I was in a home today that might be the perfect country getaway. It had everything: lots of rooms, plenty of space, a glorious setting and lots of land.
I didn’t like it much.
I was also in a sweet village Victorian with a quirky floor plan and odd bedrooms.
I loved it.
The country getaway was a log home on a quiet country road. The land was incredible, and the house was in terrific condition. The master bedroom had a ceiling that looked like the inside of a boat – all curved wood and beams, with big windows overlooking the views. I envied the clean, bright, straight basement with high ceilings.
It had a lot to like.
For a quarter of a million dollars less, you could have a rambling Victorian on a corner lot with a big, double backyard in a village that is on the National Historic Registry. Your driveway would butt up against your neighbor’s, and your backyard extends behind the house around the corner.
But there’s something about that big front porch, that screened in side porch, that private deck out back, that make living in a village look very appealing.
I’m not in the market for a house; I’m a realtor. I’m selling houses. But once in a while it strikes me how subjective buying a house really is.
There’s a couple that I think are going to fall head over heels for that big log home in the meadow. It’s perfect for them.
A young family saw the village house today and it was clear they were bowled over.
And I? I took months to finally realize that my “perfect” house didn’t have high ceilings, or old woodwork, or most of the must-haves on my list. But dropped ceilings can be removed, and old woodwork can be salvaged. Panelling isn’t forever, and that stupid bathroom with the ugly avocado tub upstairs, someday, will be something I like. This house is worth the work. I loved only a few houses in my life. I love my home.
Whatever people’s taste, I think they should know what that feels like.