1. July 2026

The Yard: The Most Expensive Piece of Concrete I've Ever Loved

There are people who inherit cottages in the countryside. Some inherit jewellery, or enough money to retire early. I inherited a very long strip of concrete on the south coast of England.

Not technically, of course. That would have been far too straightforward. Instead, I inherited the responsibility, the stress, the negotiations, the sleepless nights.

The actual yard belongs to somebody else.

It's a bit like inheriting a pet crocodile that lives next door. You're expected to feed it, look after it and stop it eating the neighbours, but if anyone asks who owns it, it’s not you.

My dad had built a successful landscaping and storage business at the yard, for well over 15 years. After he died, I couldn't bear the thought of seeing his hard work disappear, so I decided to take it over. Yes, you’re right - I didn’t technically inherit anything. I asked for it. I could easily have just walked away – you know, the more sane thing to do. To be fair, I did also inherit a very old Mercedes truck (with 650,000 kms on the clock), a couple of shipping containers, quite a lot of rockery stone, and a forklift (which I am inexplicably attached to. Actually, not inexplicably; I have many memories of my dad on that thing – he loved it – and my son also, from when we was a toddler.)

At the time I imagined I'd sort out a few loose ends, tidy the place up and carry on with the business he’d built – or start something else completely new. I didn’t care that there was no electricity, no water, no real fencing, 500 feet of overgrown nettles, and it was on a flood plain.

Wait, did I mention that I had just spent 15 years building a life in Canada as well? In Canada, I had a good career, a beautiful house, a great life. But I chose – yes, chose – to go back to England and take over this strip of concrete that nobody else wanted (Sainsbury’s had bought the bigger, adjacent part of the land some years earlier, but dismissed this barren, narrow, pointless strip of land as a liability.) But what does Sainsbury’s, the superstore giant, know?

Before you wonder if I’d lost my mind, let me tell you how much the yard meant to my dad. It was his sanctuary, his base, his domain. It’s where he housed two 40 foot containers full of model trains. It’s where he sometimes slept. It’s where his beloved dog’s ashes are buried, and where his too are now scattered. It’s where we chose for his funeral procession to leave from.

I soon realised I couldn’t run the business the way my dad had done. That business was my dad – something my husband had reminded me of often. I ignored him. I was my dad’s daughter. I could do it.

I couldn’t do it.

I took a business partner – one of Dad’s customers who had a really nice Land Rover and an Irish accent - and together we set up a reclamation business there. Husband Lee warned me about that too. I am not partner material, he said. Don’t be silly, I said. This is the way forward.

It wasn’t the way forward.

I got rid of the partner. I floundered. Being there cost more money than I ever made, even when I increased the storage side of the business. With little income, I moved back to Canada. But not before I had decided to set up a new business from the yard – selling Christmas trees. That would cleverly enable me to go back to England every year for a month, run a business – my absolutely favourite thing to do – and make enough money to pay for the ridiculous amount of shopping I did.

The Christmas trees are the one good thing that came out of the yard. I built the business, and a loyal customer base, over ten years. Those customers are unfortunately going to be devastated to know that this year – my tenth year selling the trees – I won’t be selling trees. There is a very good chance that the yard is soon to be taken from me.

It’s a long, painful story; a rollercoaster that has taken up so much of my life that I cannot imagine the yard not being in it. The story is still unfolding and I will tell it as time goes on; maybe when I have a conclusion. Suffice to say, in ten years I have battled tenants and landlords; dodgy business deals, disputes and debts; and am now battling bureaucracy. It will be bureaucracy that decides the fate of The Yard.

Husband Lee has watched this saga unfold from Canada with a mixture of support, disbelief and what I can only describe as emotional exhaustion.

The Yard has become less of a business and more of a slightly dysfunctional family member. It doesn't live with us. It just occupies a disproportionate amount of my brain.

The strange thing is that, despite everything, I still love it; I still am hoping that I get to hang on to it. Not because it's glamorous. Let's be honest, it's a long strip of concrete in Newhaven. Nobody has ever looked at it and thought, "Well, that's magical."

But it's connected to my dad. It's connected to ten years of my life. It's connected to proving that sometimes things are worth fighting for, even when common sense quietly packs its bags and leaves the room.

But then, common sense has never been one of my strong points. Just ask Husband Lee.