Henry was built in 1890. He was 125 years old when we met. I was 40. He was a dreadful mess the first time I saw him. The heirs to the estate had temporarily moved in and … well … they were pigs.
But underneath the mess, I could see the glimmer of something wonderful. Something worthwhile. Something struck a chord deep within me. So I bought him.
This is our story.
Want to start at the beginning? Here is the first post.