When you buy a house in the country, “fixtures and fittings” are more likely to include an intractable goose, rather than a nice pair of interlined curtains.
We inherited a lodger called Andrew. My husband is also called Andrew.
Fortunately the lodger was a horse (silly name for a horse?) and was confined to the paddock. He is long gone.
Now when you move in September, the anticipated tranquil charm of country life is temporarily obscured. It’s the busiest month of the year. A passing flurry of gargantuan farm vehicles are catching the tail end of harvest before spreading malodorous muck. Ploughing begins. And apple orchards, by which we are surrounded, are ready for picking. Even a calming of cup of tea is accompanied by the tortuous buzz of cluster flies migrating to warmth of the kitchen, and to cap it all at night-fall there’s a bat looking to roost in the bedrooms.
Seven years on we are much more tuned in to the rhythms of country life.
September means the hedgerows are full of blackberries and rosehips, there are big red skies at night and we’re happily busy with our own harvests.
Andrew lives contentedly around the corner, but wild horses couldn’t drag us away.