Walking weather

It rained for 2 days and 2 nights. Then on the third day the sun rose over the ridge of the eastern hill at 8.15am and stayed out all day.  We were told before we came that this area is in some kind of micro climate - lots of sunshine, but I have to be honest here and say I thought they were probably living with self-delusion - the kind of over optimistic weather lore that bed and breakfast owners in the Lake District demonstrate when the rain is teaming down outside and they're telling you that it was beautiful a few hours before you arrived. 

But I think I may have been invaded by the same delusion. It has been sunny a lot. And warm. The grass is still green and growing, there are a few insects - even the odd butterfly last week.  Walking weather. 

This is part of what we came for - to be able to walk from the door without having to face the A6 or the M6. A longer view, a wider perspective. And here it is. We walked yesterday over the hill to have a cup of tea with R's sister who lives in the next village. The photograph above is Brassington seen from the path and the one below is of Carsington Water on the other side of the hill.  As we walk and explore, it feels even more rich in potential for walking and being outside than we had imagined.

There are animals all around. Cows, sheep, horses. The smell of horse dung and cow pats. Cows mooing loudly, tiny calves in the field. Noisy birds everywhere, yesterday a squawking crow harassing a miaowing buzzard, the two of them falling and soaring under the blue blue sky, like fighting planes in an old war film.

And it isn't only the birds. This may be a country village but it isn't quiet. More rush hour traffic noise outside from the yellow road than we had expected. A happy birthday party in the village hall - which is about forty metres from our back door. Couldn't quite catch the tune - 1970s golden oldies. David Cassidy or Bowie maybe. Made me feel quite at home. Then there are the two pubs. Plenty of sounds there. More on this later. 

The neighbours continue to exceed our expectations of friendliness and kindness. When I did the classic just- moved-into-a-new-house trick of locking us out - something boiling dry on the erratic and incomprehensible Rayburn hotplate, threatening to burn the 200 year old house down - a very nice man helped us jemmy the door open with a crow bar. We've had invitations for a drink and meal already . . . plus there's an auction of promises thingy on at the village hall. Looks like my idea of a quieter life may have to be revised.  

Moving Out/Moving In

Hard to find a way to write about being here and what this move from city suburb to rural village is all about, why we’ve done it and how we can make it work. On the day we moved, the sun sneakily came out and shone pointedly down onto Devonshire Road, Chorlton, Manchester, making everything - even the graffiti - glow as if blessed by the saint of cities. (Saint Urban maybe?)

    



I drove, which was just as well, as R was homesick already for the Metrolink, the A5013 to the airport, the M60 to the Stockport B and Q, and strangely even for the Tile Solutions emporium; the car dealerships; the boarded up pubs and fifth-hand furniture shops and for all the rest of the clutter and muddle along the A6. Even the eternal roadworks and ram-jammed traffic in Hazel Grove took on a sweet nostalgic gleam. In Buxton, the weather turned spiteful: sideways rain and a gale blowing up.

The move went as house moves go - too much stuff, boxes piled to the ceiling, the important things you really need at the bottom of the pile; tiredness, fear, excitement, getting the kettle on and finding the biscuits. There were added complications:  the removal van not being able to get out of the lane to our house until one of our neighbours drove to Ashbourne, six miles away to get a set of car keys. Don’t ask. Also we’ve downsized but nobody seems to have told our stuff yet. Our sofa bed wouldn’t fit through the door to the sitting room. ‘No-way, never,’ said Gary the removal man, ‘it’s them thick stone walls, not in a million.’ So now it’s in the conservatory waiting for somebody to decide what to do with it. 





The neighbours were lovely. Kind and helpful: the one who went for the car-keys, our next door neighbours on both sides bringing us cake, a card, a photograph of our house as it was, invitations and introductions. Although we didn’t feel at home, they made us feel as though one day we might.

 

When the removal van had inched its way back to the main road and the kind neighbours had left us alone in the fading daylight we stood in the garden and looked out over the village at the view of the hill. The weather was Mancunian:  thick-bellied clouds rolling in from the west, rain sluicing down, visibility low.
You don’t get away that easily, said the city inside me.  

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