No matter where one moves to, there's never any going back. It can't make any sense. The reasons for leaving are still there.
That's always been my philosophy. It's worked out pretty well so far.
Well, we wouldn't know if going back would have been better than going somewhere else, would we. We've never done it.
Until now, that is.
Our 13 year holiday in the Highlands just had to come to end, sometime. The reasons for staying in Dornoch had gone away. It was too far - from too many people, from civilisation, from young people with a zest for living. It was too cold - at least a topcoat cooler as the locals would say. The scenery is heart stopping on the north east coast, and so is the weather when venturing outside on the wrong day.
So the decision to move was made, and returning to Abingdon was an option. It turned out to be the only realistic option.
We sold our cherished Links Villa to somebody who wanted to move in within 6 weeks.
So we drove to Abingdon, found a house we could live in, at a price we could stretch to, agreed to buy it, and returned to Scotland - all in less than a week.
The house we'd chosen was in a spectacular location - in the town centre, but on the river - 400 yards from the favourite supermarket, 800 yards from the favourite bike shop and banks and chemists and doctors and coffee shops and pubs, but secluded and private and personal and exclusive. There are no white vans parked around here overnight.
The story sounds sort of golden- told like that. But it wasn't.
The house had been on the market for months. Nobody would buy it. It was a mess.
Full of fitted furniture which had cost thousands, but left no living space for anybody normal.
Blue ceilings, red coving and red shutters on the first floor. Mustard ceilings on the second. All of the walls left with the original magnolia, now stained by pages of newspapers and posters once pasted there. Five plastic cherubs glued to the en-suite bathroom door. Office style light fittings everywhere. An entire wall of the kitchen covered by a mirror.
That's all fixed now. But it's taken three months.
That's always been my philosophy. It's worked out pretty well so far.
Well, we wouldn't know if going back would have been better than going somewhere else, would we. We've never done it.
Until now, that is.
Our 13 year holiday in the Highlands just had to come to end, sometime. The reasons for staying in Dornoch had gone away. It was too far - from too many people, from civilisation, from young people with a zest for living. It was too cold - at least a topcoat cooler as the locals would say. The scenery is heart stopping on the north east coast, and so is the weather when venturing outside on the wrong day.
So the decision to move was made, and returning to Abingdon was an option. It turned out to be the only realistic option.
We sold our cherished Links Villa to somebody who wanted to move in within 6 weeks.
So we drove to Abingdon, found a house we could live in, at a price we could stretch to, agreed to buy it, and returned to Scotland - all in less than a week.
The house we'd chosen was in a spectacular location - in the town centre, but on the river - 400 yards from the favourite supermarket, 800 yards from the favourite bike shop and banks and chemists and doctors and coffee shops and pubs, but secluded and private and personal and exclusive. There are no white vans parked around here overnight.
The story sounds sort of golden- told like that. But it wasn't.
The house had been on the market for months. Nobody would buy it. It was a mess.
Full of fitted furniture which had cost thousands, but left no living space for anybody normal.
Blue ceilings, red coving and red shutters on the first floor. Mustard ceilings on the second. All of the walls left with the original magnolia, now stained by pages of newspapers and posters once pasted there. Five plastic cherubs glued to the en-suite bathroom door. Office style light fittings everywhere. An entire wall of the kitchen covered by a mirror.
That's all fixed now. But it's taken three months.
