Up With the Larks Read Online Free Page A

nearly got side-swept away
in the rush.
    We soon learned that it's a lot different living in a place than
holidaying. Many of the lovely seaside villages we'd adored on
holiday were empty ghost towns in winter with most of the
properties owned as holiday homes. There were other villages
inhabited mainly by the retired who had sold their properties
Up Country (the Cornish label for just about every place across
the Tamar River) to follow their dreams of living by the sea.
Some of these second-home and retirement villages seemed
to have no heart: no school, a pub empty except in summer,
no shop, no post office. Others were 'drive-through' villages
which seemed to have nothing but the road leading in and out,
with not even a pub or a newsagent, only a cluster of houses
to call themselves a village.
    We wanted more. We had two children who needed more,
as did we and we were determined to find it. They were out
there, those perfect Cornish towns and villages but properties
there were scarce, pricey and didn't often come on to the market.
    We spent a fortune driving up and down every weekend
between South Cornwall and London, looking at houses. We
viewed eighty in all and were gazumped twice. The final
contracts were signed on our old house which meant we had
to move out and spend more money on rented accommodation.
We wanted to do this in Cornwall but the kids were still
in school and, since we didn't know where in the county we'd
end up, we thought it best to leave them where they were until
we could move permanently.
    'We've got to start thinking outside the box,' I said to Ben
one night, just before yet another weekend of house hunting.
'Talk to people in the community who might have inside knowledge
of properties for sale. It's the only way we'll ever get a
house.'
    The next day we raced down to Cornwall again, this time
to look at a property in Treverny, one of the villages that had
all the things we wanted and was charming as well. The place
we viewed was far too small, despite the estate agent trying to
convince us that a cramped, dark, walk-in cupboard would
make an excellent bedroom for one of the children.
    Disappointed, Ben and I decided to wander around the
village as it was a hot summer's day and Treverny is an idyllic
spot. In the middle of the tree-lined tiny main street there
is an ancient church and adjacent to that, a shaded park,
complete with babbling brook and a tranquil pond. Benches
are scattered here and there under willow and beech trees
along the stream.
    Ben wanted to see inside the church and I needed to get a
cold drink from the shop so we split up and agreed to meet
by the brook in half an hour. Will and Amy were staying with
friends for the weekend, which meant I had time on my own
to savour the village. It was just what we wanted, but the only
house for sale, according to the estate agent, was the one we'd
looked at.
    I walked down a tiny lane alongside the village green and
saw a window cleaner hard at work at one of the houses. It
was a hot sunny day full of flowers and birdsong, and it was
summer, so he wasn't surprised that an 'emmett' (the Cornish
word for tourist) from Up Country should begin waxing lyrical
about the area. 'Wonderful day, isn't it?' I called. He was
working on the ground floor windows so I didn't have to
shout up to him.
    He turned to look at me. I was wearing red shorts and a
sleeveless white shirt. My long blonde hair was curling madly
around my head and face in the heat and humidity. I tossed it
back, giving him my biggest smile.
    Maybe he thought I fancied him, for he nodded an affirmative
and left his work to chat with me. He was young and
good-looking, with those great dark Cornish eyes and hair.
His voice was laconic and his words to the point. 'Tourist?'
he was too polite to call me an emmett to my face.
    He perched on the garden wall in front of the house, indicating
he was quite happy to sit with this stranger. I joined
him, wondering if the owner – his employer –