It was early March and The Red House had been my obsession for four months. It was the last thing I thought about as I went to sleep, the first thing that I thought of each morning and in between I’d dream of it. My days were punctuated with visualisation, plans, scheming and dreaming. Everything had become about The Red House. Irishman thought that I was completely nuts but he admired my persistence. As always, there was his reminder to manage my expectations, ‘You do realise Lottieness that the chances that we will sell 88 quickly, are very slim? It may take a year or more’ I knew that he was right but I was going to do everything in my power to prove him wrong. If manifesting works for other people, then why shouldn’t it work for me?. Photos of the Red House were dotted around the house on laptops, desk tops, phones. And just to make sure that everyone knew my intentions, I bored the pants of friends and family that came to visit. ‘Look at this house in Galicia! We are going to move there, I’m going to make this happen!’ Of course everyone laughed because they know how long it can take to sell a house in Spain, let alone one that has a fairly hefty price tag attached to it. But, when you want something really badly, you mustn’t give up. I was abundantly clear in my wishes, manifesting had become second nature along with my daily chats with the Universe, little rituals to keep me focused even though at times it felt if i’m honest like I was( to use a quaint British expression), ‘Pissing in the wind’. But, as it turns out I wasn’t. Out of the blue, suddenly as if by magic, everything started to fall in to place. All the things that I’d hoped and asked for, became reality.
It was like a domino effect of Universe bountifulness. Firstly there was a message from a friend ‘Is your house still for sale? If it is, I know a couple who might be interested in it.’ five days later a couple from the UK came to see the house. Then out of the blue, another friend emailed Irishman with the most extraordinary proposition. ‘Do you still want that Red House? If you do, I can lend you the money. Pay me back when you sell 88, no hurry, no pressure’. Irishman and I looked at each other and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. This was incredible. And just when we thought it couldn’t get any better, we had another offer for the house and business. Within three weeks we’d accepted an offer on the house, and put down a deposit for The Red House. The show was on the road, we were moving North.
Irishman and I drove back up to Galicia in mid June to sign the contract for completion on the Red house. In case our purchasers decided to pull out, we’d bitten the bullet and decided to go ahead and accept the hugely generous offer of a loan from our friends. We’d taken the decision that come what may, we were not going to lose the chance of buying this special place. There were already others interested and we both knew that Galicia is fast becoming the new destination for foreign buyers in Spain. Now was our chance and we had to seize it with both hands.
There was certainly a sense of déjà vu as we packed up 88. This was going to be our third house move in less than five years. You’d think that we had it down to a fine art by now but you’d be wrong. The only blessing is that after so many moves, I’ve managed to whittle my crap down to the minimum, shame that the same can’t be said for Irishman.
July 21st, moving day. the summer solstice. I got up at 4.30 and made a cup of coffee. It was going to be a very long day. First I had to something important to do. I drove up to the plateau as the first light crept over the mountains and shouted in to the still, warm summer air ‘THANK YOU! UNIVERSE!’ I took in the view of the castle majestically set up on its hill top for the last time before driving back home and getting on with the job in hand. By 9am we had the camera man there to film us leaving the house, not ideal when you are trying to get all your last minute jobs done. As I was administering sedatives to the cats upstairs I sudden’y heard someone crying. Whoever it was sounded really distressed. I went downstairs and there was my darling 82 year old neighbour, Antonia crying her eyes out in the hall. As soon as she saw me she came over and clung on to me for dear life. She’s only a tiny woman so it was actually my bosoms that she was weeping in to. ‘why are you going? she sobbed. why are you going mi niña? You can’t go! and she sobbed and sobbed and was so distressed that I started bawling my eyes out too. I felt so dreadful, she really had been the sweetest, loveliest neighbour and I had no idea that our move would upset her so much. We dried each others eyes and I promised to keep in touch. Goodbyes are always hard but especially agony when you realise just how much you are going to miss someone.
By the time we’d squeezed everything that we were going to need for the next few days in to the back of the car, there was no room for dogs or cat baskets. Everything had to come out and be repacked. In fact we had to repeat this exercise at least three times before we’d got the space for the menagerie. I was screaming at Irishman, Irishman was screaming at me. It was 11am and already 32C. By the time we hit the road we both felt exhausted.
I’m not sure what sedatives the vet had given me for the cats but whatever they were, we ended up with three belligerent drunks on our hands. Id rather fancied that it was simply a case of giving them a pill and then they’d doze off comfortably and sleep for most of the nine hour car journey. Oh how wrong was I. Like all good drunks, after they’d shouted and spat their feline obscenities at us, they then wet themselves. Imagine how fragrant that was in a hot, stuffy car.
Finally we reached As Pontes. Only another forty minutes or so and we’d be home. The weather up until that point had been quite glorious, it was 8pm on the longest day of the year but as we started to climb the mountain, thick fog descended and it became distinctly chilly. I looked at Irishman, Irishman looked at me. The cats had worn themselves out and were oblivious to the fact that we were now approaching Narnia. The dogs were beginning to get restless. It was two hours after their usual supper time and the grumbling had begun in earnest. The headlights and windscreen wipers were now on as drizzle accompanied the swirling mists. This was not the balmy midsummers evening that had been part of my plan. We turned on the sat nav as the fog was so thick it was very difficult to see where any of the road turnings were. On and on we slowly crept until finally the tom tom instructed us to take a right turn and then a left. A few minutes later and we’d arrived.