The Travels & Adventures of Flog-It Removals.

Stardate 06/2003, leaving behind a sleepy stockbroker village in Nottingham where I had lived in the same house for 39 years. VW minibus packed to bursting, trailer packed in the same fashion and a roof rack almost doubling the height of the vehicle we set off south in search of the good life. What were we thinking? Work is a doddle sitting at a PC all day long “arranging things”... Fresh air? What’s that? Hard work! Sorry but those are two four-letter words that should not appear in the same sentence.
Why? Because there was this typical Spanish style little house in Lloret de Mar that just begged for some tender loving care. A house with a garden and a sea view. A house with a balcony and with character. A house falling to pieces but perfectly liveable as long as the holes are filled and cracks repaired as you find them. A house you can leave unlocked when you go out in the morning and still find everything where you left it when you got home. Only a rented house, but it was home. Perfect. Thank you Carmen.
What was to follow? Four houses in five years. Seven day working weeks for five years. Working on rooftops in gale force winds and driving rain. Climbing trees with only a chainsaw for company. 7000km round Europe trips driving a van for 10 days at a time, sometimes sleeping in the back in sub-zero temperatures. Having to walk in the woods with an axe in the middle of winter and in the dark to cut wood because we ran out. Central heating? Whats that? And why does the gas bottle always expire when I am in the shower? Blowing the engine in the first van and blaming all the mountains. Having the car crushed by a bloody great dumper truck full of bricks that should not have even been on that road in the first place. Blowing the engine in another car during a house move. So much “Red Tape” that we never actually manage to officially import any vehicle we own. Collecting rocks that weigh more than I do from a railway line so that we can landscape the garden. A hernia. Broken teeth. Digging up a damn great Mimosa tree the hard way (spade & axe) so that we could level the ground for a free-standing pool. Putting clothes away one day and then taking them out again mildew when you need them. Meeting the local English community... “We’ve been ‘ere longer than you and we know what’s best for you so do us a favour and we’ll see you right.” Oh my God if I had forseen all this.
This summer we moved into a typical Spanish style little house near Palafrugell that was just begging for some tender loving care. A house with a garden and a pool, and a small sea view. A house with a balcony and with character. A house not falling to pieces but in need of some work in places to turn it from a holiday home into an all year round home. A house you can leave unlocked when you go out in the morning and still find everything where you left it when you get home at night. Only a rented house, but it is home, and we don’t want to leave. Perfect.
Will we go back to England? No way José. Was it all worth it? God yes, and only another 20 years until we can retire and enjoy it!!