A whole year has passed since I wrote about our do-we-don’t-we decision to move away from London and potentially close this chapter in our lives. I ended with a conclusion that it felt like the right time to go, and yet we’re still here. We haven’t moved so much as a muscle. Why?
To recap, I left an ex-mining town in Yorkshire 15 years ago and for the last decade, I’ve rented a flat in the Barbican Estate – famous for its imposing Brutalist architecture, arts centre and maze-like layout. It’s loved by some and loathed by just as many. If you were very lucky, you (or your parents) bought a flat here in the ‘90s when they were still selling for £100k, if you weren’t, you’re likely paying close to £3000 a month to live in a one-bedroom flat.
In many ways, the estate is a city centre utopia, but our current flat has never felt quite right. We rented a near-identical Barbican flat before this one (the owners sold up) and we’d love to live there again. It was in a quieter, lighter block with better insulation, double glazing, a greener view, a higher floor and a bigger living room. Small things but they made a difference. We could see the sky, we had multiple layout options for furniture, it was always light and the birds in the garden below us sang all day. In this flat it’s noisy, in disrepair and dark, so dark.
At the time of writing about leaving London, I’d taken advantage of a chance to spend a month in the countryside in Devon and Cornwall. The wild beauty and the slower pace completely bowled me over. I didn’t miss home at all – it’s hard to choose London when you’re making life decisions by a window with a dramatic view of an undulating valley and there’s an honesty box of homemade cakes on the street outside.
It's been around four years since I first mooted the idea of leaving. Friends (and total strangers, actually) regularly ask for updates, such is the length of time that I’ve been to-ing and fro-ing about this. Often they ask because they’re having their own deliberations over months or years of Sunday walks, dinners, trips away with declarations of “I could live here”. They’re interested in the answer because they’re searching for one too. Why are we still in London? Did we find anything yet? Did we decide to stay?
After verbally packing my suitcase in the essay last July, it feels deeply embarrassing to admit we’re still here in our tiny flat, with its mouldy bathroom and hilarious shortage of plug sockets (I can only assume people were still writing with quills and candlelight when the estate was built in the ‘70s).
Very quickly after my article was shared on House & Garden’s Instagram, there were hundreds of comments from people who’d already left the city and they had a strong opinion about it. Reading all of those at once – while helpful in many ways – was also overwhelming. Everyone wants to tell you that they left and regretted it or that it was the best thing they ever did, there’s no middle ground. I felt more confused than ever as I read relatable and insightful explanations from both sides. Some gently suggested that we shouldn’t rush to leave unless we have kids as we’ll feel isolated in a small town without ready-made parent friends.
A surprising number of people said they’d regretted leaving London, so I wrote a follow-up piece to give a handful of them a chance to explain why. I hoped it would make others feel less alone if they’d taken the plunge and realised it wasn’t the right decision for them. Yet more food for thought when I was already full.
So, what else has happened in the last 12 months?
In July I listed our [just about] affordable rent as being the main reason why we’ve stayed in this flat for five years – it was a bargain compared to others in the estate. I shouldn’t have tempted fate because in October, our landlords increased it by £400 a month. We already couldn’t afford to save for a deposit on top of rent and ever-increasing bills, so now it feels even less likely that we’ll be able to save a lump sum big enough to buy our first home. That means coming to terms with the possibility that we may never get on the property ladder. It could still happen in the future, but we’ve adapted our short-term plan to be more realistic about renting rather than buying, when we do eventually leave the city.
My boyfriend was working from home last summer but now he’s back in the office full-time (by choice). He’s an anxious introvert and he always assumed he’d prefer working from home, but that hasn’t been the case. As it turns out, he loves the routine of getting out of the flat every day and walking to work, building more meaningful friendships with colleagues and the simple pleasure of grabbing a coffee with them at lunchtime. It would feel like a step back for his mental health if he reverted to working from a bedroom, alone. His previously remote-first company has also changed their policy to require a minimum of two days in the office, meaning we need to limit our search radius to a commutable distance. We don’t own a car and the train fare adds a significant expense, which reduces our budget and potentially means outgoings that are just as high, albeit for more space and better air quality. I know there’s nothing unique about this predicament – it’s familiar to so many who leave London but still work in it.
In many ways, writing my original piece from a house in Devon wasn’t helpful as I felt like I was living in a dream world and for a brief time, we were, but I know the reality of harsh, wet winters and months of feeling disconnected wouldn’t be the same as a blissful month in summer. In my high-on-life state, I didn’t allow myself to acknowledge just how low my own mood has been since I left a full-time job to go freelance and work from home. Of course it has its perks or I wouldn’t do it, but the loneliness can be painful at times, and I’m surrounded by people, in a city where I have friends within a short tube ride. It’s been playing on my mind that moving somewhere rural, just the two of us, could be a big red flag for my mental health. I had a hospital appointment last week and I walked there in seven minutes. I can walk to the doctors in five, three different supermarkets and an actual shopping centre in less than 10. When I flew from London City airport I was there in half an hour. These are all details I overlook when I think about the perks of leaving.
Removing the rose-tinted sunglasses (and reading accounts from other people) prompted me to refocus our search on towns or smaller cities where I can walk to coffee shops and bakeries, make a few local friends with similar interests and easily jump on a train to London for the day if I have meetings or press events. The countryside appeals for a weekend but not full-time. I’m not ready for that.
There has been a slow realisation that we don’t actually want to leave London yet. The crux of the issue is we don’t feel at home in our current flat and we never have. We’re so fortunate to live in a sought-after building in the middle of a city and have the luxury of making this choice, but checking my privilege doesn’t make the decision any easier, especially as someone who is always apprehensive about change, looking for signs and reassurance that I’m doing the right thing.
The obvious solution is to move to another flat in London and we are always looking, but I’m so particular about my home – it’s the place I spend most of my time and I care deeply about how it looks and makes me feel. When I find it, I’ll know, and I haven’t found it yet. There are plenty of perfectly nice flats on the rental market at a similar price to what we pay now, but being neurodivergent, I’m obsessed with safety and noise (yes, I’m fun at parties), which rules out 99% of the thin walls and non-insulated ceilings within our budget.
You don’t need to tell me that I’m probably waiting for something that doesn’t exist – I already know it.
Like so many others who messaged to say they related to my essay, we can’t afford to stay in London for too much longer. It’s the place I’ve called home for most of my adult life, but when we eventually leave (and we will have to), it will come down to money, as most things always do.
We’ll miss the shops, the incredible restaurant scene, coffee with friends, work events over lovely lunches, the beautiful parks that we’re so lucky to have, the chance to walk for hours with no real aim but so many possibilities. I won’t miss the ever-worsening crime, the pollution, the phone snatching in the street or the limescale that ruins my kettles, but it’s not an easy place to untangle myself from. I’m going to make the most of it for now, I think. Not sure, ask me next week…
