn’t be writing Substacks, but planning whistle-stop tours of the aforementioned regions. I’ll report back in due course, but before I go, let me just answer the question posed in the subtitle to this piece. Our new adventure and hotly anticipated fresh chapter will require me to move into abode number 10. And I’m very much looking forward to it.