Hard graft, a 90-minute sale and then 60 viewings - my Yorkshire downsizing journey

Our adult daughters were happily working elsewhere and would not be returning to live in the solid, slightly dilapidated period house we had bought 33 years previously and slowly improved.

Bearing in mind that earnings would be less predictable and that we were sitting in a house that was too big for our needs, while at the same time costing a lot to heat, we decided to follow a gut instinct and sell while the market was red hot.

The equity released by the sale would bump up our pensions, possibly help our daughters onto the property ladder and make life easier.

After so long settled in suburbia with every convenience nearby, we now had the opportunity to think about living in a different way.

Our beloved home sold in an hour-and-a-half, easily achieving what had seemed like an impossible asking price. We loved that the buyers were a young couple similar to ourselves when we bought it. (It’s hard not to be a bit sentimental…)

It was gratifying to know that months of hard graft had paid off.

We had spent agonising weeks culling book collections, clothes, furniture, kitchenware, ornaments, mementos, and fixing, scrubbing, painting or polishing every corner.

We had de-mossed walls in the garden, cleaned the gates, left no unkempt leaf where it had fallen.

We had found homes for larger pieces of furniture, thinking about cosier spaces. But the head’s the head, and the heart’s the heart.

It wasn’t easy, and we each adjusted at a different pace.

The shock of an instant sale seriously jolted us into action. We had already clocked up many miles, scoping out towns and villages within an arc across from beyond Otley to the fringes of the A1.

No more than 40 minutes to work was the rule.

Were we ready to be country mice with views of farmers’ fields, or village dwellers with a friendly pub close by? Was a market town with more amenities a better fit?

Only kissing very many frogs would teach us what we truly wanted.

My ‘downsizing diary’ from this time shows a constantly revolving list of priorities, including: easy distance to north Leeds (work); a well-renovated three-bedroom cottage or a modern town house with a good-sized dining kitchen; at least two loos; a pint of milk and a newspaper within easy walking distance; no loud traffic noise.

Progress was slow, and meanwhile our sale proceeded smoothly. We tried hard with Otley, but saw potential homes which were either the wrong side of the river for easy commuting or needed too much work.

There were homes which were much more uncared for in reality than photos suggested, and others that even the estate agent showed little interest in. One even said: “Hmmm…yes, this one’s price should really start with a different number…”

We inspected roads and neighbourhoods before fixing up viewings. Houses that looked sweet and characterful on a website sometimes proved to have a view of someone else’s overflowing bins.

Terraced Victorian cottages on the edge of an affluent town might be charming but there was only a slim chance of parking close to home.

A beautifully decorated cottage I fell for on-screen actually had sandbags by the back and front gates, indicating the frequency of flooding from the river nearby.

Some sellers’ inability to clean the hob, clear the kids’ toys from the floor or hide those rails of washing shocked us.

We came across sad stories, too, often involving a very elderly couple who had simply left it too late to move to a more suitable home for their changing needs. They were now desperate and physically struggling with existing garden, doorsteps, stairs and bathrooms.

Our sale complete, we said farewell to the neighbours and turned the key for the last time on number 9, moving into a (rare) flexible, cat-friendly rental. Our belongings went into storage and we stepped up our efforts.

We were now cash buyers, top dogs ready to pounce. But we weren’t alone.

Juicier properties had hopefuls queueing down the road for their 20-minute viewing. See it at 4pm, get an offer in before 5.30pm, and ‘best and final’ by lunchtime tomorrow…

In all, three offers from us were accepted then fell through shortly afterwards for differing reasons. It was exhausting.

The diary shows that by March last year we’d viewed 60-odd houses and had concluded that our priority was staying close enough to good friends to see them as much as ever. Increasing dependence on a car was not an option. How prescient we were.

We’ve now been in our new home for a year. It’s a neat, modern townhouse in a quiet close, with views of canopies of trees. It’s a 10-minute stroll to a pint of milk and newspaper.

It’s not perfect but ticked most boxes. It’s energy efficient, has the kitchen we wanted, enough loos, dedicated parking - and best of all we are within a mile of many good friends.

The hardest part of downsizing was emotionally detaching from the house we’d all lived and loved in for so long, where so many memories were made. But we still have those.

We have few regrets - and this now feels like home.