Finding the one.

Our list of tangible requirements for a house is surprisingly short:

 Must be old.  I did not move 3500 miles across an ocean to end up in a subdivision that looks like it was airlifted out of somewhere in the Midwest.

Must have two bedrooms.  My mother does not get on a plane and travel 3500 miles across an ocean to crash on my couch.

 Must be stumbling distance to a pub.  Obviously.

 Must not be a tip.  My will to tackle home improvement extends about as far as installing new bathroom fixtures or redoing the kitchen, and possibly a little light wall demolition, Kirsty Alsop style.   So, picturesque agricultural ruins last inhabited when rationing was still going strong are off the table.

Must be on the bus.  For my own safety and the safety of others, following an unfortunate near death experience involving pulling onto an A road GOING THE WRONG WAY, The Taff has wisely suggested limiting my driving in the United Kingdom to cases of absolute necessity.  Thus, if we ever want to eat again, I need to have an alternative way to get to the shops.

Hardly a demanding list.  Looking at it, one would imagine finding an acceptable dwelling shouldn’t be too difficult.  But no, it isn’t simple, because beyond the brief list of practical concerns, any future dream home must possess that certain, intangible, unquantifiable allure that tells you it is the one.  It has to feel right. And, unsurprisingly, I have yet to find a real estate website that that organises homes by right-feelingness.  Instead we are left spending our evenings and weekends tromping about the county, rejecting perfectly lovely homes with a shake of the head and a dejected sigh of “it just doesn’t feel right.”