17 years ago I moved into a century home in Nova Scotia. The local historical society has “circa 1871” as its construction date. Based on external data - maps, anecdotes and articles - that seems fairly accurate.
Living in a house that’s just a few years younger than your country is an interesting experience. The house is grand - so grand - with 11-ish foot ceilings (depending where you are in the house), a huge sweeping stair case, and so much square footage that my previous house would all fit into 3/4 of the first floor.
It is heated by beautiful cast iron radiators that are filled with water heated by a wood boiler and an oil boiler, depending on the mood of the day.
It has those thin slat hardwood floors that are so common of the era, and is complete with some “old house” features like a back servant stairs, an oven built into the brick of one of the chimneys, and wall studs with bark still attached. Back when the five iron coal-burning fireplaces in the house were active, the base of an old cistern in the basement would have still been collecting water for use in the house.
It’s time to leave this house. We ran a Bed and Breakfast for 10 years here; shutting that down seven years ago, and became just a couple of eccentric people living in that giant house on the hill with two little dogs.
I’ve never lived in a place for more than a few years. Growing up, we were always moving. As an adult I look back on that and wonder why, but as a child you don’t think of those things.
Because I’ve spent so many years in this house it has a lot of memories. Most are good - there’s something idyllic about living in a 140+ year house in a New England town of a few thousand people, and you invariably end up knowing everyone, like it or not. Memories of those people and situations are vastly different from the metropolises I grew up in.
There’s bad memories too, life is like that. None are worth memorializing in this post, but I will say with emphasis that we have lived in this house. There are a lot of tears in the paint.
Next steps are unclear. The housing market still moves far too fast for us to have a plan as to where we will land once the house sells. We will be renting in some fashion until we find the next house. We did this once before, about 17 years ago when we moved across Canada with nothing but a pick up truck, two dogs, and a stack of cash from selling our previous house.
It’s time to go, but that doesn’t mean I won’t miss this place. Century homes, and small century towns, have their own peculiarities and a “modern” home will likely seem so bland after this house. On the other hand, I won’t miss the labour of stacking wood and the seemingly never-ending maintenance that houses of this era require.
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