Between Boxes

Flit is a local word for moving house. It sounds so simple. We all know it isn't, but like labour, you forget the worst bits and so I have ventured once more into the territory of

oh that's where this went

and

what on earth is this for?

and

now I have three of these

and

the sad truth that books are heavy, no matter how small a parcel you make of them.

The easier parts of the move have been dealt with. Not that any of it has been easy, but we have moved enough furniture to the new house that we can sort of live here. We are down now to the real nitty gritty.

Thanks to wonderful friends and family lending a hand for the hard work, we'll make it, I think. Tomorrow is Truck Day. Younger and fitter people will be loading things onto a truck. I'll be packing and cleaning and trying not to be too sad or too distracted. When I moved into Isauld, I thought I would never move again. Five years in one place is a long time for me, but Isauld needs more people in it and more time and energy invested in bringing her back to life. I hope she gets it.

Meantime, after a load in each of our cars and some dismantling of furniture in preparation for the move, we took a little time off to rest for the big event and to enjoy the new neighbourhood. We went for an ice cream from the convenience store in Castletown, took the long way home--past the traveler's house--and watched the sun disappear behind a hill leaving its red orange rose pink silver behind it like a long veil.