1 wedding, 3 kids, 6 renovations and almost a funeral: The story so far.

Like any fate, they are preceded by a story, and this story charts the decade of blood, sweat and tears that led us to our fate here at the Smithy.

My first foray into rural property came in France, I was in my late 20’s, and the year was 2007. I will spare you the story of how I came to this point, suffice to say life had now began to stabilise after a wobbly youth and I was now able to turn my long held ambition of taking on a rural renovation project from a distant dream to a feasible reality. I had not long returned to my childhood home of Wolverhampton, following six eventful years in London, and this move back "home" was a much needed opportunity to take stock and sober up. It also paved the way to meeting and marrying my beautiful wife Sarah, with whom I would spend the next 10 years embarking on a series of adventures that would finally lead us and our 3 children to a smallholding in Wales. Although rural self sufficiency had been a long held ambition, with no magic pot of gold, this goal involved a plethora of highs and lows, relentless graft and determination and, above all, love.

Petit Paris (2007)

So, it started with “Petit Paris” an old 17th century stone ruin in rural Brittany. With no roof, trees growing through the buckling walls and a garden of brambles it was a mammoth task, and something only the naive and stupid would undertake. My parents had purchased a similar French ruin (St Gilles) some years ago, which would explain the genetics, and the proximity of their house as a base was a massive advantage. At just £11,000 I figured I could re-mortgage our small recently acquired Victorian semi, release some cash, and buy Petit Paris outright. I was young, suitably naive and incredibly stupid, it was game on.

Petit Paris was tucked away in a remote rural hamlet of 3 similar adjoined properties, and was discovered via my obsessive internet property searching, something that had become a pastime. The house, most likely cobbled together from the remnants of an earlier chateau, featured an enormous granite fireplace that you could comfortably stand under, a stone spiral staircase delightfully worn by a thousand feet, and the remains of a medieval turret. With no kids at this point, and unbelievably cheap flights (they were effectively free), it seemed like a feasible prospect. I had also recently embarked upon a degree in social work, which was an incredibly improbable move, but the long university holidays, bursary, and student loan provided the perfect scenario to push the project on. The idea of a social work career was not one I was particularly enthused by, but I needed some kind of focus, and by now my childhood ideas of becoming a ranger in the Serengeti National Park had been blitzed by the stark realities of life. Fortunately, the French house distraction got me through the most boring of lectures, and whilst those around me made scrupulous notes, buoyed by a calling for this often credulous cause, I sketched floor plans, calculated materials and plotted my next visit.

The stints in France were a welcome reprieve from the humdrum, and that was the whole point, but they were also physically demanding and stressful, as I became increasingly overwhelmed by the immensity of the task and bamboozled by a language I never seemed to grasp. However, the challenge and the environment cultivated adventure, and a purpose and it was exciting. I was youthful and fit, and the copious bottles of wine and Breton cider were worked off with ease as I moved tons of stone, stabilized the walls and started to bring the building back to life amongst the hay meadows of serene Bretagne countryside. Sarah helped out where she could, sawing wood, carrying slate and we had some fun; they were good times and an experience I will never forget. Within a couple of summers the house was watertight, and although I had no real plan for Petit Paris, I always kept hold of a long-standing philosophy that adventures lead to adventures, and in 2010 they did.

The Old Bakery (2009)

I had now somehow qualified as a social worker and was embarking on a challenging career, Sarah was working full time as a nurse, we had recently got married and were expecting our first child - it was a time most people would have been looking at keeping things simple. However, still stupid and naive, I set my sights on another French property, this time a large former bakery in the small Breton town of Chateauneuf Du Faou, 45 minutes south of Petit Paris.

The building was vast, incorporating both residential and commercial areas as well as an old barn, and it required a complete overhaul. It had been on the market for a couple of years at around £60,000, so I knew a stupid offer from a stupid Englishman was worth a punt. Sarah was less keen and, being considerably more practical, was considering the gravity of the task ahead with a child in hand, Petit Paris still far from finished, university holidays a thing of the past and the knowledge that the Victorian semi we lived in was about to get a lot smaller. However, I was determined, and harboured dreams of perhaps relocating, stepping out of the rat race, and setting up a business in this rural idyll - something we both wouldn’t completely rule out, and something that was beyond our means in the UK. When our offer of £40,000 was accepted, it seemed like an opportunity too good to miss. This time a mortgage through a French bank provided the funds, and our combined salaries were earmarked to drip feed the projects over the coming years. The Old Bakery was an interesting house with a lovely garden and offered countless tourism possibilities, from an outdoor centre, to bed and breakfast accommodation. The town was a hotspot for cyclists and walkers travelling the Nantes-Brest canal, and was a popular tourist destination for the French. The lovely views to the church and the “pink chateau” in the rolling hills beyond gave it a dreamy feel. This ambience was enhanced by the stunning river Alnue, that meandered through the pretty town, with its churches and sleepy waterside bars evoking a real sense of French culture. I spent many summer evenings in the garden of the Old Bakery, gulping chardonnay, watching the house martins dance in the dusk. The only disturbance came from the chime of the church bells, periodically reminding me of the time, before the demanding schedule forced me inside to continue renovating, usually drunk, until the early hours.

Although we loved France, every available holiday became monopolised by the project and the pressing need to visit the properties and move things on. On top of this, the constant struggle to grasp the language created a barrier to a genuine feeling of belonging. The arrival of our first child, Josselin, made the practicality of visits even more difficult, and this invariably involved me travelling alone for the occasional long weekend, leaving Sarah and Josselin behind. Although the projects continued to enthuse me, I quite often found myself thinking, if only I could pick these houses up and stick them in the UK. Unfortunately, the increasing reality of the property market in the lush countryside of my homeland was one of extortionate prices, and demand outstripping supply. So, this prospect remained an unlikely dream.

Woodfield (2013)

In 2012 we were delighted, if not perturbed, by the arrival of twin boys. Josselin was still only 20 months old and our plan to knock them out fast seemed to be going a bit too well. We now had 3 children under the age of 2 and an unhinged dog, and our lovely two bed Victorian semi was feeling the strain. Comments such as “they used to bring up 10 kids in these kind of houses in the old days, we will be fine” quickly gave way to “shall we go and view this one it’s got a large kitchen, 4 bedrooms, and a utility room”. With limited funds, we viewed a large 4 bed Edwardian semi, Woodfield, in a nice area of the city. Woodfield was just about in our price range as the roof was gone, the electrics were dated, the plaster was giving way, it needed structural refiguring and complete redecoration. It was a big house and a big job. Having spent the last 5 years or so renovating ruins in France, I was becoming a bit of a novice DIYer, and concluded that this route was the only way to get what we wanted - besides we had both fallen in love with the house and its potential. We completed in May 2013 and immediately got cracking.

If 3 large renovation projects, 3 young kids, a crazy dog and a demanding job weren’t enough to contend with, I also embarked on a master’s degree in social work, as the opportunity arose through work and I could not really turn this down. The next couple of years were a bit of a blur. We survived on very little sleep, with the demands of juggling children, study and work consuming us. In the meantime, I was renovating Woodfield at evenings and on weekends and would often do this whilst looking after the kids, while Sarah did relentless 12-hour nursing shifts. We washed up in the bath, cooked in the lounge and became accustomed to dust on absolutely everything. There were tools everywhere and it was not untypical for the kids to be running off with a claw hammer, treading on newly laid tiles in the process, whilst the dog lay in her basket quietly chewing on the stanley knife I had spent the last 30 minutes looking for.....those were the days. To take a break from it all, my “holidays” were spent in France, picking up the pieces from my previous visits. I would jet off with a list of jobs meticulously sequenced, and quickly become disheartened as a failed to achieve them one by one. In the meantime, Sarah was holding the fought at home like an absolute trooper, receiving regular and sugar coated updates on my progress. Luckily, my parents had by now relocated to Brittany on a permanent basis, moving into the ruin they had renovated, and the support from my dad on the French projects through this time will never be forgotten.

My dad's input enabled me to renovate Woodfeild and focus on things at home, knowing things were ticking along the other side of the channel. In many ways the projects strengthened my relationships with both my dad and my father in law, who both joined me for regular stints, and for this reason alone it was worth it. Despite the trials and tribulations, we had some unforgettable and priceless times I will always remember fondly. That’s what’s so good about projects, they often encompass so much more than what they set out to, and in ways you never expected. Adventures were leading to adventures.

The big C (2015)

The efforts over the years were paying off with The Old Bakery, and the vast space was taking shape. The focus had shifted from Petit Paris somewhat, as the prospect of getting The Old Bakery up and running as a self catering tourism business was finally on the horizon. Again, my dad was a fundamental collaborator in this endeavour, and my partner in crime, and I could see the vision inspired him also and, between us, created a common goal. However, funds were low, and the development of Woodfield into an amazing family home was likely to continue to take its toll financially. Reluctantly, we decided to sell Petit Paris and depart from this adventure. It was a heart wrenching decision but an inevitable one. We did not make much on the sale, relative to what had been spent over the years, but it strengthened the coffers no end and enabled us to invest in Woodfield and push The Old Bakery to the point it was almost ready to be let out. The large proportioned French rooms were now adorned with numerous antiques from my ebay forays, and traditional French furniture amassed from local brocantes over the years, and although bodge jobs proliferated, it had charm, character and proportions. My dad’s DIY motto was to “make a feature” of dodgy workmanship, and boy did this place have some features.

However, just as we were looking forward to Christmas 2015 and our first letting season in 2016, I found a lump, and was quickly diagnosed with testicular cancer. After such a hectic and demanding few years, my energy levels were low, finances were tight, and relationships were strained, and this news was the proverbial icing on the cake, or perhaps even, the nail in the coffin! Before I could process the situation, I was operated on and then spent Christmas watching the kids open their presents, wondering if this would be the last time I would do this, while I waited for news as to whether it had spread. It was the most difficult time of my life. On the 5th of January 2016 I was finally told it had probably not spread, but was given the option of Chemotherapy as a precaution - which I took. I will never know if this was the right decision, as the consequences of those poisons have stayed with me to this day, but at the time I just wanted to be sure I could be a dad for as long as possible and have the best chance to support Sarah through the kids early childhood. I was signed off work for 6 months, lost my hair and became week, frail and tired. I kept focused, upbeat and busy and, against all the advice, utilised the time to get Woodfield finished. I fitted the downstairs toilet, built the front driveway and wall, decorated the dining room and slabbed the garden. Looking unrecognisably thin, pale and bold the neighbour opposite even mistook me for a builder, and asked me for my details. The experience enabled me to demote all my other worries to the pathetic pile and, combined with the time off work, actually did wonders for my stress levels. I spent several 4 night stints at the Queen Elizabeth hospital in Birmingham having treatment, and a 5-day period in isolation due to the Chemo completely annihilating my white blood cells. I recall sitting in my bed like an abandoned puppy, waiting for Sarah to pop her head round the curtain and reveal her reassuring smile. These times, however difficult, allowed for quiet reflection and contemplation, and an opportunity to realise what was really important. My wife was my rock and we worked together through this tough time, and defined what love and companionship really meant.

The B&B (2016)

It was time for a plan. I needed to get The Old Bakery earning and with minimum involvement. After doing some research, I stumbled across an entrepreneurial couple who were running a couple of B&B’s in the area that seemed to be doing a good trade. I contacted them on a whim to see if they may be interested in utilising The Old Bakery as overspill accommodation in the summer months, in return for a small rent. Surprisingly, this offer was taken up and within a few weeks we were expecting the first guests. Unfortunately, due to a minor booking error on my part, this relationship rapidly deteriorated and we abruptly parted company. It was all a bit bizarre, but not something I was going to dwell on, and indeed my recent history had taught me to apply more perspective to life’s idiosyncrasies. The experience, however, got me thinking as adversities often do, and within weeks I had placed an advert looking for a couple to manage The Old Bakery as a B&B. I was happy to take no money, and in return requested that certain jobs were undertaken around the house to bring the place on, with a view to reviewing things down the line. I was happy to manage bookings and was as transparent as possible, writing everything down to avoid confusion, and genuinely tried to be as ethical and flexible as I could. Although, not perhaps the best business plan, the longer term aim was to get the bills paid and build the business up as a self-sufficient entity so, at the very least the property would pay for itself, and at best become a viable enterprise down the line. I had a stream of replies from my advert, and just went with the first. The two years that followed were incredibly stressful and taught me lessons about people, business and myself that really, I should have already learned. I went through two sets of couples and plenty of drama, but remarkably, The Old Bakery was incredibly successful and proved its potential.

Looking back, I can see all involved played a part in its successes, and the immense complexities of the process, made me wiser. Eventually, however, the dynamics of such a set up proved to convoluted to maintain, and it all came crashing down. With dozens of bookings to cancel and numerous bills to cover, the enormous stress of this period left me with no option but to throw the towel in and sell. I could see that the distance was too much of a barrier, I worked better alone, and my commitments at home required my full attention …. enough was enough. With almost two years’ worth of provable bookings the property was marketed as a B&B. Local property prices had nudged up a little over the years, and all the investment, blood, sweat and tears proved worthwhile when we were able to secure a quick sale. The French adventure was over and, despite my passion for the place, I have never felt so relieved to feel a weight lifted. The Old Bakery continues to thrive under new owners.

Gwalia Stores (Early 2018)

The sale of The Old Bakery left us with some money in the bank for the first time ever. Although I had given my word to my wife that I would avoid any more projects for the foreseeable future, those Rightmove searches kept on happening. I could see that parts of Wales were not seeing the acceleration in prices that other parts of the UK were and, with cash in the bank, began wondering if maybe a project closer to home was possible after all. The kids were getting older and, although I was still having regular checks, the cancer ordeal was fading into the past. Although I had financial stability, was happy in my job, loved Woodfield which was the perfect home, and I was a happy dad and husband - the idea of self-sufficiency in that rural idyll continued to call me. Now aged 40, having gone through some sobering experiences and appreciating more than ever the saying “you only live once”, maybe this was the time to again turn my attention to that dream, and perhaps investing in Wales could be the start of this process. It was early 2018 when I first nervously approached Sarah about Gwalia Stores. I had spotted the handsome Georgian façade on an internet search, and it ticked some quite unique boxes. It was within our small 100k budget, it had 4 bedrooms, it was characterful with parts dating back to 1600, it was in a rural location, and it was within an hour or so drive of Wolverhampton. I figured it would make a good quirky holiday let, and perhaps be a foot in the door to a future relocation in the area. However, it was also a massive project and at 150 m2 and grade 2 listed was a potential money pit. To make matters worse it featured an old saddlers’ shop, long since abandoned, and was not the kind of property mortgage lenders got excited about.

I knew there were battles ahead and this was going to be a challenge, but at least it was a challenge in the UK. The plan presented to Sarah was that the project would keep me out of trouble, it could provide the family with an accessible country bolthole, and could also be let out on a commercial basis to supplement our income. That’s OK isn’t it? Upon seeing the quirky building and having faith in my abilities Sarah agreed. The estate agents long wait for someone stupid and naive to rock up was finally over and in June 2018 we completed after a turbulent conveyancing. Although Gwalia was not the farmhouse with land that the dreams were made of, it was a starting point, and a fascinating building in a lovely rural town. I was eager to get cracking.

Glandwyryd Cottage (Mid 2018)

Unfortunately, my eagerness with Gwalia was quickly thwarted by Powys County Council planning department. The listed building consent and planning permission applications I had eagerly submitted, dragged on to the point I even became forgiving of French bureaucracy. The conservation officers site visit left me wondering what I had done to her in a former life, and within a very short time I went from being an avid supporter of listed building conservation laws to concluding they were counterproductive, and wishing I had done what everyone else does and kept my mouth shut. Anyway, after 12 months of pictures, reports, more applications, more pictures and more scaled down plans the consent was granted, albeit with a raft of conditions. Many people would have thrown in the towel during these long months, but instead I decided to search Rightmove for another property. Our residential mortgage was due for renewal, Woodfield had dramatically risen in value on the back of my efforts, and the potential to release capital and invest in another Welsh cottage could make financial sense. If I could find something cheap and in a similar area to Gwalia, we could really start a serious holiday let business, and even take one foot off the monotonous work treadmill that was now increasingly defining our family existence. That’s OK, isn’t it? "Yes" said Sarah......... So, the Petit Paris adventure, that led to the Old Bakery adventure, that led to the Gwalia Stores adventure, had now led to me to the mountains of Snowdonia, and the Glandwyryd Cottage adventure.

Glandwyryd Cottage was a small former miners’ cottage just north of Machynlleth and nestled in the drama of the mighty Cader Idris, and the dyfi forest. At just £80,000 it had the usual issues. It was on a busy mountain road, needed a complete overhaul, had a small garden and access issues, but there was potential for a good holiday let. Work started on Glandwyryd during the hot dry summer of 2018, and its proximity meant I could drag my father in law alone for some much need brawn and a drinking buddy and, at 70, he would put most young gym going yuppies to shame. So, I now found myself back to having two big renovation projects on the go but had somehow managed to swap France for Wales and bring the dream closer to home. The plan is going well, but where's the country smallholding?

The relocation (2019)

Although the Welsh house projects dragged on and consumed yet more cash, their proximity to Wolverhampton allowed us to visit the area more and more and become increasingly smitten. We started to sow some seeds. House prices in Wolverhampton had risen yet more, and we were amazed to hear our 150k home could now be worth as much as 270k, this was surely an opportunity. Combined with a realisation that our kids were still just about at the age to relocate without considerable disruption, we started to seriously contemplate a radical change. Repeated visits to Gwalia made us appreciate the possibilities of the house and area as a home. To sell Woodfield and relocate to Gwalia would mean I could reduce my working week to three days and combine commuting with home working, whilst committing the other days to finishing Gwalia off and then getting Glandwyryd up and running as a holiday let. Sarah, who was in a period of transition at work anyway, could look at a nursing position locally and reduce her shifts. The school, which catered from nursery to sixth form, was a stone's throw from Gwalia Stores and we could enroll the kids in perfect time for the new school year. Financially, this would be a sensible step, and with the money we gain from the sale of Woodfield we could effectively go mortgage free, or use the funds to look for something more suitable if the drawbacks of Gwalia (and there were quite a few) proved too problematic. It was a really difficult decision, and one we knew we were not quite ready to contemplate, but we were at another one of those bloody crossroads and the clock was ticking. Why would anyone turn their back on Woodfield, and the perfect family space we created? The kids were happy, we were happy. Why change? I think we both knew in our hearts that Gwalia did not really work as the ultimate family home, and the lack of decent outside space was a compromise to far. However, we also knew in our hearts that to not act now would mean another decade or so in Wolverhampton, doing the same job, watching the roads get ever busier, and the green get ever greyer, and Gwalia could provide that stepping stone to something different. It was now or never. This profound conundrum perplexed us for weeks. We visited Gwalia, we visited the school, we wondered around the town and imagined living there, and we toed-and-froed. The kids were resistant, to the point we could barely raise the subject, and the dilemma became emotionally crippling. Sarah's resilience, practical approach, courage and sensibility through this time reminded me yet again of her qualities, and why I was so lucky to be on the receiving end of them. So, in September 2019, we were incredibly brave, or stupid, and sold our beloved Woodfield, the house and city of so many happy memories, and moved into Gwalia, the house and town of so very few.

The Smithy (2020)

So, after years of living in a renovation project at Woodfield, and then finally turning it into a nice clean perfect home, we then decide to move into another renovation project. The dust was back, the tools began to decorate the rooms, and the inconvenience returned - were we mad! We had also lost our nice garden, along with the grotesque trampoline, although luckily, the consequences of this were fortunately mitigated by the onset of a wet autumn and then an even wetter winter. We settled in a fashion, with the humour of our woes keeping us buoyed. The kids started to adapt to their school, despite them constantly reminding us that the bereavement of Woodfield lingered on. Sarah bedded into a new job, and we gradually adjusted to our new environment. It was a long winter, and not an easy one, but we slowly built familiarity, steadily made contacts and started to enjoy the beauty of our new surroundings. More importantly, the kids started to speak positively about hills, the magical walks, the bats, the badgers, the trees, the birds, the streams, the snow. They made friends in their little school, and day by day the pain in my heart began to weaken and I gradually gained assurance that we had done the right thing.

Gwalia was not the dream, but we were in the right area. With the money from Woodfield in the bank, I kept an eye on local property to see what would come up, and in the meantime cracked on with the renovations in between a career that was becoming increasingly aloof. However, we were still restricted by our budget, and opportunities that offered something special were seemingly absent, especially with land, and after a few local viewings we realised this may be a long, if not impossible, search. Checking property adverts obsessively on a daily basis can pay off, and sometimes you discover a gem before anyone else does. I think this is what happened with the Smithy, which appeared online without the particulars even being loaded, on a cold October morning. It was early and dark, and I was getting ready for my commute to work when the property popped up on the laptop and disturbed my sip of coffee. At £185,000 it sneaked into our price range, it was just outside the town, and it was surrounded by glorious countryside. However, with just two bedrooms it would need extending, and the tiny kitchen was an issue....mmmm could this work? The garden was reasonable, but again nothing substantial, but my frantic google map searches revealed plenty of adjacent agricultural land, that just maybe we could convince a friendly farmer to part with.

Despite the properties accommodation limitations, it was in good condition, and a lean too structure to the side appeared ripe for a relatively simple conversion to a third bedroom, besides i,ve got nothing else to do! The first viewing with Sarah was reminiscent of the first time we saw Woodfield, and with our hearts in our mouth, we were both smitten. The views dominated the location and evoked a feeling of awe every time you glanced through a window, and the small waterfall that trickled down the fern laiden hillside to the rear, added the perfect sound accompaniment to the deafening chorus of birdsong. The place was magical, homely, wild and welcoming and beckoned us from the outset. Convinced this place was a rare gem and a bargain, we offered the full asking price on the condition it was immediately taken off the market. The following day the vendor agreed, and before the particulars were even published it was sold subject to contract.

The Smithy Field (March 2020)

With the conveyancing underway at The Smithy and the mortgage secured with the funds from Woodfiled, my attention turned to the land that surrounded it. Immediately to the west of the property was a large field of around 4.5 acres that sloped up towards to a small patch of ancient woodland and had a useful south facing orientation. Although not flat, it would be free draining and, with good soil, could be cultivated. On top of this, access to the country road and the views it offered would adequately compliment a small holiday lodge, or perhaps a market garden enterprise. On close inspection of the local land registry deeds, I could see the field was once part of a much larger acreage that stretched down the valley, but had been separated by the sale of part of the farm estate many years previous. The quality of the pasture was also relatively poor, and these factors may well make it the sort of plot a farmer would consider selling.

I approached the estate agent, who was overseeing the sale of the Smithy and was conversant with local politics, and he suggested my efforts were futile, "they don't part with land around here". Undeterred, and following some scrupulous detective work, I managed to locate the owner. I initially asked if he would consider parting with a small area of the land so we could increase the Smithy garden and he replied, as I had hoped, "are you interested in the field?". You don't ask you don't get! My initial offer of 15k was way off, and the increase in value that the land would incur once affiliated with the Smithy, was not lost on the vendor. We met up a few times, became acquainted, the kids offered hugs and sob stories of wanting land to play in, and eventually we agreed a price of 34k. It was a lot, but we knew we could not miss the opportunity and our investment was a sound one. Somehow we had to find that extra cash. The coming months would see us stretch ourselves financially, reluctantly turn to the bank, and return to a fragile financial existence, with a fledgling smallholding, the promise of a rural business, a home that needs extending, and two ongoing holiday let renovations. However, we now had the dream.

The challenge ahead

Mark Twain once wisely remarked, "courage is not the absence of fear, but the mastery of it". Such sentiments are particularly apt as we finally moved into the Smithy in February 2020, looked to acquire a 4.5 acre field and then proceed to develop a business from scratch. With this massive task ahead, courage will be required in large doses, but the years that have preceded have helped to teach me the art of, not only mastering fears, but enjoying the process. This diary picks the adventure up from here, with one foot still in Wolverhampton serving a dying career in social work, and the other foot stuck firmly in the enticing mud of the Smithy field and raring to go. The prospect of complete self reliance and self sufficiency are still a long way off, but we finally have the house, the land, the experience, the enthusiasm, the courage and most of all, the love to face the excitement and adventures together.