An Englishman's home

Photo: Paul Collins

I had been in Canada for no more than a few months when I was challenged by a neighbour about a deck I was adding to my house. 

My wife and I moved to Canmore, Alberta, in 1988, and as new immigrants to the country we were perhaps less than educated on municipal bylaws.

Regarding the deck addition, I had already poured concrete for the posts, had the frame up and was ready to go hard and finish over the weekend.

That’s when my neighbour strolled over, and politely asked about my building permit.

“Bah, humbug,” I replied. “An Englishman’s home is his castle,” then I invited him in for a beer to find out what exactly a ‘building permit’ was. I should have known that life would be different in Canada.

My quiet paradise nestled in the hills and valleys of the Okanagan is a little busier than I could ever have imagined. As my wife and I go charging into our golden years in the next decade or two, I wonder if we will ever have the peace and tranquility we dreamed of when we first met. The cosy cabin on a mountainside has eluded us.

Instead, we have an acreage, which, it appears, is a tremendous magnet for people with old cars, boats, equipment, and generally stuff-to-store. After all, that must be why we purchased an acreage, to store old things, right?

Then there are the dogs. They are not ours. Well, in fact, one very old dog is ours, and more like a zombie than a dog, really. Every morning she has this weird wiggle in which she seems to put her bones back into their joints after an uncomfortable nights sleep. The wiggle looks more like something off a zombie apocalypse movie than pet central. She still wags her tail, though, and very slowly chases deer, barking at them to make sure we are all safe from deer bites. 

The other dog belongs to our son and his wife, who, now I think about it, share the house. 

They are busy establishing their business, and I remember how it was as a young adult to start your own business, so we said they could hang a shingle here for awhile. Looking back, there has only been one year of our lives when my wife and I have lived on our own. 

Living with friends and family at home is always a little different. Lets face it, we all do things differently, it is what makes the world colourful, but I grew up learning that an Englishman’s home is his castle, so it’s my rules, right? Who am I kidding!

Then there are the outlaws next door, my wife’s parents. They have their rules, and they are different than our rules, and different than the kids’ rules, and definitely different than the dogs’ rules. 

See how complicated it can be.

Yes - in 1987, my wife and I made a decision to emigrate, to have a slower pace of live, to enjoy the outdoors and to live in a little cabin in the mountains. This was not the self fulfilling prophecy it was meant to be, though, and sometimes I yearn for that quiet time.

However, to put it in perspective, I dread the conversation I might have in that quiet cozy mountainside cabin where Jackie and I discuss the fact that we are lonely. Why do we never see the kids? Should we go visit Mum and Dad? I wonder how they're doing? And we never see our friends who used to store a car or boat or something on our property.

Frankly, many families are not as fortunate as we are. So, the elusive dream of living in a quiet mountainside cabin may be on hold for a few more years, but in the meantime we sure love the family time on the front porch, around the dining room table, and over a cup of tea. And even clearing up dog poop.

Perhaps an Englishmen’s home never was his castle, maybe it’s his bed and breakfast?

This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.