All the cliches abounded: butterflies in the stomach, heart pounding in my chest, the sweatiest of sweaty palms. It was officially love at first sight; number 23 High Street was everything I’d ever dreamed of.
When I decided to make the move from London to the countryside, three and a half years ago, I told myself it had to be for a proper country cottage. If I was sacrificing Uber and a 24-hour Londis, my new home needed to be full-on Escape To the Country realness. I wanted the quintessential low ceilings. I wanted roses around the door. I wanted those rickety winding stairs hidden behind a door, and I wanted creaky floorboards the neighbours could hear three or four roads away. Moving house is one thing, but changing my life so drastically after 13 years in London had to be for the perfect place. It needed to be a home I could grow old in, with dogs at my feet and family close by.
And that’s what I found. After a few bad dates (or “viewings” as the estate agent insisted on calling them), I found it. A quaint little two-bed white terraced cottage surrounded by meadows, a river, and – joy of joys – a local pub within staggering distance. I remember walking around the house that first time and looking in wonder at the ramshackle garden shed and the weird folding door into the kitchen and thinking: “Yes, this is my forever home.” It’s been a magical few years since, getting to know the area with long dog walks by the river and visits to the pub. I’ve joined the village squash team and I do yoga in the local parish hall.
I write books in my conservatory as my dogs climb helpfully across my laptop to request treats, and I bask in the sunshine of my very own garden. I might’ve had a 24-hour shop by my London flat, but I never had much in the way of grass or flowers.
My family gradually moved into the village, too. My brothers are now across the road in houses next door to each other, while my mum lives a five-minute walk away. My sisters – and the many-thousands of nieces and nephews they’ve generously produced for me – live here as well, and we all waste entire weekends in each other’s gardens. Me and number 23 seemed like the perfect match.
But then I fell in love again. This time with a man who happens to be 6ft 7in (and a half) tall. And suddenly those low ceilings and awkward doorways don’t feel quite so dreamy after all. The creaky floors are drowned out by cries of pain as he hits his head for the umpteenth time that week. There are other things, too. The conservatory roof leaks when it rains, the shed has collapsed, and the weird folding door by the kitchen keeps weirdly refusing to fold. If I’m totally honest, it’s starting to feel like maybe I’m not quite so compatible with this house any more. And once we discovered how much number 23 could be worth using the My Home experience on Zoopla it made the prospect of selling even more tantalising.
The estimated value on My Home means we could afford a bigger house, with high ceilings and functioning doors. We could have a roof that actually works as a roof and a shed that functions as a shed. It means we could afford to do exciting projects, such as building a garden office where I could write my novels without dogs deleting my work for me when I’m trying to drink tea. But more than any of that, it would be an adventure for the pair of us. We’d be choosing a new forever home that suits both of us – not just me.
Discover how much your home could be worth with an instant online estimate from Zoopla: zoopla.co.uk/my-home
