Getting above ground

Our poor little cottage is sulking. We are living in chaos, rubble and dust. All of our possessions have been boxed up and stacked in every available square inch of space. Making tea demands the skills of a contortionist as we lean over boxes and crates and we are permanently breathless from running up the stairs to fill kettles and wash mugs in a bowl in the bath.

The dogs have been remarkable. Three pairs of brown reproachful eyes follow us around as their bed has been moved and food/water bowls are carefully placed away from dust and bits of brick and mortar. They have soon adapted to the comings and goings of tradesmen and apart from a cursory sniff now, they largely ignore proceedings. Tilly, the cat, is far nosier and inspects everything with her tail high in the air and left her foot prints in the concrete outside the kitchen door.

We got up on Monday morning to 6 inches of water on the kitchen floor as our make-shift tarpaulin roof was no match for the heavy wind and rain. The water had seeped under the door into the dining room and we squelched as we stepped from the stairs.

I am writing this, huddled on the sofa. There are inches of dust everywhere, the carpets are ruined and now I am ready to cry. I gaze around, completely unable to see beyond the here and now. I gave up vacuuming and dusting every two days, at the weekend. It was a pointless waste of energy and I was becoming more and more disillusioned as the dust settled before I had turned my back.

The initial excitement and flurry of activity now seems a lifetime ago as the cold, stark reality of the can of worms we have unearthed stares at us full in the face.
“Never again!” and “Are you moving out?”
Oh how we laughed as our friends shared their past experiences – confident that we were made of sterner stuff and that it would be a breeze. Our laugh faltered slightly, only once, when our plumber asked where the caravan was going.

But things are looking brighter. We now have said caravan: a tiny, old touring caravan from a neighbour who has taken pity on us. This is why we are doing it. Apart from being totally and utterly in love with our home, this wonderful community that we live in is pulling ranks to support us in our hour of need. We have offers of cooking on M’s Aga (we go to mum’s, though, but lovely offer anyway), doing our washing at next door’s house (ditto mum), parking our cars on another’s drive, storing all our building materials on the farm yard opposite – the list goes on. We couldn’t think of living anywhere else and so we battle on with the disruption, trying to focus on the end result.

Yesterday afternoon, the rain returned and halted our joist work. We swept rain water out through the kitchen door into our longed-for “new hall”. The blue tarpaulin flapped above our heads and our wonderful chimney man was up a ladder trying to work out where to re-route the Rayburn flue pipe. After several cups of tea (no sugar, Milla and Jane!) the final verdict was we CAN’T move it. It joins the upstairs chimney and enters the wall at the lowest possible place. The flue can be boxed in and will just fit under our iron bed, but the joists will have to be spaced around it to meet fire regulations and insulated to protect the new floor boards. Technical facts and figures whiz back and forth between him and the builders, as I slink off to do some internet research to find out how hot the flue pipe gets.

And so, here I am, nursing my laptop. Another crisis sorted. But as sure as God made little apples, there’ll be another one on the way until the day finally arrives when Mr Building Inspector signs the build off and we open a bottle of champagne. I hope we don’t lose the box of glasses in the meantime……..

Homework

Headmistress, I did debate pretending that I'd missed the deadline for handing it in, but I have managed it in between making tea and taking delivery of another skip!

WOOZLE1967

W is for warmth. I love the permeating warmth from the Rayburn. It gently wraps its arms around you and draws you in, enticing you to lean against its shiny chrome bar. The steam gently swirls from the spout of the kettle and crumpets sizzle on the hot plates. The heart and soul of our home.

O is for outside. Living in the countryside, being able to gaze from the window at undulating fields and listen to the uninterrupted sounds of nature. Whatever the weather, there is something beautiful and ever changing as the landscape moves through the seasons, bringing new delights to marvel at. From the first glimpses of Spring poking through the dark soil; the sound of birdsong; lengthening days with the promise of things to come: next is the full-on greenness and colour of Summer; casting off our heavy winter clothes and feeling the sun kissing our skin; the sound of buzzards calling in the thermals above the garden; the scents of cottage garden flowers; dining al fresco well into the lighter evenings: and then my favourite time of year – Autumn. Autumn sneaks up on you but then who can mind that when it brings presents of reds and golds to adorn our trees, followed by the crunching and swooshing of tramping through fallen leaves; the smell of log smoke curling up from the chimney and early morning mists. Then last, but not least, Winter – spiders’ webs glimmering in the frost or early morning dew, looking like they have been decorated with tiny diamonds; the stark silhouette of branches against the sky; crunching through newly fallen snow; being able to peep through lamp lit cottage windows at scenes of cosy country living and picturing the roaring fire, glass of red wine on the side and piles of throws, blankets and cushions. I am a terrible nosey parker and can’t help but glance in through such windows – they tease me and call to me to look in at the hidden domestic delights that only weave their magic at this time of year.

O again and back to outside. Oak trees. I know others have mentioned these trees for all the same reasons as me. These majestic trees epitomize everything English countryside. Living on the Herefordshire/Gloucestershire borders, many of the local houses here are timber framed and we live fairly near to the “Black and White Trail” which joins many Herefordian villages together, such as Weobley, Pembridge, Eardisley, Dilwyn to name but a few. We are using green oak to construct two porches as part of our extension works and I have been stock-piling clippings and down loading pictures of oak porches for our carpenter to get his chisel into!

Z. Oh, blimey. I guess it has to be zeal. I am often accused of being like an over-zealous puppy. I talk too much, wave my arms around and have a terrible habit of interrupting. Or Zester as I couldn’t live without mine and it gets plenty of use in our kitchen. We love to cook and whether it is on the Rayburn, electric cooker or barbeque, this little device has seen its way through a plethora of limes, lemons and oranges.

L is for lavender. I adore this plant and it is my signature scent in my Home Scents cleaning products. If you haven’t heard of this company, visit their website as it is full of wonderful products that do not contain ANY chemicals at all. Their bathroom cleaner is amazing and I can still smell it hours after cleaning.

E is for earth. I love my garden and one of the simplest pleasures is to feel the earth running through my fingers. It never ceases to amaze me that putting a seed or bulb into the earth and then, with the right conditions, it can yield a crop of wonderful flowers, cereals or fruits and vegetables. The earth can nurture and produce our food or, in complete reverse, you can bury something and it will rot away. How amazing is that?

And finally - 1967. No prizes for guessing it’s the year of my birth!

Yes, I'm still here!

Well, it’s finally happening. Our long awaited extension is under way and our feet haven’t touched the ground.

The floods in July caused chaos in our surrounding area and postponed our build as those suffering from the effects of the flood water were, quite rightly, prioritized for help. However, soon, it was our turn and our builders have not let us down. They have worked like Trojans and we are now above ground level and waiting for the brick layers to come to get us up to first lift: a builder term, I have recently learnt and am bandying around like a seasoned professional! To the rest of us, that’s up to bottom of first floor level for the joists and scaffolding to be fitted.

Our supplies of tea and sugar are vastly depleted; there are crumbs in the bottom of the biscuit barrel; our home looks like a bomb site and I am in my element (for the moment!). Today (Friday) we are having the kitchen lights taken out of the ceiling so that it can be pulled down next week. We are already in semi-gloom as the window has been taken out and a shroud of blue tarpaulin is flapping in the breeze. My beloved Rayburn is lying cold and silent, decommissioned until further notice. The Rayburn really is the heart of our home but the buzz and excitement is, surprisingly, filling the gap that appeared when it was turned off.

Next week, all of our hot water will be gone and the electrics in the kitchen will be disconnected as the roof is taken off in preparation for the new floor above. We will be using the camping stove for tea and coffee and to boil water for washing mugs, spoons and cereal bowls in a bowl in the bath. Oh joy!

My mum and dad only live 10 minutes away and have been feeding us for the last 2 weeks. We go for showers, food and clothes to be washed, and they have been absolutely golden to us. Without their calm and organized back-up, things would be so different and they are helping to keep this an enjoyable experience, rather than the nightmare it could so easily be.

We have had family traumas in J’s family during the last couple of weeks and this has threatened to bring us down. I won’t go into it too much right now – it is raw and hurtful for J, but one of his brothers is seriously ill and the effects are still rippling through the family. We have a long journey ahead but J is throwing himself into our build, although I see the pain in his eyes when he thinks I’m not looking.

I’m keeping this short but posting pictures of our wonderful chaos so that you can get a glimpse of the reason for my brief dipping in and out of the site at the moment. I think of you all lots and miss the rapport but my time on the computer is strictly limited now to keeping the spread sheet of costs up-to-date and pouring over delivery notes and cross referencing invoices. Please keep my desk free at skool and I’ll keep my coat on the peg as it doesn’t go with my overalls at the moment. I hope you are all keeping well and I would love to attend the get-together with the Welsh/Shropshire lot – thanks to Angel for keeping me in the loop. Much love.x

Bakewell Show

The annual Bakewell Show held in the first week of August is my favourite show. There is something for everyone and I love to see the livestock, heavy horse displays, poultry collection and, of course, the horticultural area. There is a wide variety of stalls with sellers displaying their wares, offering services or just providing information, the atmosphere is relaxed and friendly and all surrounded by the heavenly Derbyshire countryside.

The sun shone, and occasionally the breeze picked up; spirits where high and, despite the glorious weather, we managed to sell a fair few brollies! The only down-side for me was this “robot” that came round twice a day to perform a street act. Even as a grownup (well, I like to think I am!) I found it very intimidating and felt my stomach lurch as it got up off the back of the cart it had been driven around in and started to move in the crowd. It was enormous and looked like something from a Terminator movie. Several young children started to cry and we even had a young teenage girl come and hide on our stall on the second day. I have to admit that it was very clever but I didn’t like it!

On the first day, Grouse came to say hello, along with her husband. She was sporting some very stylish sunglasses that she had just bought and I liked her immediately. Of course, she was nothing like I imagined but as soon as she came up to me, I knew it was her. And no, Headmistress, I’m ashamed to say that neither of us was wearing our skool uniforms! Please don’t give us too many lines! So, we gossiped a bit and giggled (that was me, as ever) and Mr Grouse stood patiently chatting to Jimmy while we girls didn’t come up for air (or was that me, again?). A lovely couple – but what else would you expect from our community? They were on their one day off a year and so they left us to get round the showground and catch all the events going on, but they came back later, on their way home, to say goodbye. (Confession to Snail Beach Shepherdess – forgot the flippin’ camera again as I didn’t get your message ‘til I got home!)

Thursday evening soon came round and we were packing up the stall ready for the journey home. We’d had a busy time at the show and I surprisingly managed to finish my Harry Potter book (I hid in the van, Grouse!) but my niece beat me to it, as I knew she would. Eventually, we were reversing on the drive and the dogs were going ballistic and then the tiredness hit me like a tonne of lead. Working these shows means that you have to be on the showground for 7.30am, as vans aren’t allowed to come in after that. And as I’m not an early morning person, by the end of the show I’m usually shattered. You’re on your feet all day and don’t pack up until 6pm, before driving back to the B&B, grabbing a shower and then going to the pub for dinner. On the last day, you also have to dismantle the stall and load that onto the van too, then drive 3 hours home. Cup of tea, bath and bed and the deep sleep of exhaustion.

Now that we are at home, sort-of-recovered, we have agreed that we would love to go back as “proper” tourists and explore the area. We only ever seem to go there for the show and don’t have time to take in the sights and make detours down tempting looking, dry stone wall edged lanes. We usually stay up at Monsal Head, which has amazing views and has whetted our appetite for this lovely county. Oh! and the natives are friendly too – what more could you want?

And the rain came.

And the rain came. I watched the news whenever I could and my heart ached in sympathy for those that had lost their homes to the water, and in one case that I saw, a lady had lost her two cats and her grief made me cry.

Tewkesbury and Gloucester aren’t that far away from me and I watched as the water levels rose, from the safety of my own home. Jimmy had to go down to London on the Friday (20 July) and as I was going away the next day, I spent the afternoon doing my housework and getting packed. The sky was leaden grey and I lit the fire when I had finished and sat staring into the flames, hoping that Jimmy was ok. He’d left at 5.30am and I hadn’t heard from him for a while and I felt the butterflies in the base of my stomach that I always do when he is on the road. The flames curled around the logs and I just sat and stared, willing him to phone me.

The sharp ringing jolted through me and I leapt up for the phone and felt the relief coursing through me at his voice saying “Hello, honey. I’m on my way home but it will be late. Probably around 11pm – traffic is hell and so are the roads.” I always say the same thing – it’s a bit of a ritual with me: “Drive carefully, love, please. Watch out for the nutters and stay off your phone!” He’s got hands free but I still think you’re not concentrating if your yacking to someone, and he hates been alone on long journeys as he is such a chatty person, by nature.

I knew I wouldn’t settle properly until he came home, so had a bath and put my dressing gown on. Dinner was an “open the fridge door and gaze inside” kind of affair, as I’d meant to be going to see Jess in her school play and having dinner at mum’s. The weather had seen the play cancelled and I didn’t fancy the fifteen minute journey in torrential downpours and mum had said to stay at home and keep safe. Little did I know how good that advice would be.

There was no letting up in the rain, and I could hear it running through the drain from the guttering into the soak-away at the front, praying that it could take that volume of water. We’re lucky that our cottage is on the brow of a hill and raised up from the lane. I stood at the bedroom window and watched the river of water flowing down the lane and knowing exactly where it would pool into a reservoir at the bottom. Time ticked on slowly and 11pm came and went. There was no way I could go to bed until he was in. I drank more tea and fed another log to the fire.

Quarter past midnight and he rang. He’d started off on the M4 (he usually gets off at Swindon and drives the rest of the way on the A419/417) but the traffic had come to a standstill. He’d found out there’d been a land-slide and managed to get off and go on the M40 to Oxford. More grid-lock. He’d grabbed a kebab (don’t go there!!) and then got on the A40 towards Cheltenham. He had no idea how fast the water was rising around him, and I told him the roads that I knew were closed from the internet and Ceefax. We plotted his journey home and I rang him with regular updates. Sod the “no phone” rule – this was serious.

Eventually, he got to Gloucester but, of course, this was flooded and he had to negotiate the back-doubles to get in the right direction for home. By the time he had arrived at Corse/Staunton he was faced with a sea of water and abandoned cars loomed out of the darkness at him. He turned around and tried to get across country but was faced with a pond of grey, swirling water wherever he looked. There was no choice but to go back to Gloucester and try another way – via Newent.

By the time he had reached Dymock it was gone 2am and I couldn’t face another cup of tea. The fire was holding on by its teeth and I refused to add more wood. He’d be home soon and all he’d want was a shower and bed.

2.15am and he rang again. The Leadon had burst its banks and taken the little hump-backed bridge with it. He’d tried to get into Ledbury to come around from the other angle but everywhere was closed. He’d come all that way and was stranded five minutes from home.

The wonderful landlords at the Beauchamp Arms had got the pub open all night and were serving hot drinks, sausage/bacon baps and offering the floor to anyone who needed it. It was packed with stranded travellers and locals alike, who just couldn’t get round the broken River Leadon. “I’m okay, love, try and get some sleep. Somehow I’ll get home in the morning – even if I have to swim.” Sleep? Yeah, right! But at least he was safe – in the warm and dry.

I was up early and rang mum. How on earth were we going to go to Devon today, with all this going on? I couldn’t leave without Jimmy being home. We couldn’t get out of the village last night, but I had no idea what the local roads were like this morning. Mum, being mum, got her beast of a Discovery out and said she would come out and see for herself. There’s no telling her. She’s ex-army and thinks she can take on the world, even if she is 60!

I was amazed when I heard her pulling on the drive. She told me the top road was clear now but that there were loads of abandoned cars. It was spooky – like the end of the world or some sci-fi film where vehicles littered the empty roads as if some great plague had befallen man-kind. The bottom of our lane was still like a reservoir, but passable with care in a 4x4. She’d spoken to a bus driver on the Gloucester route, and he’d said the A38 was clear so, if we went to Devon, that was the way to go. But there was no way we were going until Jimmy was safe and sound at home. If we could get out to go at all, that is.

Alfie barked and I shushed him, but then nearly fell over when Jimmy walked in. He was ashen but smiling his twinkly smile and we hugged. He’d set off on foot – trousers rolled up to his knees and tried to walk home. The Leadon was running far too fast and he knew he’d get swept away so turned back again towards Dymock. Then, he set off towards Ledbury, wading along the road past the golf club which was completely under water. A huge Somerfield lorry appeared from nowhere (well, Gloucester actually) and offered him a lift into Ledbury. This sized vehicle was probably all that could get through so he thought he’d go to my mum’s but once in Ledbury, he saw a farmer he knew out with his pick-up. To cut a long story short, he got a lift back to the village hall and was home.

We’ve been lucky. So many have lost their homes and some have lost their lives. But the community spirit that has come out from this leaves you feeling warm and fuzzy – a bit like in the war, I’d guess. People pulling together, working towards the same thing and offering shelter and help where they can. How it should be.

The job of cleaning up and rebuilding looms ahead. It won’t happen overnight and the scars will show for a long time. When I was in Devon, we went to Boscastle and saw the rejuvenated village, still being worked on but bustling once more. Jimmy had to go on his bike to collect the van as it was the only way round 2 days later, once the water had subsided enough to cross the broken bridge, with extreme care. The road is closed to motor vehicles so he had to go round to Ledbury to bring it home along the top road. By the time I came back from Devon, a week later, I still couldn’t use the bridge, but was able to get across at the next little hamlet. The bottom of our lane is scarred with silt and debris, but is passable once more.

The sun shone yesterday and is shining today. A simple thing, sunshine, as is the rain. Simple but powerful – too much or too little and countries can be brought to their knees. Whether you agree with climate change or not, one thing is for sure: Mother Nature demands respect and I hope that the “powers that be” take note of this latest reprimand and pull together to look after this wonderful planet.

5 pick-me-ups and a week away

Ages ago I was tagged for 5 pick-me-ups and what with running the B&B with my mum, then house-sitting for a friend and being away in Devon…………blah, blah. So here goes:

1. Working in my garden and feeling the soil with my bare hands.
2. Having a soak in a hot bath with no light other than candles.
3. Having a foot rub.
4. Taking the dogs for a run over the field.
5. In the winter: curling up in front of the open fire and watching the flames with a glass of wine or cup of tea (depending on the time of day!!) – no music or TV, just the crackle of the flames and scent of wood smoke. In the summer: sitting out in the garden, listening to the birds and remembering how lucky I am to be here.

Five things aren’t really enough, though, are they? So many things can give me a lift – an unexpected visitor turning up for a cuppa and chat; curling up on the sofa and nattering to my best friend from “down south” always leaves me with a warm a fuzzy feeling after we hang up; catching sight of a vole or mouse foraging under the bird feeder when I’m stood at the kitchen sink; hearing the owls at night when I put the milk bottles out; watching my nephews and niece charging around the garden and swinging on the tyre in the eucalyptus tree; going for a cycle round “the block”; watching the buzzards and hearing their cry as they circle above the garden; seeing the flock of long-tailed tits returning to their roosting trees in the evening and listening to their delightful noise. I could go on and on – it really is the simplest of things that make me smile in delight.

I have just returned from my week in Devon with my mum, dad and niece. J stayed at home to do demolition jobs on the house as the extension works are finally due to start (weather permitting!). The weather wasn’t always the best but we got to take Jess to the beach for body-boarding and on the worst weather day, we went to see Harry Potter in Barnstaple. We stayed in a barn near Hartland Point (www.pattard.com) and were delighted with the peaceful location and lovely accommodation. Each night we watched the barn owls returning and once we had a hare run past the French doors! We had a paddock to ourselves and sat out on a few evenings with a glass or two of wine and watched Jess hurling herself onto hay bales.

We went to the usual tourist places – Boscastle, Port Isaac, Tintagel, Instow, Appledore, and ate far too many cream teas (one of dad’s vices!). It was totally relaxing but I missed sharing it with J. We’ve been to all these places before together, but my mind kept straying to home and wondering how he was getting on, and just wishing he was with me. He’d have loved the barn and especially that you can take dogs, as we always leave ours behind with mum. We spoke twice a day (mobile signal permitting!) and he seemed a million miles away.

And then, suddenly, it was time to come home. I’d taken my own car down separately, as mum and co had luggage, body board, food and wine supplies (not much room left there then!) plus their large dog (a Chow), and also because I wanted some independence when we were there. So, we left a little apart (I hate driving in convoy) but the traffic was absolutely awful. I stuck it out for a while, but as soon as I could, I turned off and cut across country, through Exmoor. Familiar place names pulled me along, and soon I was back on the outskirts of Tiverton, ready to head back on the M5. I saw the sign to Dulverton and thought of Jane with a smile, knowing she had mirrored my journey on her way north last week. Eventually, I neared home but had to get off the M5 at Gloucester because it was grid-locked, and then had the fun of navigating around the closed roads, due to all the flooding. (I’ve got a totally separate blog to write about the floods, and J’s night on the floor of a local pub as our village was surrounded by a ring of water and he couldn’t get home.)

At last, I was reversing on the drive and could hear the dogs barking as they recognized the sound of my engine. They all came to the gate and J had to move them out of my way, a huge smile of welcome on his face. And then I was wrapped in his bear hug and he was telling me he’d missed me and I was so glad to be home. He’d vacuumed and done the ironing and the kettle was boiling for my mug of tea. I gave him a watery smile over the rim and sighed a contented sigh. It has been a good week but it's wonderful to be back.

Fawlty Towers - eat your heart out!

I have always wanted to run a B&B. It has been an unfulfilled dream for many years and when we moved to the country, as much as I adored my little cottage, there was a tinge of regret that it wasn’t a rambling farmhouse that I could open up to paying guests. And so, when the opportunity came, two weeks ago, to help my mum run a local “country house” B&B, I jumped at the chance. It was all arranged so quickly, I didn’t even have time to ask Headmistress for an absence pass!

Mum works there part-time helping the owners to get ready for large house-parties and weddings – preparing rooms, helping with breakfasts and even waitressing of an evening if a meal is provided as part of the package. She could now run the place blind-fold and the owners took the opportunity to slope off for a long weekend, knowing that mum would look after the 9 guests. My job was “support” – running the tea/coffee/extra toast in to the breakfast room, clearing up and making beds.

We arrived on the Friday, an hour before the guests came, and settled ourselves into the room up in the attics. The house is a romantic, 4 storey (including cellars) 15th century dream. There are paneled rooms, creaking, wide elm floorboards, nooks and crannies galore, a “servants’ staircase” complete with green baize door and a huge kitchen with a solid fuel, cream Aga. My idea of total bliss.

There are four letting rooms in the house, each complete with its own ensuite, two holiday cottages plus a further two letting rooms in the grounds. Two of the rooms are four poster and they are all furnished with antiques sourced at Tewkesbury auction rooms. The beds are traditionally made up with sheets, blankets and eiderdowns – just as I like them! And, of course, there is the obligatory tea tray and homemade biscuits or shortbread.

After we settled ourselves, we greeted the guests and showed them to their rooms. They had made dinner arrangements in Ledbury and so mum and I cooked our own supper and opened a bottle of wine (as you do!). It was a little chilly and the huge inglenook fireplace looked stark and empty without a fire, so we lit it and settled down to gossip and flip through the pile of magazines on the table – Country Homes & Interiors, Herefordshire Life, Period Living & Traditional Homes, Horse & Hound (oh, yes, really!).

We were a little perturbed when we heard some of the guests return, what we considered to be, a little too early. They went back up to their rooms and then as we shrugged and settled back down, we were amazed when the kitchen door opened and one of them was stood in the private lounge. They wanted water from the kitchen tap, but instead of coming down the front stairs and knocking at the lounge door, they walked around the back “servants corridor” and in through the kitchen and then into the lounge. We jumped out of our skin! This was to set the tone of the next 3 days.

Whenever we have stayed in B&B’s, it has always been that we vacate after breakfast and then go out for the day and return after 4pm, in order for the owners to do bedrooms, clean and prepare for next morning. Hotels are a different matter, but when you are staying in someone’s home it is polite to give them some space – well, that’s the way we have always viewed it. These guests, however, went out for about an hour and half after breakfast and then came back and hung around their rooms all day. We just had time to make beds, clean bathrooms, tidy up after breakfast and pop back to our own homes for half an hour, when they were wanting more hot water for baths at 2pm!

On our doorstep we have the Malvern Hills, the Wye Valley, the Vale of Evesham, the Cotswolds, Cheltenham, Worcester, Hereford, and a little further on (just over an hour) Stratford-upon-Avon. A tourists dream location – or so you would have thought. But, no, these ones just wanted to stay in, and the weather was nice then too!

Two of the bedrooms were just one night bookings and so on Saturday morning we had to do a full change-over after breakfast. We didn’t stop all morning and just had time to pop into Ledbury for some extra supplies before getting back to the house to be on duty for 4pm.

I knew it was hard work running a B&B, but I really had no idea how hard! By Monday morning, when we had waved the last of the guests off, we then did a full strip out and remake, clean, bedding wash and general tidy up before leaving to go home, eventually, at 3pm. We were both exhausted and felt absolutely no guilt at leaving the ironing for the owners to return to! Well, they do have one of those fandangly industrial press irons and they hadn’t asked us to do the washing, so that was a bonus!

That evening, I told J if ever I banged on about not fulfilling my lifelong ambition to run a B&B, he was to remind me of this weekend. I’m glad I did it. It was an eye-opener and my respect has grown ten-fold for those that embark on this venture. But now I am glad that our home is just that. Ours.