After almost exactly five years, I’m leaving my house on the edge of Exmoor. I have sold it, will be able to pay off my mortgage, and am renting for a year while I get back on my feet. When I left London, I was full of regret, tears and trepidation. But there was also a tiny bit of optimism and determination: I was going to make this work. But it hasn’t worked. It has been the hardest, most miserable five years of my life, and that is saying something.
Looking back, all I can remember are the awful times. Arriving to a house with no fire grate, the Aga broken, no light fittings or light bulbs, and filth. Chilblains, as the house was so cold: I’d go for a drive just to warm up. I have lost so many animals here: Bo, Nellie, all the chickens; finding the last two dead, having been dragged through a hedge, was the final straw. Snoopy and Squeaky. Sheep. Nic came here with five cats, now she has one.
I’ve lost all my money, too. Selling up will repay my mortgage, and the loan on my sister’s cottage in Dulverton, and leave me with nothing. But at least I will no longer have two mortgages. Apart from my eldest sister Clare, my family no longer talk to me or call to see if I’m OK.
I’ve been shot at, had eggs thrown at my car (which I lost in the floods), gossiped about, shouted at and ripped off. I’ve had tons of grass cuttings dumped at my gate, meaning I couldn’t open it. Locals have told reporters I ‘couldn’t even ride a rocking horse’.
The Guardian reported that, despite the fact I ran out of fuel halfway across the moor, and a man in a pub kindly went home and fetched a can of petrol for me, refusing payment, there is ‘a petrol station at the bottom of her hill’.
The journalist failed to add that it has opened and closed down three times since I moved here: it’s now a place where you hire mountain bikes. Only one woman has ever asked me into her home in five years of living in this place.
I used to frequent a lovely pub, Woods, but after a night when a woman yelled out nasty things about me, I’ve never been inside again, leaving me no place to go. I’ve been visited not by friends, but by bailiffs, stalkers, policemen and debt collectors. I’ve had local councillors dress up and impersonate me on a float at the local carnival. I have tried to battle through it, remain cheerful, but it’s too hard. I haven’t sat on Lizzie, the whole reason I moved here in the first place, for over two years. I’ve driven 150,000 miles since moving here to get to work.
'It has been the hardest, most miserable five years of my life'The sheep are going to live with my friend Isobel, who has 500 other rescued wensleydales and shetlands. But there are still problems. I have 2,700 bales of organic meadow hay, and 48 big bales of wrapped haylage, having got my fields cut at a cost of £4,000. But I can’t find anyone to move it. I called a local firm. ‘I’ll charge you £4,000. But you will have to load and unload it.’
‘Well, I could get you two people this end,’ I said, ‘but I’ll have to pay them. I’m not sure about the other end.’
‘I don’t think I want to do this job.’
This is the worst thing you can ever say to me, who has done anything – risen at 4am most days, cut off her own face – for money. ‘What, during a recession you will turn down £4,000?’
‘It will work out at £500 a day. It’s not worth it. Anyway, I don’t like your attitude.’
I lost some of what he was saying, so I said, ‘I’m sorry, I’m almost completely deaf, can you repeat what you just said?’ Slam!
But moving home is never easy. Nic has just driven six hours to inspect the new livery, where the horses are going, only to be told halfway there that they no longer have any vacancies. So I have nowhere for the horses. After 30 years on the property ladder, I’m now renting. I’m terrified. I take one last walk around my beautiful fields, and say goodbye to the married couple of grey herons who live on the lake. The only person to say goodbye to is Emily in the deli. I almost ruined her life, her business, by writing about her. I’m poison.
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