The Enchanted Summer Living at Seven Persons Cottage - It Wasn't a Castle, a Manor House, or a Haunted House But it Was Bigger Than it Looked

Birch Hollow Photo by Suzanne Currie

     Of course I would love to take up residence in a castle of yore. I would truly celebrate any opportunity to dwell, just for awhile, in an English Manor House, like Washington Irving's stay at the estate he made famous in his 1822 book, "Bracebridge Hall." Which by the way, in actuality, was probably the estate known as "Abbotsford," which was the property owned in this time by revered poet, Sir Walter Scott. Irving resided with Scott while he was on tour through the English countryside, prior to writing his extended story of Squire Bracebridge's family, first introduced to Irving's readers in the text of his 1819 collected stories, "The Sketch Book." This is a rather long-winded bit of musty history just to explain how I would gladly accept an invitation to bunk out at Abbotsford should one arrive in the mail one day by some stretch of fortune. I wouldn't even object to a residence in a so called "Haunted House," although I doubt very much, whether what others consider frightening, and an unwelcome occupation, would bother me considering the array of earthbound spirits I've met up with over a storied sixty-six years.

     But, now that you ask, yes, I have lived in an enchanted cottage one summer, early in my writing career, on the shore of Lake Joseph in Foote's Bay. It was in fact, a seriously downsized dwelling place, constructed by a talented woodworker who also lived next door. I met him, pipe in hand, burning tobacco sweetening the atmosphere, and a tell tale twinkle in his eye, while explaining the inner largeness of a tiny wee house best serving the gnomes that were said to frequently visit the lakeside property in the late hours of the night, or arriving through the mist curling over the lake, in their tiny rowboat that, by the way, was also moored in the little harbor about ten yards from the cottage's front door. So why did I live in this size reduced English manor house in the form of a summer cottage? Well, let's start from the start why don't we?

     It was the summer of 1979. I had been working as a cub reporter for a small newspaper that was published out of the community of MacTier a short distance from where I eventually came to spend a most amazing summer. I wasn't too interested, at that time, in moving to the MacTier area, for the simple reasons that the cub reporter's job didn't pay much and I also had to rent a very second hand Datsun in order to do the running around the area that was part of my job. I had a huge area to cover, including as far down and around as Bala, Glen Orchard, Port Carling, Port Sandfield, Minett, Peninsula, and when necessary, Humphrey, and Rosseau, if for example, there was a fall fair going on. I even had to attend municipal council meetings in Honey Harbour twice a month, in the Township of Georgian Bay. But I was getting subsidized rent living in our antique shop / house arrangement in Bracebridge. I offset some of my expenses by the economic fact I was also making a few bucks at our family business, which helped a lot back then. But this didn't please the publisher and he kept trying to push me into a local rental, and I resisted for the first six months until I was offered something a little bit different in which to reside for at least part of the year remaining. I was introduced to Earl and Jessie MacDonalds' "Seven Persons Cottage," situated a short distance from their Foote's Bay home, adjacent to the marina. They had purchased the tiny abode from the original creator from the United States, if memory serves, and often rented it out to well vetted individuals, who would benefit from the rather surreal experience living in a tiny house that was really a shrunken big one.

     The Seven Persons Cottage was a much larger residence, or manor house, (my words not the builder's) in the actuality of choosing a design to follow, but was finely reduced in size to a much, much smaller structure, that still had all the bells and whistles of the larger scale, but not at the expense of milled lumber to bring it to fruition as a habitable cottage. When Earl took me down to see the cottage, thinking I might reject it as being too small for a big guy, I can remember looking at the place and wondering how the heck I had, without knowing it, fallen down the proverbial rabbit hole, arriving at this lakeside wonderland, where undoubtedly a white rabbit lived nearby. I looked at Earl, as if to say with my eyes, "are you nuts, I can't live in a place like this....what will my drinking buddies think?" And when he led me to the front door, which was tiny like everything else, he had to duck big-time to get into the place; Earl was a huge man so it was even more difficult for him, with cigar in his mouth, to wangle is frame into the parlor of the cottage. When I followed him in, through the haze of cigar smoke hanging in the air, I also had to bend down, to enter without hitting my head, and I was five foot seven and a couple of hairs extra. When I was able to stand up inside, I couldn't help noticing the newly released coffee table book, entitled "Gnomes," which I had read about in the book review section of the daily news. How fitting I thought, that I might be renting a summer cottage, on a beautiful Muskoka Lake, best suited to gnomes; and not likely for a senior league goaltender with wonky knees and a penchant for drinking too much and partying too hardy. Of course Earl and his charming wife Jessie, and I often enjoyed a cool summer beverage that summer of '79, but you know something; living at Seven Persons Cottage was such a rush for those months that I didn't need any alcohol whatsoever, to celebrate life or anything else. It was pleasure beyond anything I could have imagined being offered to a nearly-always-broke reporter that year.

     The cottage parlor had a rock fireplace with carved gargoyles in the wood mantlepiece. It was a big fireplace that had been made smaller, yet when it had a fire in its hearth, it seemed as if it might have been similar in character to the one Walter Scott and Washington Irving might have sat around, chatting about their professions and what they might write about next. There was an amazing front window, looking down the yard of about thirty of so yards, and a croquet set up for summer entertainment. There was a cushioned window seat where I could lay myself down to read a book, and still glance occasionally at the lake and the players whacking about the wooden balls of croquet. There was a tiny dining room below the stairs to the large bedroom upstairs, and the gate-leg table with the large leaf, would allow five diners to enjoy a supper in relative comfort. There was a charming narrow kitchen with view onto the lake, and I believe two bedrooms downstairs. At the front door there was a built-in drop-leaf desk, and beautifully crafted shelves, and there was a backdoor where I retreated to get more logs for the fire. There was quite a glamorous vintage outhouse, which was fine for me, (not so much for my female guests used to better amenities. It was a cottage that looked small when you approached it from Earl and Jessie's house, being down in a shoreline hollow, that was cradled by rock and trees, which added very much to the curiousness of the place. But when you settled down inside, you very quickly forgot about it being a house-in-miniature, and went about the affairs of the day without much consequence as far as size and mobility went. I once had three friends stay over night, and many other dinner guests, and they were all as spellbound with the digs as I was, as possessor of the key.

     I was still learning the ropes of being a reporter, and a writer for-profit in every other way, and being afforded this opportunity of living large but in a small setting was just what I needed to get my career truly underway; there was no way of remaining uninspired in this charming vestige of antiquity, yet so nicely appointed in actuality, to meet the needs of this writer-in-residence. I will not tell you it was haunted or that it was enchanted by intrusive gnomes or fairies, or anything else thusly magical, but as far as having an imagination set on high, it was a most engaging, productive and mystical period of residence that I didn't want to end. This strange and unique cottage gave me a plethora of story leads and potentials for editorial material that I'm still working with, and advancing (and enlarging) after all these years. It was a place that became much like a comfortable cloak on a cold day, with the feel of a passed-down with affection quilt, that felt good wrapped around your shoulders, when the day had been hard and the mileage long and precarious. To come home to this wee abode in the woodlands of west Muskoka was engaging and stimulating, just as it was that cherished relic of creature comfort, that heals the spirit without any more fuss than a low sparkling light on a mantlepiece, and a crackling cedar fire within the rock hearth.

     My relationship with Seven Persons Cottage has been a life-long affair, even though my long ago stay, had only been five months in duration. So yes, I suppose it was a haunted place in the most joyous of ways, and I consider myself lucky to be forever haunted as well by its warm sensitivities of once, never to be forgotten.