By edanI’m 47, and as I write this on June 17th, 2026, I feel like I’ve been run over by my own house. We’ve sold our place in Barby, Warwickshire, where we’ve lived for ten years, and we’re moving to a new life in the Isle of Man. For the past five days, from June 13th up to now, it’s been nothing but loading, lifting, shifting, and trying not to lose our minds. Me and my partner Laura have been at it non-stop, and I honestly can’t believe how much stuff we had.
The first day was just that feeling of, oh my God, we have so much stuff to move. It all looked manageable when it was spread around the house, but once you start taking it off shelves, out of cupboards, off walls, and stacking it together, it becomes something else entirely. Steve came over at the weekend and helped us get a bulk of it done, especially the heavier bits, and thank God he did.
The thing none of us were looking forward to was the 100-inch television. I still remember Steve just looking at it and going, “wow.” It was one of those jobs where nobody really wanted to start because once you do, you’re committed. We somehow manhandled it off the wall, got it down the stairs, and into the van. We did it, but it definitely took its toll on all of us.
By the end of it, we’d filled a 200 square foot container unit in Daventry right to the brim. I still can’t quite get my head around that. The original plan had been to take it all over this week and put it into storage in the Isle of Man while we wait to complete on the new property. But when the van was first loaded, I had my concerns. It didn’t look overloaded from the tyres or the suspension, but it felt heavy and unsteady to drive, so we took it to a local weigh bridge in Rugby just to check.
It came in at 4,930 kilos in total, including the Luton tail lift and us as passengers. At that point I knew there was no way I fancied driving it three hours up to the ferry in Liverpool. I was glad we made the decision to store it locally instead and not try to force it. Sometimes changing plans feels like failure, but this time it felt like common sense.
That first day, after we’d done a huge chunk of the work with Steve, I went over to my sister’s in the evening. It was a bit of a reprieve from it all. We had pizza with her family and my two nephews, and even though I was absolutely knackered, I still ended up playing footy and basketball with the boys. Later we watched some Netflix before bed, and they kindly let me stay the night so I could have a drink. That little break really helped.
There have been other parts of it that have hit in a different way. We had to get the fish rehomed to someone local with a pond. I felt sad to see them go, but we’ve still got around six weeks before we get the new house, and there was nowhere else for them to be. It’s funny what gets to you in a move. Sometimes it’s not the big furniture or the endless boxes. Sometimes it’s the living things you’ve quietly had around you.
We’ve still got a garage sale planned this weekend for the final bits and pieces, and that should finally rid us of everything. Then, come the end of July or early August, we’ll have to do it all again, loading it back into two vans and shipping it over to the Isle of Man.
Right now, though, I’m bruised and aching all over, and Laura is too. It’s been a stressful week, no question. When I finally sat down at the end of it with a nice bottle of wine, all I wanted was a bit of peace and quiet. Of course, the neighbours were out in the garden playing techno, so that ruined that idea. Still, I sat there, sore and tired and a bit fed up, and thought about what’s coming next. However hard this week has been, I’m looking forward to the Isle of Man. It feels like the start of something quieter. Something better.