I’ve never liked the term ‘forever home’, I like the excitement of moving too much, it’s full of possibilities

I CAN STILL REMEMBER the very first time we stepped through the front door. The feeling was instant. It usually is. I say ‘usually’ because we were old-hands at the moving game even then, back in 2001. We’d bought our first house in 1989 and had sold up and moved on three times already. So, this time was to be our fifth. We’d never gone far, probably stayed within a square-mile radius but, for various reasons – our growing family, our business – each move had been a necessary one.

If I’m honest, I’ve never liked the term ‘forever home’. The thought of living in the same place forever scares me. ‘Dunroamin’ would not be a name I’d put on a gatepost. I like the excitement of moving too much. It’s full of possibilities: the echo of footsteps on bare floorboards, ripping down dated wallpaper, stripping layers of paint from woodwork. Refurbishing, redecorating, new rooms, new views. The excitement! The irony is, I’m a true home bird. Or maybe it’s not ironic when I think about it. Perhaps it’s the act of home-making that attracts me, that makes me want to do it again and again. And, when we got that familiar feeling walking through the door, the wheels were set in motion once more.

In the end, we stayed in that house for 15 years, our longest stint in any home. Prior to that it had been three, four years, even less. This house, though, was different. It was old and beautiful and full of character.

Built around 1912, it had been occupied by the same family for almost half a century before we bought it. It retained many original features but some had disappeared over the years in the name of progress: the marble fireplaces had been replaced with beige-tiled monstrosities, probably in the 1950s; a length of hardboard sat where original wooden bannisters used to be. Worst of all was the thick layer of textured plaster which covered the walls of the hall, stairs, landing and two bedrooms. Painted with grey-green gloss, it made the place resemble a damp, gloomy cave.

It was a pretty horrific decorative effect but we were grateful. If not for it, the house might never have been ours. We discovered later that the plasterwork was instrumental in deterring other prospective buyers. When the house had been put up for auction in June of that year, it had received not a single bid. It didn’t put us off (though we did have it tested for asbestos – which, thankfully, wasn’t present) and we managed to secure the house in August for a good bit less than the original guide price.

We carried out a huge amount of work and did a lot of it ourselves. I lost count of the number of skips we hired but it definitely ran into double figures. It snowed that November and the place was like an icebox with the front and back doors almost permanently open as barrow-loads of rubble and junk were wheeled out to the skips. Added to that was the matter of central-heating – there wasn’t any. We had it installed as soon as was possible.

It took several years but we turned that house into a beautiful home. New fireplaces, polished floorboards, smooth-plastered walls. Being in the art business back then, we hung the walls with paintings and filled the spaces with period pieces, decorative mirrors and antique rugs that we’d picked up at auctions. It was cosy and comfortable and especially gorgeous at Christmas.

But things change. Children grow. One by one they finish school and find their way out into the world to make their own homes and there comes a day when you’re sitting in a house full of empty rooms and you start asking questions. Is it practical? Is it necessary? And then, there were those itchy feet.

It wasn’t an easy decision to make. There was a lot of soul-searching, a lot of weighing up of options and measuring of pros against cons. We’d poured a lot of love into the house but, we soon came to realise, love is something you carry with you. Home isn’t really a place, it’s a feeling and, as my daughter pointed out: this wouldn’t be a full stop, it’d be more of a semi-colon.

Change is scary, but it is, ultimately, a good thing. Clearing out the attic took weeks. It was probably the thing I dreaded doing most but divesting ourselves of years of accumulated junk proved to be cathartic. There was so much that we didn’t need.

And where we’ve ended up couldn’t be more different: a modern, third-floor apartment with a beautiful view to the mountains, and sun (when it’s around) from when it rises until it sets. Being able to see the sky all the time, to watch it in all its beauty as it changes throughout the day is something I really appreciate. Sometimes I feel like we’re living in the clouds.

I love where we live now. But I can’t say we’ll be here forever!