And relax...

Finally, some time to sit by the fire with a cuppa! What a hectic few days it has been, what with removal people and packing and loading and unloading, and then me starting the great unpacking!

But I'm finally here. A house in the countryside, with a wood burning stove to sit by and stunning views to look out at. In the darkest days of the pandemic this is what I dreamt of. Back then, with only a dark, overlooked path of my own for outdoor space, and a view of a dreary modern street, I poured over maps of places I wasn't allowed to visit, and trawled through houses for sale and rent throughout the whole of the UK, imagining how life would be if I was there.

Once the pandemic had calmed down and people were vaccinated and I could see my friends again, I put the dream on a backburner. Moving house was expensive, I should focus on saving to buy at some point, I loved being close to my friends, getting to work was easy if I ever saw the inside of my office again.

Then, as some of you know, out of the blue on Halloween I got a call. We are serving you two months notice on your tenancy. No, there is no leeway with dates. Yes, it's perfectly legal. And not so much as a thank you for being a good tenant for over five years. So long and thanks for all the fish, indeed.

I was devastated. I have pets, back then a dog and two cats although sadly one of my cats has since passed away. It's very difficult to find rented accomodation that accepts pets. The two months notice fell over the Christmas period, and I knew very well that house pickings are slim at that time of year. And the rental market was crazy post pandemic - prices sky high, and up to 80 applicants for any given property I'd been told.

What was I going to do? I had visions of living out my car, or dumping myself on my Mum in Scotland whilst I somehow commuted to Oxford for work once a week.  I was so worried I contacted my Council and asked them what was available if I became homeless. Very little it turns out. 

Council houses are few and far between, and even being homeless didn't cut it in terms of priority for them. And I didn't meet the risk factors for B&B accomodation. If I was very lucky  I could be placed in a homeless hostel. How was I supposed to work from home in a homeless hostel? My laptop would get nicked and I would end up destitute as well as homeless!

Anyway, the fates intervened and all my dark imaginings didn't come to pass. I had a few things going for me - I had a good credit history, and due to working from home I could cast a wide net for locations. Oxfordshire and most of the south east was out as being too expensive on a single salary. Evesham, where I lived, would have been great, but sadly there was nothing available. Scotland was too far for commuting.

I kept an open mind - I was desperate after all, and beggars can't be choosers. However, in my searches I was drawn to the west. The further west you go from the West Midlands, the more rural it becomes. And my pandemic dreams were in my mind. Somewhere beautiful, somewhere to connect with nature, somewhere to calm my soul.

All in all my search didn't last long. Over a week I made enquiries regarding about 60 houses. All sorts of houses and flats, most of which I hated in the adverts, some of which I would struggle to afford, but I duly asked 'Will you accept pets? And if so can I arrange a viewing?'. About 10% responded, some saying no to the pets, but a few said yes. 

My first viewing I had to stave off panic in the car on the drive there. I prayed - please God, help me. Please let me find somewhere. I know there are wars and people are dying and starving, and I don't know how prayer works, but please help me? I showed up an hour early and thought I'd drive around the area to see what it was like, and ended up getting lost on single track roads in the middle of the Black Mountains. I made it back to the house just in the nick of time.

I hated the house. What had looked spacious and pleasant in the pictures looked tatty and cheap in real life. The stairs were creaky, the kitchen was tiny, the big garden was narrow and unkept and the fence was falling down. I would have to pay to install some sort of gate because it wasn't secure for my dog. 

My heart just fell. I was going to end up some place awful, and pay a fortune for it, and that was only if I was very lucky. The estate agent had a whole list of people who were booked into view it after me so I told her I was interested and would send the application form in, and drove home trying not to cry.

My next viewing was in the same area, in Wales near Hay on Wye. The sun was shining but I didn't have high hopes. The house looked to be in a pretty area, but on paper it looked much the same as the previous place only with a smaller garden and no dining area. Thankfully, the anxiety had calmed to a much more manageable state of crisis and dread, so I didn't have to do a lot of breathing and mindfulness exercises in the car. 

I arrived early and took Merlin, my dog, for a quick walk. While I was walking there was a woman out doing some gardening. We started chatting as I held Merlin back from jumping all over her, and she knew all her neighbours and wished me luck. There was an old church opposite the house, and as I walked around the lovely, old graveyard I thought, this place would be good for my soul. 

When the time came to view the house, the previous viewer coming out was a young lad with a souped up bright orange car, being accompanied by his parents. That was a hopeful sign. Landlords might not like pets, but they liked boy racers using their parents as guarantors even less. Then I felt guilty because young people need homes too, and it must be difficult to find a place in a rural area. Still, the decision wasn't mine and there was no point dwelling on it.

Everything just seemed better about this house. Although it was still being sorted out after the previous tenants' departure, it had great bones. The garden seemed bigger than in the pictures, the kitchen not as small, there was room for a dining table in the living room, and most fabulous of all for me, the electric fire from the pictures had been replaced with a wood stove.

The young chap showing me around seemed enthusiastic. They had had viewings the previous week and had two applications, but I took the fact they were having more viewings that day as a good sign. He told me to fill out an application form if I was interested, which seems par for the course these days, and I assured him I would.

What a different drive home it was that day. I bubbled with excitement, and had to keep telling myself sternly that the chances were I wouldn't get it and to calm down, not to get my hopes to high.

When I submitted the application form the estate agent said there should be a decision by next Monday. That left all weekend to wait, and by the time Monday came I was ready to face the worst with grim resignation. Of course I wouldn't get the house, it was only the second one I'd looked at, but, oh, wouldn't it be amazing if I did? I waited and waited all day for a phone call pretending to myself that I wasn't, and that I knew it wouldn't happen, while I anxiously checked and double checked my emails. But no phone call came and no email arrived.

Tuesday morning cane, and I sadly let it go. I had another two viewings arranged so all was not lost, but time was ticking, ticking, ticking by. Every day was closer to Christmas, and there would be fewer and fewer properties available. I was wildly thinking of more and more unworkable ideas for what I could do when the phone rang. 

I forget what the woman said, but it was something logistical. Not that I'd got the house. I had to stop her and ask what she meant - did that mean the landlord had picked me? Oh yes, she said, subject to the usual checks and what not. I'm not sure what I said next, only that I was laughing and thanking her, and telling her I loved the house and loved her.

And the rest is history, full of dull reference requests, and forms to sign, monies to be paid and movings organised.

It took me seven days to find a house, this house, seven of the longest days of my life. Thirty days from being given notice to collecting the keys. It probably took me two weeks after finding my house for the heightened levels of anxiety to calm to something more like normal, to stop anxiously checking for calls and emails and messages, to begin to feel inside that nothing was going to go wrong and it wasn't all going to fall apart. I'm good in a crisis, but post crisis my brain resembles the aftermath of a war zone.

Which leads me to today. I'm all moved in, and at least half the boxes have been unpacked. I've found my bedding but as yet no shower curtain. I've had the wood burner on all day, and managed to flood the kitchen earlier while having an argument with my washing machine. It's time to sit down by the fire now with a cup of tea, and take some time to just appreciate and reflect. 

I wouldn't have done this move if given any choice in the matter. But now that I'm here, in a little village in the Welsh Marches, nestled in the foot of the hills looking out over the Black Mountains, and with snow due any minute, I find myself hoping. Hoping that this is what I dreamt of in the pandemic, that the beauty of the place is a balm for my sometimes troubled soul, and that I can make a home and a life here, make friends and be happy. So I'm raising my cup of tea in a toast. Here's to my new home and here's to the future. Iechyd da!