Tahilla Farm, early days
An old story, a chance encounter, and the road that led us home.
I've been looking through some of my old posts from Collage of Life, the first blog I created to share our expat journey and the many places we called home along the way. One story in particular caught my attention, written on a rainy afternoon in Ho Chi Minh City, near the end of the monsoon season. It's wonderful to read something you wrote years ago, knowing how the story eventually unfolds.
Mr. H and I were thinking about life after our expat years. Where would we settle? What would home look like? We had spent so many years moving from country to country, creating homes along the way, but knew there would eventually come a time when we would want to put down roots.
We created a wish list. Mr. H wanted to live by the water, preferably the ocean, with wide views, plenty of windows, privacy, and room to roam. My thoughts wandered toward an old farmhouse, a barn, gardens, stone walls, and a quiet country setting. A place to wander with my camera, work in the garden, read, write, and enjoy the simple pleasure of being home. Somewhere peaceful, with silence in the trees.
At the time, we had no fixed plans, only possibilities. And then, quite unexpectedly, a few pieces began to fall into place.
On a visit back to the United States, I decided to explore the mid-coast region of Maine. I had mentioned my interest on my blog and Facebook, and before long, Bill, an old high school classmate, appeared in my messages. We hadn't seen each other in forty years. As luck would have it, he was living in the very town I was interested in and working as a realtor. What were the chances?
Bill took me to see several wonderful properties, beautiful old houses, gardens, creative spaces, and, of course, the sea. I came away thinking I had found the perfect place. But my travels weren't finished.
A few days later, I drove into New Hampshire, to a small town I had never heard of until I began corresponding with a woman named Lisa. We had met through my blog after she wrote to say how many interests we shared. We began exchanging messages about books, gardens, small-town life, and all the little things that make a friendship grow.
On an earlier visit to the United States, we had arranged to meet in person. I called it a BBD, a Blind Blogging Date. Those were the days when you arranged to meet someone you knew only through words and photographs, agreed on a way to recognize each other, and hoped for the best. I was never disappointed, and certainly not with Lisa.
Through Lisa, I was introduced to Joe and Paula, two more kindred spirits who shared a love of gardening and the natural world. Our friendship grew through emails across the miles. And there I was, sitting in their garden, thousands of miles from my home in Vietnam, feeling as though I were amongst old friends. I love those moments when a friendship seems to pick up in the middle, without ever having had a beginning.
As it happened, Lisa was also a realtor, and she had a few houses she thought I might like to see.
We drove from property to property, talking about houses, gardens, and the possibility of settling in New Hampshire. And then we drove up a dirt road.
There, surrounded by trees and open fields, was an old farmhouse and a barn. Nothing grand or particularly showy, just a house nestled into the countryside. I remember the quiet and the feeling that I could imagine a life there. It was the kind of place I had been dreaming about, although I hadn't quite realized it until that moment.
Of course, there was a problem. I had already found the perfect house in Maine. And now I had found another in New Hampshire.
Back in Ho Chi Minh City, with monsoon rain falling outside, I sat down to write about the experience. I was reading The Skeptical Romancer, a collection of W. Somerset Maugham's travel writing, edited by Pico Iyer. I was particularly taken with Iyer's observations about wandering, following one's imagination, and allowing unexpected diversions to lead the way. It seemed a fitting description of my own state of mind.
There was so much to consider: our life overseas, our children, our future, and the rather daunting thought of choosing one place after so many years of living in different countries.
I ended the original post with a favorite quotation attributed to Henry David Thoreau:
"I believe that there is a subtle magnetism in Nature, which, if we unconsciously yield to it, will direct us aright."
I wondered where we would end up.
Fourteen years later, I am writing this story from Tahilla Farm. That old farmhouse and barn became our home.
The barn has become a gathering place for creative days, and the fields and gardens are places to explore, plant, photograph, and wander. The landscape has changed over the years, as have we.
We didn't end up by the ocean, as Mr. H had hoped. Instead, we have Cunningham Pond a mile away, a brook running down from the mountain through our property, and views toward the mountains beyond. It is a landscape that has become part of our everyday lives, one that I continue to discover with each passing season.
Looking back, I can't help thinking about the friendships that brought me here. A blog post, a message from someone I had never met, a shared love of gardening, a visit to a friend's garden, and an unexpected introduction to a place I might never have discovered otherwise. So many small things, each leading to another.
Would we have found Tahilla Farm if Lisa hadn't written to me all those years ago? It's doubtful. But I like to think there was a little of Thoreau's subtle magnetism at work.
What began as a dream on a rainy afternoon in Vietnam eventually became our life here in New Hampshire.
And here I am, still wandering, still wondering, still finding things to write about.
Only now, I know where home is.
Tahilla Farm, today
