Keep Calm And Carry On

Three days from the end of our holiday in Porto, and just 5 days before we were due to move into our flat in London, we received a very blunt email from our Estate Agent informing us that our tenants would not be leaving our property.

Initially, we thought they didn’t have a leg to stand on, given that we’d served notice some two months earlier, but, after appointing a solicitor to deal with the problem, it became very clear that these people could not be physically removed by us, or anyone else except Her Majesty’s Heavies - namely a Court appointed bailiff. 

We decided to do some digging around to see who we were dealing with, and after a quick visit to a neighbours house, we discovered that our tenants are in fact Brazilian, and aren’t the girlfriend and boyfriend that we were led to believe they were. They’re a family of four with two children aged around 10 and 14 who are both regularly seen riding their bicycles around the Close.

It also transpired after a visit to the Estate Agent that these people are refusing to leave purely because they’ve discovered a loophole in British Law - a ruling that suggests that they are guaranteed to jump to the very top of the waiting list for a Council property if they are evicted by the Court.

People like this make me (and most others) very angry. Not only are they depriving us of moving back home, but they’re also depriving others of a much needed affordable Council house - people who have possibly waited patiently in line for many years. It’s a blatent fiddle of the system, and to make matters worse (if that were at all possible), us, as landlords, have just one route to getting our property back - through the Court. 

If we interfere with them in any way at all, our case for repossession will only take longer - anything up to a year. As it stands, we could be homeless for up to 4 months. 

We can’t change the locks or cut their power supply, or send in anyone else to chase them out - in fact, we can’t even knock on the door and have a polite conversation with them without risk of them saying we’re harassing them. 

As tenants, they have the right to remain at the property until a Court orders them out. As landlords, we have almost no rights at all.

Interestingly enough, despite us suddenly being homeless, despite us having a child under the age of two and despite us being the lawful owners of the property (which is full of furniture owned by us), we aren’t entitled to emergency Council housing.

Why? Because we are homeowners.

Rulings like this often cause people to get physically violent, and whilst I don’t believe we will, it does get more and more tempting with each day that passes whilst they still live in our home. Almost all of our friends, and most of our family has mentioned at one time or another to ‘change the locks’, and even the lady on the customer service desk of the Nationwide (our mortgage provider) told us to ‘send in the heavies’.

It seems we are not alone in thinking the law in the UK does not work as it should. 

It equally seems that a man's home is only his castle once he's spent almost a thousand pounds of his child's college fund, and waited several months to repossess it.

A Brief Introduction To Porto

After our stay in Stratford Upon Avon, we found ourselves with 10 days to waste away before returning to our London flat, and so parted with a very overladen Croissant and boarded an Easyjet flight to Porto in Portugal. 

Porto is a wonderful place, still extremely rough around the edges, and full of mostly locals rather than tourists. Many menus, flyers, and signs are in Portuguese only, but with a little effort in the local language, the people of Porto are ridiculously friendly, especially with a toddler in tow.

There are apparently roads in Porto that are steeper than those of San Francisco, and after dragging 2 suitcases, a backpack and a push-chair from the tram stop to the hotel in blazing heat and along the cobbled streets, we soon realised this wasn’t going to be the peaceful, stress-free break we thought it would be.

Portugal is clearly in recession. Many of it’s shops are closed down, and urban decay is around each and every corner. Graffiti is rife in Porto too, adding to its incredibly run down look. 

But it does hold a certain charm. As wooden doors and windows flake and rot in the relentless sun, life goes on. Cafés buzz, there are trendy arts in every second store, and there are small businesses squeezed into the tightest corners of the city churning out a whole gamut of goodies. 

A deep ravine cuts its way through the centre, bridged by superstructures designed by amongst others Gustave Eiffel. An ancient tram system with vintage stock rattles its way through the tiny filthy streets, ringing it’s bell constantly at illegally parked cars blocking the rails. Porto is home to possible the worlds most beautiful bookstore, with a staircase like I've never seen before, and many of it's buildings are covered with stunning ceramic tiles.

By pure luck, we were there during the São João (Saint John) festival, whereby quite literally the whole of Porto parties in the streets. Locals release fire fuelled lanterns up high into the sky and spend the evening hitting each other over the head with large plastic mallets.

We loved it!

However, our brief introduction to this town was abruptly ruined, with a very blunt email from our estate agent back in London, telling us that ultimately we would not be moving back home any time soon.

From Warts 'n' All To Walton Hall

2 days ago, we left Scotland, and undertook another mammoth journey south, Croissant the Peugeot loaded to the rafters with all we currently have in our possession.

Various reasons have driven us away from the 17th century converted cowshed, including issues with our own property down in London, and sadly for now, we will have to move back south, and into our tiny flat. Timing has meant we have a fortnight on the road again, and so we are taking some time to relax.

Liverpool was our first port of call, to buy new clothes and shoes, and after somehow squeezing them into our very full cases, we drove to Stratford Upon Avon - the 800 year old market town famous for being the birthplace of William Shakespeare - for a spot of dinner with Emma, a friend from Australia, over for a holiday.

A truly stunning place, Stratford’s streets are littered with wobbly original tudor architecture, has Red White and Blue bunting everywhere thanks to the Jubilee and even a couple of ice cream canal boats. It’s probably what most Americans think of when visually summing up England. 

Equally impressive is the amazing hotel Twinkle booked us for tonight on a ‘less than £75 budget including breakfast’. 

Walton Hall is clearly meant to be more expensive than we have paid thanks to lastminute.com - nestled in 65 acres of rolling Warwickshire countryside, it boasts it’s own chapel, clock tower, stable block, and even a second, somewhat less impressive hotel we thought we were staying in. On arrival we were promptly told ‘we have your booking Sir, but you’re not in the hotel, you’re down in the Hall. It’s a short drive away I’m afraid’.

Clearly I’m not posh as I’ve never checked into a large hotel that lacks a reception desk, nor have I ever had a room that has it’s own entrance, an upstairs, and complimentary umbrellas, but I’ve quickly become accustom to how the other half lives!

I might insist on a brisk walk around the lake tomorrow morning to admire the swans before returning to the real world...

The Town That Time Forgot

Yesterday, I awoke at 4.45am, showered, and grabbed the camera before heading for the town centre. The objective - a little photography project I've had in mind since arriving in Campbeltown. I wanted to capture it in its full grim glory. Why so early? To capture it before the streets became lined with cars.

Whilst I wandered the streets with my trusty Nikon D40x, I was very conscious that I looked to be planning an armed raid on the Clydesdale Bank, especially when a Strathclyde police van cruised past me with it's uniformed occupant giving me a long hard death stare. I also saw a cyclist, and an old man who I think had had one too many whiskies.

Everyone else slept in their beds as I stood in the middle of the road snapping the High Street before returning home for breakfast before 7am. Twinkle and Rhett were still snoring.

Incidentally, the hours of daylight up here in Argyll are amazing currently - it's light long before even the farmers are out of bed, and it stays bright until well past 11pm.

The full set of images I clicked can be seen on Flickr - here

A Week In The Life Of A Caretaker

Keeping a row of 300 year old cottages running isn’t as easy as it sounds. A row of 300 year old converted cow sheds (which is what this place actually is) is even harder.

Almost overnight I had no choice but to become a handyman, to quickly fix leaks, an a gamut of other problems that constantly spring up. Everything from no tin opener to no electric is my problem, and I have to think fast when someone knocks on the door complaining that their Kintyre retreat isn’t quite as it was sold to them.

More often than not, I’m expected to fashion a repair using what limited resources I have up here, made all the worse to by an owner who often doesn’t like buying anything other than the cheapest of equipment. My toolbox is poorly stocked with screwdrivers that bend and buckle, and a drill that struggled to drill holes in anything except plasterboard.

Painting is made tricky because of cheap brushes that shed their bristles (it’s viewed as more cost effective to buy cheap brushes and throw them away, rather than spend money on cleaning materials), and the endless supply of twenty year old paint tins with an inch or two of crusty paint in their bases doesn’t make the task any easier.

Never the less, always up for a challenge, I’ve been plodding on with tasks over the past two months, to hold up my end of the deal. And I’ve learnt to make do with what I have, often with fairly pleasing results. 

This week, I’ve:

• Built and fitted a DIY kitchen
• Removed the old kitchen to the local tip
• Laid a new lino floor
• Painted two park benches
• Painted three external windows
• Painted an interior wall
• Mowed the (extensive) grass
• De-weeded the gravel driveway
• Removed a dead Starling chick 
• Removed the tail, hind legs, and lower torso of a brown mouse

Me and my little pal build a new kitchen

Rhett takes control of the hammer

Ways to wear your own car out

Not my choice of colour!

I’ve also arranged an electrician to fix a broken hot water timer after complaints from guests that their shower was cold, and arranged a roofer to check out the leaking ceiling in another cottage. Not easy when you don’t speak fluent Scottish like the local tradesmen do. Directions to our cottages are my Achilles Heel; even Google lists our postcode as being two miles south of where it actually is.

Juggling repairs around guests being on site is all part of the challenge, made especially hard when we have a full house, as we did last week.

And keeping track of the keys isn’t easy either. I have a bunch that quite literally makes me look (and often feel) like the head jailer - this week alone I've managed to lock two German guests out of their cottage twice. I think they think I’m rifling through their things when they’re not here, but a lifetime of living in the city has brainwashed me to check doors are locked at all times, even if people have very deliberately left them unlocked. Of course, up here, the only people likely to wander past usually have four legs and a sheepskin coat on.

Generally speaking, because the place is in such disrepair, jobs can, and often do wait. If the sun is shining, or the son is crying, I tend to drop everything, and head for the nearest beach. Life, after all, is short.

The owners seems pleased with progress - I've worked my way through nearly everything on their list - and besides, I guess the real reason we’re here is to keep the place occupied, and see guests in and out.

The Grass Is Always Greener

My mum does the lottery each and every week - she always plays the same numbers, religiously watches the live draw on the Beeb, and without fail rolls her eyes and toots as her numbers fail once again to come up.

Money, she thinks, will make life so much better. If she gave me a pound every time she said ‘When I win the lottery...’ I’d be rich enough to buy her a house. And a speedboat for that matter.

Money, so they say, makes the world go round - the more you have, the easier life is.

I can vouch for this to some extent - I used to have a job that allowed us a fairly good standard of life. We had a beautiful apartment in the centre of a bustling city, went to restaurants whenever we wanted, and bought more new clothes than a family of three could ever need. I even used to have my hair cut by someone who used to massage my head for 30 minutes prior to pulling her scissors out. Life indeed was good.

So money wasn’t our problem. 

Time, I felt was the main issue, hence exchanging wealth for a clock with more hours.

Now, with all the time in the world, and nothing to spend our money on except food and diesel, logic would suggest that I’d be as happy as a pig in shit. 

But no, it’s now inspiration I crave - the one thing I don’t have here, yet the one thing I need so desperately to make it as an Illustrator. The call of the big city with its rich tapestry of inputs is very tempting compared to the endlessly boring hills of the Kintyre Peninsula. 

So, to help me work through my latest dilemma of disappointment, I now try on a daily basis to live by this fabulous quote I recently read:

If the grass looks greener on the other side of the fence, maybe yours needs a little more tending

Too Good To Be True?

Rent free.

Two little words that would make most people's ears prick up in view of suddenly being a whole lot richer than they are currently. It's a bit like a free bus ride, or fiddling the electric meter. It sounds good in theory, but there must be a catch, right?

Get caught dodging a bus fare, and you'll land yourself a fine. Get caught fiddling the electric company out of your hard earned sterling, and you'll land up in prison. But what is the catch with (legally) living rent free?

Rent free is what it says it is - you simply don't pay rent. And that can save you tens of thousands of pounds each year. Often, there are other perks too, like no council tax, free phone calls, and free power. We pay for the electricity we use, and for broadband, but everything else is free.

On the upside, our arrangement offers us a life without annoying neighbours, 4 other fully furnished cottages that we can (and do) use, our own large field - great for spontaneous games of football, kite flying and the like, and endless usage of the farmland on which we're located.

But probably the biggest upside is no boss on site, essentially leaving us to our own devices practically all the time. We can work when we choose, and only work one day per week, leaving the majority of time for our own endeavours.

But surely, if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

Living conditions clearly weren't ever going to be the Ritz, and we certainly didn't walk into this project thinking we'd be living like Lord and Lady of the Manor. But until you arrive at a property in view to a long term sit, you really have no idea what you're walking into, except for a few honest, or not so honest chats over Skype with the owners.

We've had chats twice now, with the people that own this place, and with Angelika in Italy. In both cases, the truth does seem to have somewhat been glossed over. It's not that there were blatant lies told, more that the honest and open truth wasn't quite told.

Because if the truth be known, the truth would probably put most people off.

So, expect the worse.

We didn't, and have been hugely disappointed since first arriving here almost exactly as we were in Italy - you'd think we'd have learned from our previous mistakes!

Constant dampness

Press once for washing up, twice for a shower. Ready in 30 minutes

1950's heating in the bedrooms

Gutter Gardening

All mod-cons

Last tested in 1997

Expect there to be shocking furniture and decor, poorly maintained interiors, windows that don't close, roofs that don't keep the rain out, peeling paint, damp, mould, rodents, poor equipment, and a general living condition you might not have been expecting.

Twinkle perfectly summed this place up after a couple of days of living here when she observed we were suddenly living like students. That's exactly what it's like - a student house, poorly furnished and extremely poorly maintained. Well, certainly that was the case in at least 3 of the houses I lived in whilst studying all those years ago.

But remember, the moral of this story is that there is no such thing as a free lunch. Ever.

So, if you want to be your own boss, and do very little work in exchange for a roof over your head (albeit a not so dry one), and importantly, you don't mind living like a scabby student, his house sitting gig might just be right up your street.

So, Mission Accomplished?

Since departing Australia more than 3 months ago, jobless, homeless and living on our savings, we've come a very long way.

It seems like forever and a day since I resigned my post at Loop, packed up my desk, and boarded that plane, and almost just as long since I shook hands with the man who sold us the car that Rhett now loves to pretend to drive on a daily basis.

But, the question on our lips is 'are we done?'.

How long will it be before this lifestyle comes to a grinding halt, and we return to the real world?

To answer that, it's simply a case of knowing if each objective has been achieved or not, or indeed if it is achievable here in the middle of nowhere.

So, here it goes:

Spend more time together
Probably our top priority. We spend every day together, and often help each other out with tasks around the house and the workplace. We all hang the washing out together, we eat each and every meal together, we play together, anytime we want. It's a bit like being The Waltons (but with only 3 of them).
Verdict:
Mission Accomplished. Life is very short, and seeing us together like this will stay with us all forever. Working all the hours God sends for the corporate monster seems like a thing of my past currently and I truly hope to hang onto at least some of what I've had in the past 3 months if and when I return to the real world.


Be More Creative
Another core reason to do this was to engage my true inner talents and turn them into a commercial success, thus stepping away from design. Whilst I always knew becoming a full time illustrator wouldn't happen in such a short space of time, I should have a feel as to whether I'm on track to succeed or not. 
But the biggest downside here in Campbeltown is the lack of inspiration - something I probably didn't even consider before we arrived. It is truly the dullest place I've ever visited, and coupled with the lack of ability to buy materials, or sit in a cool coffee shop to get the motivation levels firing on all cylinders, the creative process is proving to be somewhat harder than I've ever experienced before. 
Verdict:
Evens. I do feel like I'm getting into the swing of my true inner self, and I do scribble more often than not, but I'm frustrated on a daily basis. Gone are the days of being able to change the surroundings to stoke the flames of creativity, and I'm totally unsure currently which train I need to board to get to where I'm going. A real worry.


Don't go broke
We entered this project with a bag of cash, and we still seem to be in the black. But with nothing to spend money on here, there is a constantly nagging voice in my ear saying 'you need a treat' - which usually leads directly to the cream cake section in Tesco's. Not good for my arteries. 
Verdict:
Mission Accomplished. I'd imagine the biggest reason people don't take a sabbatical is financial, and yet with a couple of small freelance jobs along the way, we seem to be in the same financial position we were when we started back in January. Certainly we could easily keep going if it were down to cash alone.


Take a breather
After clocking up so many hours in the real world, switching off for a decent amount of time was also a key reason for doing this. As Ferris Bueller once said - Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it. 
Verdict:
Well, with my last post 'The Joy Of Pottering' I think this has to be Mission Accomplished. I certainly don't currently feel the stresses and strains of life that I used to feel, and I do feel ready for the next big fix - whatever that is. Our close friend Carly said recently our that one of our biggest problems was our inability to 'relax', and I think she's right. But equally, I do seem to have become far more lazy since being here, a trait I really don't want to develop further.



Overall, the decision to take a sabbatical is one I'll never regret. It's shown me so much about how you can just give it all up and hit the road, and that when things don't go quite to plan, there's always a way. Isn't that ultimately what life is anyway?

I've learnt that you don't need huge amounts of money to keep the stress levels down, and I've also learnt just how much money I used to waste. I've learnt that children are easy if only you give them your time, and I've learnt that the most important thing in life is not work. I've learnt a huge amount, most of which I probably don't even realise yet.

I've learnt that I really do love pencils, and that I hate pens, that practice does make perfect, and that a little each day keeps you in much better shape than huge pushes followed by huge lulls. I've learnt that I like drawing people far more than animals or cars, and that I feel naked without my sketchbook or camera, even if I'm only popping into town to buy milk.

But can we continue to live like this?

Its not so much a question of 'can' - it's more 'do we want to'.

The funny thing is, I truly miss work - something I never thought I'd say. Whilst I don't miss the politics, I do miss people, and the challenges they throw up. I miss the banter, and the plastic crap all over my desk. I miss being in a city and having a home that doesn't smell of damp.

I miss much about my old life, and I'd like much of it back.

But there are also many aspects of this new life I equally don't want to lose.

Mission Accomplished? I think the mission has now changed to 'get the perfect balance'. We never had it in London, nor in Sydney, and we sure as hell don't have it here. Finding it might prove mission impossible, but I think its ultimately the next big fix.

The Joy Of Pottering

Pottering is something old people do, isn't it? It's certainly something my Mum does around her garden on spring days anyway. It's not really something I've ever considered 'getting into'.

But something has happened to me since moving to Argyll.

The property we live on is dilapidated, and carries with it such a long list of things to mend and fix that we'll never complete all tasks set. This has led us to having the mindset of a pottering old retired couple.

Yet it's a world away from the life we're used to, and I'm surprised we've adapted at all.

The main difference is in not having an objective - you just sort of do whatever takes your fancy at any given moment, without care of getting the job completed. The joy comes when you do finish something you never really set out to do it in the first place.

Top 5 potters:

Washing the car:  

Use a bucket of water rather than a hose, not to conserve water, but to waste time. It makes you do a better job, and your toddler can help. Vacuum the inside out at the same time for a true home-style valet. 

Painting: 

Just crack open a tin of the nearest paint, grab a massive brush, and exercise those arms. Don't worry about masking anything off, if you paint the grass just cut it back. Tired old fences or garage doors will look shiny and new in no time, and with little effort.

Feeding the birds:

Either buy a feeder, or make one out if an empty loo roll, covered in peanut butter and bird seed. It makes you feel good that you're helping such tiny creatures, and brings further smiles when you see them scoffing your home made treats without complaint.

Watering the flowers: 

Simply fill up the watering can, and wander around sprinkling randomly. This also encourages the planting of seeds and bulbs, thus creating a spectacular festival of colour in your garden (according to the packet anyway).

Going for a walk:

Walking round the block is something teenagers do to cause mischief, and pensioners do to prevent their joints seizing up. But wandering aimlessly is a great way to get inspired. Use this important time to think about whats really important to you. 

Pottering. Give it a try. 

King Of The Castles

Whilst Campbeltown is possibly the dullest town I've ever visited, let alone lived in, it does offer a great bit of history around every corner. So far, we've visited a couple of pretty old castles...

Skipness Castle dates from the 13th century, and Rhett and I visited on a sunny day a couple of weeks ago. We parked and walked the short distance to the grounds, before being greeted by the domineering stonework of it's outer walls. All around it grew fresh green grass, and whilst we couldn't go inside, it was worth the 45 minute journey to reach it by single track roads.

Unlike Windsor and that castle Snow White lives in, this one is fairly small, but none the less, it is the genuine article. Built by the Clan MacSween, it was garrisoned with royal troops in 1494 before being abandoned in the 17th century.

Saddell Castle is much newer, built by David Hamilton (not Diddy David Hamilton - David Hamilton the Bishop of Argyll) between 1508 and 1512, and features include a rather cool trap door fitted in the main entrance hallway, which drops unwanted visitors into the exit-less dungeon below.

It stars in the Wings music video 'Mull Of Kintyre', and is equally beautiful as Skipness Castle, and best of all, you can actually hire this one from the the Landmark Trust, who bought it in the 1970's to restore. It sleeps 10, and sits right on the beach.

We worked on the beach the day we visited, fine tuning Tara's very cool storybook about dancing.