We really enjoy cottaging. Gasp!
Our dream of a lakeside retreat came true just before Christmas
Toronto, Aug. 9, 2007: We’re in a lineup during the opening night intermission of Cirque du Soleil’s
Kooza. Behind us, a glamorous blond is punching messages into her BlackBerry and, as the first available loo swings open, we step aside (gentlemen that we are) to usher her forward. Our offer, while initially met with resistance, is eventually accepted and, in a swish of manicured hair and warm smiles, the friendly stranger is lost to the outdoor cubicle.
Later, the sun setting on Cirque’s dazzling performance, a buzzing crowd siphons into the warm August air and we find ourselves face to face — again — with the woman we met earlier in the washroom queue. Small talk ensues before she introduces herself: “I’m Cherri. Like the fruit, but with an ‘i.’ Cherri Campbell. And this is my husband, David Sparkes.”
Chattering, we walk together toward the Guvernment — the bustling club assigned the honour of hosting the Kooza after-show party — and a beautiful friendship is quickly born. With Cherri and David we feel immediately comfortable; we share a dry, laconic wit and they both have fabulous hair.
Several days later, we meet for lunch and the conversation runs the gamut of favourite restaurants, long-haul travel and the movie industry. Cherri, it transpires, is executive assistant to Robert Lantos, one of Canada’s most lauded film producers ( Barney’s Version), and David is a first assistant director whose credits include (if we can jump to the present for a moment)
Patch Town, on which he actually wears the producer’s cap alongside Craig Goodwill, the director. You may recall we featured Goodwill’s home in 2011 ahead of the thenshort film Patch Town being premiered during TIFF. With several accolades under its belt, the black comedy is now being rebooted into a full-length feature of the same name. We predict very big things.
But back to past tense. Over lunch, chatter soon turns to cottaging. Had we ever indulged, asks Cherri, as we look on, horrified. She is a big fan, as is David. Cue one of the most embarrassing conversations we’ve ever had. Cottaging in Canada, we soon discover, and cottaging in Britain are two entirely different pursuits. “We, erm, well, no. Not ever.”
Fog clearing, realization dawns that we’re at cross purposes. We explain that cottaging is British slang for the “pursuit” that got George Michael into a spot of American restroom bother some years past. Oh dear. Cherri and David counter that Canadian cottaging is rather more innocent and all about country homes, lakeside retreats and cabins. Phew. Lost in Translation had nothing on this debacle.
Anyway, toilet talk aside, we soon learn that, as much as our new pals adore Toronto’s urban rush, they also harbour the dream of owning a cottage in Muskoka and, following subsequent trips with them to the snowy northern wilds, we birth a similar dream.
But aren’t we committed urbanites? Well yes, to an extent; we enjoy much of what Toronto offers and could never conceive of spend- ing all our Canadian soil quotient out of the city. But what if we could escape, perhaps every other week, to recharge our batteries? Hmm . . . wouldn’t that permutation mean 26 weeks going to waste? Surely there was a better option. So we got to thinking. What if we were to pool resources and make a joint purchase? A cottage “experiment,” if you like; one that would see us financing together and reworking the space to make it perfect for all parties. Why not? It made perfect sense. Without further ado, we appointed a Muskokan real estate agent at the end of the summer and our search began. We looked at a dozen properties over one weekend and, while each had its own appeal, none hit the mark. Our agent advised that inventory is traditionally limited come October and suggested we leave our search until spring. But we were determined to strike while the iron was hot. OK, make that cold. It was, after all, October and the mercury’s dastardly descent had already begun. Somewhat jaded, we set off for Toronto, stopping first for refreshments at Rosseau’s General Store and it was there, pinned to the door, that we spied a notice that stopped us in our tracks: details for a property auction on Nov. 9. The images looked interesting and the location, on a small private lake, sounded tempting. But the auction date? Damn. None of us would be in the country. We’d be in Grand Cayman, Cherri in Turks and Cai- cos, and David on assignment in Los Angeles. Curiosity, however, got the better of us. With some trepidation we called the number and made an appointment to view it later that same day. Little did we know that a love affair to rival Liz and Dick was about to unfold. Folks say you always know when a house is right, don’t they? We — all four of us — certainly agreed that this was it: the perfect cottage. Built from logs and pretty much turn-key in the short term, we swooned touring four bedrooms, two living rooms and two full bathrooms. Wraparound decks and views to die for sealed the deal. But as much as we were falling in love, an air of terror was descending upon us. Wouldn’t everyone who viewed the house fall head over heels in love? And wouldn’t its price, therefore, skyrocket? It felt like we were losing the cottage before we could stake a claim. Undeterred, we decided to offer ahead of hammer swing but our low-ball bid was promptly declined. Reluctantly, because we couldn’t attend the auction (and because we didn’t want to get involved in phone bidding) we agreed to pass. David went to La La Land, Cherri, with a gal pal to Turks and we to Cayman. We tried not to think of our fast fading loghome dream. But on the afternoon of Nov. 9 something began to niggle. As the sun shone down on Cayman, we reached for our iPhone and dialed the number that had been burning a hole in our diary for what seemed like an eternity. “Hi, we’re calling about the Rosseau cottage that was being auctioned this morning.” Silence. Then; “Ah, Colin and Justin. Nice to hear from you.” We paused to gather our thoughts and then (on speaker phone so we could both pitch in), asked; “Did it sell?” Silence again. Then; “Actually no, it didn’t achieve the reserve price so it’s still available.”
You can imagine the scene. Scottish frenzy rising like a bubbling cauldron. The auctioneer advised that, if we wanted to show serious intent, we should make an offer, subject to finance and inspection. Yikes! The cauldron exploded and the screaming started, at which point we called Cherri and David on iPhone conference. Both were thrilled, but each suggested we remain calm (Calm? Us?) until there was something we could be properly excited about. Which is, ahem, just how we played it. NOT.
With all parties gathered, we submitted a formal offer (subject to terms) then headed back to Muskoka to witness the property inspection first hand. It passed, we’re thrilled to report, without any problems so we removed the “subject to” clauses. Then did that which all buyers do: we waited.
Intense negotiations followed but, just four weeks later, we closed. And so it came to pass that, just shy of Christmas 2012, our little dream became a reality and it was there we spent our first Christmas ever out of Scotland.
Next week, hell mend us, we’ll be retracting everything we’ve ever said about knotty (naughty?) pine and revealing some interior “before” shots. Then, in a few months, we’ll showcase how things have changed.
Like all homeowners, we’ll do things as budget permits — but expect an updated kitchen, two new bathrooms, as well as state-ofthe-art integrated sound and vision. And the best news? Sharing the budget. It doesn’t take a statistician to comment that this equates to just 50 per cent of costs per couple. It’s a no-brainer. Why don’t more people do this, rather than over-stretching or doing without their dream?
In the meantime, the quaint chattels inherited with our lake home are making cottaging — thus far — a joy, though the local church can rely on an incoming mountain of “stuff” in the not-too-distant future. So, if wall-mounted geese, dried flower wreaths and brass bedpans float your boat, then sail on up to Muskoka. As we like to say in cottage country, “One man’s discarded loon is another man’s avian bounty!”