About The House or the Graceful Demise of the Rural Farmhouse

I have a love of old houses that borders on dangerous, peeling paint, broken windows, sorrowful decay, all set my heart pounding with desire. The first time I saw this house I was almost speechless, and each time we drove past on our way to somewhere else, I felt a tug of longing worse than an addict in a dry spell. Six months after arriving in rural Nova Scotia, we surrendered to my passions and bought this proud and shabby 1860's house. The yard had waist high weeds and a small patch of what had once been a garden, there was no running water or electricity, but I was blind to any flaws or impossibilities. Now four years into this grand adventure, we have some creature comforts, we also have adjusted our ambitious dreams so that they may live a little closer to reality.

It took two summers to paint the outside, hours of battling the persistent black flies, scrapping, sanding and filling. The deeper I got into the project the more frightening discoveries surfaced. There is dry rot, sagging beams, rotten window and door sills, the list grows and becomes more daunting every day luckily I am rather impervious to the idea of impossible. Some would call my persistence a character flaw, others might call it gumption, I think the reality is that I just don't take to being told it can't be done.