This week felt different.
For months, this move has existed somewhere between hope and possibility. There have been viewings, offers, spreadsheets, mortgage meetings, endless calculations, and more conversations about houses than I care to count.
But this week, for the first time, it started to feel tangible.
A proposed completion date arrived.
13th August 2026.
Not a promise. Not a guarantee. Just a date written on actual paperwork by actual professionals. A date that exists outside of my imagination.
I looked at it several times, just to make sure it was still there.
Then came the draft Conditions of Sale.
Not only for Norman Terrace, but for Hautes too.
The mortgage application has been submitted. Suitability letters have arrived. Solicitors are drafting documents. Estate agents are discussing timelines. The machinery behind the scenes has quietly begun to turn.
Again, nothing is final. There are still mortgages to approve, solicitors to satisfy, documents to sign, and a hundred little things that must happen between now and then. But this week felt like crossing an invisible line.
A few weeks ago I was wondering whether this would happen at all.
This week I found myself buying moving bags.
That feels significant somehow.
The practical side of me has already started planning. Coloured stickers have been purchased. Boxes are beginning to gather. A mattress bag has made its way onto the shopping list. The loft, long left to its own devices, has been served notice that its contents are about to face judgement.
For the first time, I can see how this move might actually happen.
Not in one frantic day.
Not with panic.
But gradually.
A box here.
A bag there.
One room at a time.
The Crossing has begun.
There was even a small error in the paperwork. My name was listed as “née Wrigley” rather than Solway. A tiny detail, quickly corrected, but somehow it felt symbolic. The documents should know who I am before I leave one life behind and step into another.
I am excited.
I am terrified.
I am hopeful.
And for once, all three feelings seem perfectly reasonable.
The Summer House no longer feels like a dream pinned to a property listing.
This week it acquired paperwork.
This week it acquired a date.
And for the first time, Everstede feels less like a possibility and more like a destination.
Let’s see what happens next.