Falling in love can be the work of a moment. Three autumns ago my eyes alighted on a property ad’ in Country Life: “A unique opportunity to acquire this former archdeacon’s house, just off the Cathedral close”. The photograph showed a hotch-potch of Georgian, medieval and Tudor rooms with a pretty walled garden and a cobbled stable yard, the carriage doors painted in the Reckitt’s Blue livery of the cathedral’s properties. All for a comparatively modest price.
Heart thumping, I approached the husband in his study. “You’ll never get it,” he said. “And I thought you never wanted to leave here.”
