Squirrel Cover red-railed dock

I arrived late in the season. Moving a bit more north and a bit more rural, I arrived to my new home both in the darkest and coldest time of year. I had to run around with weather striping and plastic for thin windows, scramble to secure wood for the old blaze king, and I spent days chopping frozen rounds in the snow.

The house perched on a hill, hence its name that it’s had since the beginning, is dry, and its cedar walls give it a warm and cosy feel despite its high ceiling and maze like interior. It was built by a retired couple 17 years ago, and it has a peculiar layout. Every room seems like an addition, funny angles, an uneven roofline, and odd electrical wiring that puts switches in one room to turn on the lights of another. The loft upstairs holds two rooms. Separated by only half finished walls, a shallow cast-iron bathtub is sandwiched between them. The master bedroom downstairs, jetting out the building’s side near the thin strip of a kitchen, mimics a suburban box. It has the only drywall in the mostly all wood house. Its en-suite bathroom holds a huge jacuzzi tub as out of place as the rest of the room, and as luxurious as the tub looks, I’ve only used it a few times. I quickly determined the small cast-iron one in the loft was kinder on my well, held the water’s heat better, and provided a cozier bathing experience.

The property, completely encircled by a rotting cedar fence, is littered with little sheds, retired birdhouses and abandoned homesteading projects. A tiny half-standing greenhouse, a bunch of collapsing cold frames, and an old wind turbine edge the house. Closer to the road, near the big scrap filled workshop, old rusted bits of metal poke through the ground, They are remnants of what was a highways yard when Cortes’s first roads were built. Concrete remains of a school house from a 100 years ago can be seen in the patchy grass near the garden cabin, and the gazebo in the property’s center covers Moonhill’s first well. It sits only a few yards from a grown over garden backed by grape vines encircled by blueberry bushes and fruit trees.

The constant journey of discovery was some of what I bought into. The history, character and abundance of buildings on only 2.6 acres were all the things that drew me. The deciding factor to purchase, however, was based on love alone, probably the reason for all of our best and sometimes worst decisions. And while having my name on a land title is both an exciting and scary venture, no matter how it plays out, for me it is an affair of the heart.

The tale that brought me here is worth a separate post. It’s full of synchronicity and just plain magic that let me know quite clearly I was suppose to be here. But what here is I am still discovering as I begin to take my turn in shaping this land. Welcoming the opportunity to become its newest steward, I’ve finally found a home.


Simple living and loving it, I steward a hand tended, bike powered piece of land on a remote west coast island. When my hands are not in the soil I make music, take pictures and blog about media and country-living on TLV.

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