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From Dave Tomlinson,Ìýwriter and vicar at large:

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The first time we moved home was a doddle. We shifted from number 48 to number 34 – in the same road. I was young and energetic. We didn’t even hire a van – just me and a couple of mates manhandling wardrobes, beds and sets of drawers along the street. It was all done in a couple of hours. And there we were – me, my wife Pat, three kids and Berger our Old English Sheepdog cuddled up in front of the fire watching our favourite TV show. Result!

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Our recent move was more traumatic. After 19 years in a north London vicarage, we headed south of the river. But once we’d shifted some of our furniture, the house sprang a leak bringing down ceilings and soaking brickwork. So for three months we were left ‘camping out’ back in the vicarage.

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This basically prolonged the agony of leaving a house to which we were very attached – and where we had had such amazing fun. There had been many tears there for sure – hours of planning funerals with bereaved folk, supporting people in pain, or trying to help troubled couples find a way forward (or helping them part peacefully).

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But it was also a house of fun. There were parties and celebrations, wettings of baby’s’ heads and the like – and lots and lots of laughter. I remember organising a strawberries and bubbly event in the garden to raise money for the church where I drank too much bubbly and ended up bidding £500 for an item on auction – in the hope that this would get things off to a flying start. No one else bid!

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Finally, we shifted south, just before Christmas. Still very sad to go, on our last day, I decided to make vacuuming the place a pilgrimage. Room-by-room I sucked up the final remains of our life there, in each space recalling memories sad or happy (mostly happy). It was a good goodbye.

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Leaving places times or relationships behind is often traumatic. There is no easy way. But I found memory and gratitude a healer – and a source of fuel for the journey ahead.