I inherited a summer house from my grandparents, and this year I decided to live there all summer. The area is peaceful—electricity, water, a forest nearby, and a lake within walking distance. The house and plot were neglected, but I saw potential. Last year, I rolled up my sleeves and got to work: repaired what needed fixing, insulated the walls, installed an air conditioner, and built a small kitchen. I even rigged up a summer shower with a heated barrel. Internet? Installed. It wasn’t just a retreat—it became a project, a rhythm, a place where I could breathe again.
The house is small—two rooms and a veranda—but it’s perfect. The neighbors are quiet, the air is fresh, and I work remotely, so I set up my laptop either inside or out in the garden. I planted greens and flowers, watched them grow, and felt something in me grow too. The silence wasn’t empty—it was restorative. I’d wake up to birdsong, sip coffee on the porch, and feel more grounded than I ever did in the city. It wasn’t just a change of scenery. It was a change of spirit.
The nearest supermarket is about 15 to 25 minutes by car, so I’d stock up for a week or two. That rhythm suited me—less noise, fewer errands, more time to be present. In the city, I live in a 25-floor building surrounded by traffic and concrete. There’s no greenery, no stillness. At the summer house, I rested with my soul. I didn’t realize how much I needed that until I felt it. The contrast was stark. And healing.
One day, a stray cat and her kitten wandered onto the plot. They stayed. I fed them, built a little shelter, and now they’re part of the story too. I’ll be taking them with me when I return to the city—though honestly, I don’t want to go back. The thought of leaving this quiet, this balance, feels wrong. I’ve found something here that I didn’t know I was missing. And I’m not ready to let it go.
I used to think the city was where life happened. Now I know better. Life happens where you feel alive. Where you can hear yourself think. Where you can plant something and watch it grow. This summer house, once forgotten, has become my sanctuary. I didn’t just inherit a building—I inherited a way of living. And I intend to keep it close, no matter where I go next.
So here’s to the quiet places, the stray cats, the garden beds, and the slow mornings. To the unexpected joy of repair, of solitude, of remote work under the trees. And to the reminder that sometimes, the best kind of wealth is a neglected house with a lake nearby—and the time to make it yours.
