plain simple english
mother’s druthers
I sometimes think, and most of the time know, if my mother had her druthers she’d live somewhere like this. With enough hill to run up and roll down. And an ocean, just underneath.
The house, built in the fifties, is perched on a cliff on Elliðaey (Ellirey), an island south of Iceland’s mainland. Rumor has it you can rent it. If you can reach it.
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Tell me how much.
I can find nothing but rumors and rumors of rumors. Or rumours. Depending on which side of the Atlantic you stand.
Let’s build something similar on Browning Lambert, or Coaldale.
Do you mean Coalwood? Because then we could get Homer Hickam to come hang with us.
Not really…there ain’t much in Coalwood but a knocked-down, graffiti-riddled shelter, originally intended for watching rockets, I guess. I was there yesterday. It made me sad for how little some kid thought of something nice about the place he was growing up.
But on a more positive note…what a photo! It would be fun to spend a month with that, I would think.
Not Coalwood. I mean Coaldale Mountain, as in the backside of Bramwell Hill. As in connects to Anawalt by way of Peel Chestnut.
And for the record, Hickham can eat it. He’s such a pompous blowhard. Hell with it, though, right? Let’s all romanticize poverty and the exploitation of our state’s people and resources.
Do you know what his appearance fee is? It’s astronomical. (No pun intended.)
Coaldale! Sometimes my brain belies me. Rabbit Man was just telling me a story about driving through the old tunnel “before they moved it to Elkhorn” because “there weren’t no use going the long way around.”
“Hickham can eat it” has me chuckling…
can you rent it for a holiday??