When my wife and I purchased our southern New Hampshire homestead in 2021, the property consisted of a house on 2.76 overgrown acres, a dilapidated chicken coop, a massive junk pile, and a shed. Five years later, I’m pleased to report that the chicken coop has been rebuilt and the shed has been transformed into a small barn. However, the junk pile still needs excavating.
The modest farmhouse we call home was built in 1850 in the Greek Revival style of the period. It is a story and half with a steeply pitched slate roof, black window shutters, and a front door insulated in decades of paint. An ell contains our aging kitchen, sunroom, pantry, two bathrooms, and a drafty storage room we call the side shed. It is technically a three-bedroom house, but my wife and I have repurposed the downstairs library into our master bedroom, while our four children have the run of the top floor.
The office where I write is upstairs as well. From its window, I can look across the front garden down to the road. At the bottom of the garden steps, there is an old hitching post. I look at this every morning, and it serves as a reminder of just how old our property is.
When the cast-iron ringlet was first driven deep into the stone post, the road was a dirt track. It is likely that children would straddle the hitching post and front steps for a view of the oxen teams that would haul granite quarried from our hill down the road to the train depot, where the blocks would be transported to construction projects across New England.
The hitching post itself was likely pulled from this quarry, as were the stones used to build the walls that lace the hillside. Their presence confirms the existence of farmland. In the 18th and 19th centuries, southwestern New Hampshire was all but clear-cut to create pasture for sheep and cattle. When the wool industry moved west and supermarkets took the place of livestock, forests reclaimed the hills. Our property tells a similar story. The original farm was broken up and sold as smaller parcels during the latter half of the 20th century. That the house survived this breakup is a small miracle.
This is a history I’ve puzzled together in the short time we’ve lived here. It is certainly the oldest place my wife and I have ever inhabited. We were both raised in mid-century homes in suburban Massachusetts. After we married in 2019, we knew that we wanted to own land and produce as much of our own food as possible. An overgrown hillside in New Hampshire seemed like the perfect place to try it. So, we took a leap into the unknown.
The thing about knowing nothing is that you learn a lot very quickly.
What have we learned over the past five years? That April snowstorms can bring down maple branches large enough to crush your minivan. That chickens can vanish without a trace. That historic summer rain can wipe out freshly planted gardens. That pigs will escape if given enough time to figure out how. But we’ve also learned that nothing compares to the homemade syrup yielded from that maple. Few things are more exciting than discovering that your chickens have laid their first eggs. The best pickles are made from homegrown cucumbers. And you will never eat better pork than the bacon and ham you raised on your own land. For every trial, there are moments of unbelievable blessing.
Author and farmer Joel Salatin has said that the five-year mark is when most newbie homesteaders give up. We don’t feel that way. In fact, we feel like we’re finally gaining traction. We have a renewed drive and a direction for the property. And we want to invite you along for the ride.
Throughout its 176-year history, our property has had a number of names unique to the families who have lived here. We wanted to join in this tradition, but we needed to give the land time to reveal its character before ascribing a title to it. Nearly a year into our ownership, in summer 2022, a series of “who-cooks-for-you” hoots rode the cool evening breeze through our open bedroom window. We looked out to see a large barred owl staring at us from a nearby tree. He considered us for a few moments, cocking his head to the side in curiosity. Suddenly, he gave what sounded like an approving hoot, then flew noiselessly into the night. We sat in silence for a few minutes. Then my wife said, “I think I know what to call this place.”
Readers, welcome to Owl Hill.
Notes from Owl Hill is a new homesteading column written by longtime Epoch Times lifestyle and features writer Ryan Cashman. Follow along as he and his family tap maple trees, plan gardens, tends to a growing flock of sheep, fix up their historic farmhouse, and ruminate on the challenges and rewards of homesteading on a small, rocky hillside in rural New Hampshire.
