When A.A. Milne created Winnie the Pooh’s now familiar habitat, the “100 Acre Wood”, he modeled it on Ashcroft Forest in East Sussex, a part of Southern England. His measurements were inaccurate. The forest was actually 500 acres.
Of course, in the original books the “100-Acre Wood” was just the area around the bear’s home. The forest itself stretched for many miles.
The land immediately surrounding our “100-Acre Wood House” measures just under forty acres. But, like Pooh’s, it is part of a much larger forest stretching for many miles.
It all began nearly two years ago when my wife, Trish, and I determined to retire somewhere close to Marquette, situated on the beautiful Upper Peninsular of Michigan, and close to the shoreline of mighty Lake Superior.
The winter was spent pouring over potential properties available for sale on the internet. A short-list of twenty-five was collated. When school finished for the summer, we packed the car and headed north.
It turned out a soul-destroying task. We had ten days to secure a mortgage, find a suitable property, and begin negotiations to buy.
Either the land wasn’t right, or the house wasn’t suitable, or both. We quickly learned not to rely on realtor’s blurb, or even their photographs. The search was complicated by a sense we were just not looking for the same things. Trish’s idea of an ideal property often didn’t coincide with mine.
I was the one directing operations. I would plan the day’s itinerary and print out the realtor blurb before setting off. We would arrive outside a designated property, Trish would shake her head, and we would drive on to the next, only to repeat the process. In fairness to my long-suffering wife, it was often a close race who would shake their head first.
After three days we had only two more properties to view. I’d deliberately left them till last. They weren’t particularly appealing and it was obvious even the realtors had problems composing suitably enthusing phrases to magnify their minuscule assets.
Twenty miles south of Marquette, on a roughly tarmacked roadway, we saw the “For Sale” sign protruding from a thicket. The driveway was long, and curved around to disappear behind trees. No house was visible from the road.
The blurb stated it was an old property, built in 1936. Trish prefers a more modern residence – one reason why it had been near the bottom of our pile. We drove up the drive.
The setting took our breath away.
There appeared no-one at home, and we had no wish to intrude so eventually tore ourselves away, determined to phone the realtor and make an appointment to view at the earliest convenience.
That turned out to be the very next day.
Trish was concerned how the interior would look. The property failed to meet many of our criteria. We wanted two bathrooms; there was only one. I yearned for a finished basement. The house had a basement, but it was unfinished. Trish liked large rooms; old farmhouses of the period are notorious for their tiny bedrooms.
On the drive out dark clouds hung heavy on the Upper Peninsula. Mist settled low over the forests and by the time we reached the house a steady, soaking, drizzle filled the air.
The visit was not a success. An elderly lady lived there. She was losing her sight and was to move in with her daughter. The house had been in her family from new and was originally a poultry farm. It came with forty acres of Upper Michigan woodland, though extensive lawns gave a sense of light and openness.
Trish’s earlier enthusiasm waned as we went through the house. The basement smelled of damp; the kitchen was large but had little work space; a short, horribly steep, flight of stairs led to an attic bedroom – the biggest in the house. The two on the ground floor were small, though I was quick to point out a wall in one could be removed to give an extra forty square feet of floorspace.
To me, the house was cosy and quaint. Having always been something of a do-it-yourself-er I could see possibilities for improvement. Trish, understandably, saw only what was there, and wasn’t impressed.
We left with heavy hearts, our Michigan adventure fading into disappointment.
In the ensuing days we checked out more expensive properties. Desperation – a need to find somewhere suitable before forced to return home to the heat and oppression of Central Illinois – drove us to exceed previously self-imposed financial restraints. Discussion of the old farmhouse had ended with an agreement to not mention it again. Romantically, it was fine; practical, it was not.
Three days before we were due to return to normal life, still no suitable property had emerged. We returned to our hotel room that evening depressed after another fruitless day.
I’d made no mention of the old farmhouse property since our pact, so it was with no small measure of surprise that I heard Trish suddenly say, “Perhaps we should take another look at the 100-acre wood house.”
“The what?” I was astounded. “You don’t mean the old farmhouse?”
“Well,” Trish smiled, “It is in a lovely setting……and if you’re sure that bedroom wall can be removed?”
“I can’t be certain, but I doubt it’s a retaining wall.” All my old enthusiasm for the property was welling up inside of me again, “I thought we’d agreed it was a non-starter?”
Trish smiled, “Maybe I was a bit hasty in my condemnation……” then adding, “….if we buy it you’ll be wearing your do-it-yourself cap for a very long time.”
“Suits me, ” I said, “I’ll need something to do when I retire.” Then, “Anyway, it’s not a hundred acres – it’s only thirty-seven and a bit.”
My wife laughed. “Well, the ‘thirty-seven and a bit acres wood house’ doesn’t sound nearly as good.”
So, from then on, it became the “100-Acre Wood House”, and, like A.A. Milne’s creation, the name isn’t wholly accurate. But, who cares about that?
And that’s how it began…….
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