I’m beginning this story with a fire. It’s not really the beginning. My 9 year old daughter would tell me that my story started when my mother was born with me, an egg, already formed in her ovary, waiting to be released. But that’s not the story I want to write.
The fire is a good way to start. We’re clearing prunings that we have collected over the last two years from customers’ gardens. We intended to shred them, but the pile got bigger and we ran out of time. And we need the space, because the pile is where we need to start measuring out and digging for the foundations of our house.
At last! After living in a caravan on our croft for more than two years, jumping through various bureaucratic hoops, and waiting for long periods of time when nothing was happening, it’s a relief to be getting nearer to the point of starting. There are still more hoops to jump through, and more waiting to be done, but it’s a beginning. .