- Liberty Nimmo
- Jul 2
- 5 min read
Liberty Nimmo Moves to the Golden Valley
Before I let Liberty take you to the Golden Valley, I must hold my hands up and admit I’ve been sitting on this article for some time. Liberty — a woman of her word — wrote this for Tat after I visited her not long after she bought her red-brick beauty.
There are moments when you’re proud of a friend and the occasion announces itself — a wedding, some candles on a birthday cake, a party. And then there are moments where your pride has nowhere to go. When a friend manages to buy a house on their own — and not just any house, but one as full of charm and character as said friend — your heart fills with that quiet, unshouty kind of happiness.
As many millennials, and those either side of us, will tell you, getting on the property ladder often feels gargantuan — impossible, even. So when Liberty told me (and our other great pal) that she’d done it — and was moving to arguably one of the most gloriously bucolic counties in the UK we were filled with pride.
She sent me this piece soon after moving in. I, in turn, sat on it. Now, as I take a break from Tat, I’ve asked a few people I trust and admire to contribute to the site. Liberty’s article was the first one in. So I do apologise for the delay — but as you’ll soon see, patience is one of Liberty’s many virtues.
Word is she’s now joined the church council, become head of tech, and recently did her first reading. I very much hope she’ll report back again soon.
I completed and exchanged on my first home in rural Herefordshire, in the heart of the Golden Valley, set amongst a backdrop of The Black Mountains, on Valentine’s Day of this year. It’s been 15 years of saving in the making and, for me, this is no better expression of love. The sheer romanticismo of this place and the sense of achievement of buying a house of my own, on my own, is not for one second, lost on me. There is a seriousness to the joy that I feel, a sense of pride too as I can now think of this newfound place as mine, or perhaps I am about to become of it. This is both the long-awaited arrival and the beginning of something new and my excitement is running through everything I turn my hand to (of course, the mortgage is overwhelmingly large but I won’t let this dampen spirits or bring on a bout of the dreaded and much feared ‘buyers remorse’).
I can barely wait to get my pictures on the wall, positioning them almost immediately in their hopeful positions. I line up all those funny looking trinkets that are so emblematic of self, above the fireplace. I examine my books and think about where my prized pottery should be placed. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I might need a bed, and that I would mind very much what this bed was to look like, let alone how to get it up the stairs on my own, or where abouts in the room it should be placed, or indeed, for that matter, in which room it should go. I’m trying to take things slowly and yet, I get tied up in a knot of my own haste, by the endless possibility of it all and by this longstanding heartfelt need and desire I’ve had for so many years now, to make a home. It feels compulsive and necessary and urgent, as though this arrival is the end, rather than the beginning.
I have moved to a small, rural community where life is slow and where everyone speaks to each other – for example, waving as you pass another vehicle on the lane is common practice. The local gardening society, crafts club, post office, church, the butcher, the boozers, auction rooms, chippy and the common land all make up the foundations of this farming community. To be ‘local’ here, you have to have been born here; 25 or 35 years of living here, I’m afraid, doesn’t count.
These past few months of ‘arrival’ have been consumed with internet trawling, with online auctions, in person auctions, mostly at the local auction house which is, in itself, an event worth going to, and antique shops as I try to find things of beauty at sensible prices. Sigh – it seems that I’ve found myself in the queue along with so many others. Paint testers, linen swatches, different shades of tile for the kitchen and a tape measure all abound the house and I am continuously inundated with choice; how can I really choose the right sofa at the right price, put it in the right place and why does this decision ultimately feel like a reflection of my soul? I’m exaggerating – a bit. But not a lot. I have doffed my cap many a time in the last few weeks to the brilliance of the Interior Designer, envious of the knowledge that they hold about materials, suppliers, fabric and furniture and I have wondered too at how challenging it must be for them not to lose the day in an endless trawl on ebay. It seems that I am now starting to understand the intricacy, the intimacy as well as the challenges of making a home and I am trying to meet all these decisions with equanimity as I quell my haste.
Outside, in my (note, use of ‘my’) sun-baked South East facing garden, the main contender is ground elder. I have chosen to take up the battle against this pernicious weed, that was brought over as a salad by the Romans, on just a few beds for this year and have been weeding and mulching, weeding and mulching on repeat, leaving just 2 of the beds that are now clear enough to rival any public garden open day. I have made ground elder tea (no, it doesn’t taste very nice actually), a compost tea for the beds and a bed of will-be very hot compost, all underway and the remaining beds are, I’m afraid, awash with the wretched stuff. Dealing with and addressing this imposter is consuming many of my thoughts – not in the same way as the position of the sofa does, or how I’m going to fit a dishwasher under a kitchen unit that’s 4cm too short, but nevertheless it’s there as a sort of constant reminder, a background noise in amongst the spring birdsong and the much anticipated return of the cuckoo.
Inside, I have sown a range of herbs, salads, the odd tomato, cucumber and one courgette (there’s nothing more frustrating than the tyranny of too many courgettes when June comes around – I’ve learnt that lesson a few times now). These are emerging with all the strength and vitality of Spring, and for this year, I’ll be growing in pots whilst I come up with a plan for the dreaded G E (Ground Elder) and my veggie beds for next year.
All in all – it feels like an adventure, an exciting one too and I pinch myself every morning in disbelief at being able to call this charming Victorian red brick cottage with sash windows and a flowering wisteria ‘mine’. Never mind the seemingly urgent need for a dishwasher. Patience instead. That’s what I need.
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