The Grand Adventure

It’s probably fair to say we’ve met a few interesting locals in Dennington, our Suffolk village. I don’t think there’s one that stands out, worthy of an entire blog post. But there’s certainly been a few that merit an honorable mention.

We have discovered the joys of ‘wintering’. It’s a no-brainer when you think about it. Winter is here. It’s real. There’s no avoiding it. So, we may as well enjoy it while it lasts.

Vive La Difference! as they say in France. But we’re not in France, we’re in Blighty, the Old Dart. And for me, there shouldn’t be any differences. Coming home to England should be like shrugging on an old coat and knowing exactly where the pockets are. Except some of the pockets have moved.

“You’ll only do it once,” they said. Those wise sages who think they know everything about living in an English cottage built for our 16th-century ancestors who were, on average, 5’5″. They are of course referring to the inevitable – and painful – head meets beam scenario. They are wrong about only doing it once.

If I’d known last month what I know today, it wouldn’t have helped. Four weeks ago I thought we could get off a plane in London, buy a car, and drive to Suffolk to start our big adventure. But it didn’t all go according to plan.

I thought yesterday’s roller-coaster ride had run its course when we finally relaxed over a glass of wine and a middle eastern feast at Za Za Ta. Instead, it reached a crescendo of panic when I received a frantic call from the UK around 8pm.