NEW LISTING. I like Lyndhurst and don’t get out that way often enough. I like the really old bridge and Lyndhurst Creek (which flows into Lower Beverley Lake and which reminds me of the streams I fished as a kid around Oxford, England). I like the easy drive up Hwy 15. Those 40 minutes during which I can listen to whichever album it is that’s uppermost that day. Today, if I drove up there (and I might, I really might) it’d be Baxter Dury and his newish and altogether marvellous album, Prince of Tears. Here’s the video for the song Miami. As Dury would say: Oi!
I shouldn’t do that, should I - be so damned digressive right off the top? The idea is to keep you hooked at least until I get to the house itself, sell you on the way the light lands in the front hall, or the way the floors feel under your socked feet, as if they’re covered with icing sugar, or as if you’re padding through good memories collected in these rooms the last hundred years or so.
But I’m flawed. We all are. I can’t help myself. Even this house is flawed in its way. It could use a coat of paint on the outside, and last time I was there one of the drawers in the kitchen needed fixing. The barn’s not up to much more than storage.
But those shortcomings are more than outweighed by all the good stuff going on. The high ceilings and lovely white square of the house against the blue sky. The big bedrooms and the heat pumping up and around from the new propane furnace. Now that spring is here I’d hang some light white curtains in the open windows and watch the breeze push them around like ghosts. I’d revel in my puny mortgage payments, and in the fact that behind the house was all this green space and pretty creek bits that weren’t pushing my taxes up. Maybe I’d wander down to the bait shop and drop a line in, just to see if I could conjure some old memories of Garsington and the perch I used to pull out of those Shakespearean streams of my youth.
More likely I’d just wander the high street. There was an iron smelter built here in 1801 and the village established around it was named, quite wonderfully, Furnace Falls. You can still see echoes of that 19th Century village. We really do like it very much. In our downtown neck of the woods you’d pay three times as much for a place like it, and there’s certainly no Turkey Festival down here on Charles.