‘Have you got your passport? Your phone? Your wallet?’ The builder boyfriend patted his pockets and told me not to worry as we drove through the Gatwick drop-off lane where they charge you £5 to open your car door for three seconds and push someone out.
When I arrived back home, he texted: ‘I left my euros in the pocket of my work jeans.’ No matter. He could draw out cash when he got there.
It had been a last minute rush to get him on a flight to Cork to view this dream farm I had found, in the sun-drenched valley.
It was really a modest white bungalow but it had 45 acres behind it, and post and rail fences. If I squinted, it looked a bit like Southfork. It was certainly the closest I was ever going to get to homesteading. And while it wasn’t quite on the scale of a ranch in Dallas it was 45 acres more than we could afford in Britain.
I got so nervous I went online and bought a giant paddling pool from Argos, click and collect
The builder boyfriend could do up the bungalow, and the rusted cattle barns.
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