Some times, it’s hard to find time to stop and enjoy just being. The past few weeks have been full-on cleaning, scraping and collapsing into mounds of cardboard boxes.
If I’d known what I know now, I’d never have packed up all our belongings and sent them into storage. Storage and rented accommodation which was meant to be temporary. Temporary as in six weeks, not as in thirteen months, which is what it has turned out to be.
And I know I should be grateful. We’ve had a roof over our heads, a nice landlord, no real worries (I’m skating over the whole CF life-limiting condition at this point). And, I’ve always known, at some point, we were going to move on.
So, parts of the rented cottage were more suited to the growing truffles than modern living. I’ve had to deal with a removal company that wraps everything in red tape (except our dining room table and chairs, which, judging by the dents, has taken part in some homegrown version of Scrap Heap Challenge).
So, I’ve had to remove forty years of nicotine and grease from the kitchen. I still wake up in the middle of the night, after dreaming that I’m covered in chip fat. And I’ve grown an obsessive attachment to hand gel.
But it’s all small stuff. Apart from the wall of random boxes in the barn, the raw sewage floating in the ditch and the psychotic chickens next-door, we’re there. Rural bliss.
OK, it’s still taking me a while to fully get this whole countryside thing. (And I still maintain that it’s quieter on the twelfth floor of Shakespeare Tower, with only the distant hum of a London traffic jam far below, than laying in bed here listening to Chicken Licken and sporadic cement lorries at 5am.)
But there are moments when I can relax from the unpacking and start to feel the relief of having finally arrived.
Saturday evening, sitting out on what-will-one-day-be the patio, glass of ice-cold cider in hand, I watched the rabbits dart along the hedge line. The cows had gone to sleep, so had the chicken and the cement men had knocked off for the weekend.
Perfect, #magicmoment. The sunsets here really are to die-for. Nothing (except the radio transmitter and a few pylons) disturb the view.
I forgot the unpacked boxes, the impending septic tank crisis and just enjoyed the moment. It really was quiet, that deep, dark quiet that you only get in the country. No flourescent glow from street lights, just the occasional screech of an owl.
Only one thing would have made that moment more perfect. Knowing we had fresh eggs for breakfast.