It is 5.02 in the morning and I am writing this from our hotel bedroom. The room is overheated and stuffy and our dog lies curled up and slightly confused on his blanket in the corner of an unfamiliar room. I should be asleep. But infuriatingly I can’t sleep, even though I am weary.
Moving house is exhausting. I have done it so many times that although it’s lent a certain proficiency to the process, it’s increasingly a bone-wearying, energy sapping experience. This time especially so with my recent second knee replacement restricting my ability to do much physical work, meaning leaning on husband more than ever.
The house empties so slowly, exposing cobwebs, dust and the ghosts of lost slippers behind furniture.
After a day and a half of loading the removals van we hit a wall at around 4pm. We looked at each other as we stood in our empty kitchen and agreed that we had to stop.
The removals guys were still working through the garage (how do they keep going?) but were happy to complete without us and lock up the house so that we could start the long drive northwards. London rush hour was about to start and we were keen to avoid the worst of it.
As it was, we still hit the rush hour traffic, but every mile towards our first nights destination felt good. We tumbled into an empty bar at our scarily Covid-empty hotel and ate a quick supper before bed.
Today is another day. We’re both relieved to have that behind us and to focus on the drive up-country to our new home.
We’re taking each day at a time.
We’re now in the final few weeks of the London house as the October winds blow. We sit listening to the rain and wind blustering through the branches of the crab apple trees that flank the house, commenting ruefully to each other that this is an early trial for the Skye weather.
Ravencroft Skye 