We survived the night camping in the Bongo. I didn’t sleep brilliantly due to listening out for noises that might disturb me – not a great strategy. I’d also accidentally left a swiss army knife in my pocket which was quite uncomfortable to sleep on – I’d assumed it was the car seat, but was very wrong.
Earlier in the evening we’d brewed up and started batting at midges when we heard a car approaching along the road. The driver pulled up and I introduced myself to him. It turned out he was the brother of the previous owner, and he’d actually been born in our new house in the late 1940s. He reckoned no-one had lived in the property for the past 15 years, which doesn’t tally with the contents (newspapers from 2012, a calendar from 2012, etc.) I remember from my archaeology A Level that this is the TPQ, although I’m not sure it specifically rules out the machinations of factually liberal estate agents, for example.
After he’d gone on his way to check his turf or whatever, we lit a fire in a metal bucket we’d found in the house. It carried on burning for hours, to my annoyance when trying to get some rest – flames flickering between the vehicle full of diesel you’re trying to sleep in and the house you’re hoping to live in don’t make for pleasant dreams! On reflection, trying to put it out might have been the best idea.