A part of my life that is very big a small amount of the time is about to change.
I like change. So I thought. For all it’s practicalities and necessities, I don’t like this one much. I considered this in great depth as I let Lexie dog loose across the familiar fields of a place called Little Busollow for the last time.
Over the years Lexie has taken great pleasure in charging through the waist-high foliage, out of site bar the occasional leap into view to regain her bearings, with only tunnels of destruction to indicate her whereabouts. The foliage is different depending on the time of year, consistently providing hours of entertainment for all the family.
The two of us meander, she is still faster but has slowed through age. We greet the horses who are mildly curious about the poo bag I’m now burdened with, drifting off and the bounty-less discovery. I gaze longingly at abandoned, expensive properties crying out for TLC. And I think about my brother.
Harvey is 20 years my junior. Needless to say he is my half brother, but he is also my only sibling – and I his. When my father moved to Cornwall I thought that could be the end of an already strained relationship – there was no way I could travel from Mancehster often enough to maintain contact. Sure enough as my 19th birthday passed there was no card, no call.
And then there was Harvey.
It took me 3 years to get the time, money and inclination to venture down to the furthest corner of the country on an 8 hour train, still half cut from the night before. My partner at the time was the driving force, by myself I’m not convinced I would have made that train.
Coming round after a long kip and a car ride to the middle of nowhere I unfolded out of the car bleary eyed and sceptical. At least I think that’s what happened, because what I experienced next erased any trace or tangible memory of negative emotions. My brother, a tiny (even for a 3 year old) blonde spectacled child was thrust into my arms at which point he buried his head into my shoulder and clung onto my arms, legs raised off the ground for what felt like an eternity. And maybe it was.
From then on there was no looking back. I moved to London, desperate for a million reasons to change my job, location, everything about my life. And to be closer to Cornwall. I say Cornwall because I had fallen in love with the sprawling, endless rolling hills, the tranquility, the views. I had found a friend in my step-mother, we had always got on but as an adult I learned just how embracing, endearing and selfless she is. And also my dad. Who would have known that we could have the bond that we do? Inevitably born of the strained history and uncertainty we found a silent, mutual understanding. That too has grown into friendship. The list goes on, the local community, the pubs and shops. The lazy, happy abandon of long walks through derelict mines and coastlines, secluded beaches and harbours…
My lack of foresight is summed up in a treehouse that I built, almost alone over seveal days in the blazing August heat. Excited about my next trip down I made the call.. tickets confirmed… I’ll be down for a few days…
Fantastic! Was the reply. You can help us move!
Harvey is now eight years old. It is time that he lived near more people. The benefits of the remote cottage are over and all are heading to the busy town of Penzance. There will be shops, socialisation and signal. It’s all right but feels so wrong. I can only conclude that this is because the desion maker this time was not me. How easy is it to move a structure that took to long to move? Does it need to be dismantled and re-built? Will it even fit?