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We’ve moved to a 16th-century priory.

The wisteria is growing through the skirting board.
The floorboards groan with secrets.
There’s no mobile signal. No overhead lights.
It’s a midsummer heatwave, and we are illuminated by Christmas fairy lights.

The dining table didn’t fit through the gothic oak front door.
So it lives in the carport — like the world’s most expensive picnic bench.

Cobwebs abound — part Sleeping Beauty’s castle, part Miss Havisham’s wedding feast.
And the house wheezes in its sleep.

With gardens to rival Chelsea. Kew. Powerscourt. Possibly Eden.
The velvet A–Z roll call of wildlife is enchanting: bats, badgers, deer, frogs, kites, pheasants, owls.

Drafty. Creaky. Beautiful.
Entirely unfiltered. Like the water. Tempted to put Perrier in the kettle.

It’s not a renovation. Not a retreat. Just our reality.