So on the way home from church, we see a red and white sign. Farm for Sale. Open House, Sunday, 2-4.
Of course we hop in the car at 2:05 and go across the highway, past the church and down the road. I was ready. I had my spiral notebook to write things down, things like, barn construction, bank or hip roof, ceiling height, condition of fences, overall condition of barn, drive shed yes or no, oh, and, is there a house??? That kind of important stuff.
I even brought my barn boots with me, just in case.
Well. This so called farm was not a farm in any way shape or form. It's a house. It's just a friggin house in the country. It's the kind of place I totally hate. Useless! The house is a boring big looming monstrosity with a two car garage stuck on the side. It's less than twenty years old and completely devoid of any interesting features. It sits back from the road, surrounded by a perfectly manicured lawn, spindly young trees, and fake sloping hills.
This is the kind of place that people buy when they want to go to parties and say, "OOah, yeeeeesss, we live in the country now, yeeesss, we have deer in our yard, yeesss, it's all very elegant."
And these are the kind of people who get right bent when the guy who owns the fields surrounding their little rural paradise get busy with the sh*tspreading in the spring. The farmer was there first and is making a living, or at least trying to against all odds, and yet Buffy and Biff Stuffington don't like the odour.
Needless to say...we did not go in. Although I really felt like stomping up and down the paved driveway in my sh*tboots.