For a few blissful days I became ensconced in a room at the Premier Inn, with no fixed abode. I was not a property owner. I had no responsibilities. I was free. This wondrous state of near-vagrancy was only until the purchase of my house in Ireland went through, but I enjoyed it all the same.
I got the better end of the deal, taking the king-sized bed in the budget hotel room while the builder boyfriend slept in his pick-up truck with the dogs, or next to the truck in a pop-up tent. Obviously, I let him come by for a shower in the morning, and some breakfast.
He was so happy to be on his way to Ireland that he declared camping in a friend’s field the most minor inconvenience.
We did interview for some dog-friendly Airbnbs in Surrey but the owners, who all demanded we turn up and introduce ourselves and our dogs first, were so weird and had so many ridiculously unkeepable rules that we decided it was motel or bust.
We were so tired by the time the house was packed up and vacated that we would have slept in the horses’ field shelter.
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