The Secret Garden

Zvonka opened the huge iron gate and stepped into the courtyard. Running Man (RM) followed. I just stood there, rooted in amazement at what I was seeing. Zvonka looked back at me and grinned at my wide eyes and gaping mouth. RM took a few steps back to take my arm, pulling me gently inside.

The courtyard was green and flowered, wild and beautiful. My thoughts flew instantly to a long-ago-read book, The Secret Garden. I knew I was only a few yards away from the neighbors and yet I felt like I was totally alone once I passed through the gate. Although the day was quite warm the temperature dropped perceptively inside the gate. Zvonka walked toward a table, dropped her purse on it and walked toward the house. The table was on the right side of the courtyard, beneath one of the fig trees. Just to the left was an arbor made of rusted pipes and blanketed with grape vines.

 

Other than the sound of RM and Zvonka speaking in Slovene as she unlocked the front door and disappeared inside, the only sounds I heard were bees buzzing among the vines and flowers and the intermittent scuttling sounds of lizards on the stone walls. I felt at peace and at home.

Stucco on the front of the two-story farmhouse had fallen away, exposing its original stone facade in many places.  There was a piece of green corrugated plastic over the front door, held aloft by rusted metal arms and marring the rustic beauty of the structure.

To my left was an old stone shed topped with a collapsing tile roof but hidden and cooled beneath the canopy of yet another fig tree. But not even the tree could hide the large, unsightly metal barrel and long gutter, positioned to capture rainwater for the garden.

Between the shed and the front door was a beautiful arched doorway with a loft door above it. I walked closer to take a look and saw something etched in the concrete arch above the door. It was "1673," the year of the founding of this property. I hadn't just stepped into a secret garden. I had stepped back in time. And to someone whose country is only 230-some years old, it was hard to imagine owning a property more than 330 years old.

 

 Zvonka and RM emerged from the house.

"Are you going to spend the day in the garden, or do you want to see the house?" RM teased.

I was greeted by the sight of a green toilet and a bidet as I entered the house. I was standing in an entry hall which was consumed by a huge, unattractive but no doubt functional cabinet/closet/coat hanger monstrosity that covered the entire left wall. The blue-tiled bathroom was directly in front of me with the door open. I had stepped out of Old World Europe and directly into Yugoslavian Communism without missing a beat.

The next room was the dining room, dominated on one side by a daybed and on the other by a cast iron and enamel stove used for heating and for cooking. The room was bright with a large window that looked into the courtyard. 

Opposite the window was a massive and, frankly, hideous cabinet unit with a small television set tucked away on a shelf. The TV and daybed used as part of the seating at the kitchen table indicated to me that someone spent a lot of time in this room. 

A doorway led to a tiny kitchenette with a small refrigerator, a short enamel and cast iron farm sink and a tiny four-burner stove. I felt very tall as I entered that room, like I was walking into the kitchen of a child's playhouse rather than one used by adults. The single water pipe, added more than 100 years after the house was built, was just slapped on the wall like an afterthought, running up into the little water heater mounted on the wall. 

But it was there that I discovered a treasure. Beneath a set of wall cabinets hanging precariously from the wall between the kitchen and the bathroom, and covered up by a countertop freezer unit and some random assortment of dishes was a beautiful wooden dresser with a white marble top. It had been cobbled over the years with unattractive hardware but as someone who has refinished furniture before, I relished restoring it to its original state and putting it in a bedroom where it belonged.

"Does any of the furniture come with the place?" I asked. RM translated to Zvonka who replied to him.

"She says it all comes with it."

Not much of a selling point, I thought, except for pieces of furniture like this one. Maybe I would find more treasures in the house.

The "rest of the house" comprised two large rooms, one set up as kind of a living room and the other as a bedroom. The living room, or "dayroom," as the Europeans call it, featured Pepto-Bismol-pink walls, gold drapes and furniture upholstered in red. Not exactly easy on the eyes. The entry and bathroom had tile floors, but the rest of the house was covered in a dated gold vinyl. All in all, this house had five daybeds and a rather eclectic collection of artwork on the walls, ranging from an Asian foil print and a large lighted metal spider on a metal web to an antique framed print of Rubenesque women and a poster featuring a photo of kittens. It also had many more pieces of furniture that would have to go or be entirely overhauled so they would be unrecognizable from their original state. 

But I was looking at the house, not its furnishings, although I must admit it was a little difficult to not be distracted by the latter. All of the windows were set back nearly two feet because of the thick stone walls. Good spots for cozy window seats.  A stone wall separated the kitchen/dining room from the dayroom. All of the other walls were cardboard covered with mismatched and patched wallpaper. I was undaunted by the changeable.

Zvonka was beckoning us to follow her up some rather steep stairs behind a doorway in the dayroom. The attic had magnificent stone walls, huge exposed beams and was filled with "stuff." It was exactly what I'd envisioned. Here, I would build my retreat -- a bedroom and bathroom, sitting area, office and sewing/craft area. I would have plenty of space. The attic ran the entire length of the living space below. 

I might be able to turn the existing bedroom into two rooms, but the hike to the only bathroom would be a negative. Where would I put the guestrooms? Perhaps they would have to be in the attic. My mind was buzzing. 

Naturally, I wasn't quiet the whole time I was walking through the house. I was constantly firing questions about the roof and heating and water and so forth in English to RM who was translating them into Slovene for Zvonka then translating her answers back to me in English. His head must have been moving back and forth like someone watching a tennis match.

"How much did she say this property is?" I asked RM.

"Ninety-eight thousand," he said.

"Can't be. It must be 198,000 Euros," I said.

RM asked Zvonka something in Slovene and she responded, shaking her head and smiling.

"No, it's 98," he said.

Based on all of the other properties I'd seen, I couldn't believe the price of this one. And there was more to see. I followed Zvonka back down the stairs with a huge, stupid grin on my face. I didn't know what else we were going to see, but I couldn't wait to see it.

We walked back outside and into the secret garden. Zvonka led us to the arched doorway where she turned a key in the rusty padlock, and pushed open one of the two doors. I found myself standing in a huge, open space with concrete floors, stone walls, a long trough of firewood and myriad items from furniture to tools to trash. Here is where I would put the guestrooms with private bathrooms. Zvonka pointed to a ladder stuck up through a trap door in the beamed ceiling. RM climbed it first and I followed. The second floor had the same footprint as the ground floor but the pitched roof was high with exposed beams just as the attic in the house was. Enough room for two more rooms and bathrooms. I couldn't believe it. This was the space I had been wanting to find.

Zvonka wasn't done yet. She explained to RM that Goce had more than 100 wine cellars and this house possessed one of them. We crossed the courtyard to the opposite side near the palm tree, then walked down stone steps to the cellar door. The cellar had a dirt floor, packed as hard as concrete. A massive antique wine press covered one wall and a few old oak casks were laid on stone, spigots down for filling. There was a piece of plastic siding covering what appeared to be a doorway. RM pushed and pulled and loosened the siding, laying it down on the floor. Beyond it lay one of the Goce's famous wine cellars with stone walls and vaulted stone ceilings. Even in the dim light, I could see how beautiful this ancient cellar was, and I could imagine holding wine tastings in it for my guests. Their laughter echoed in my mind.
 
Zvonka then walked across the room and opened a set of steel doors, letting sunlight spill into the cellar. RM and I followed her outside. I blinked repeatedly, letting my eyes adjust to the brightness. I stopped suddenly, my eyes widening in wonder. Not even the garden or the house had stunned me like this. It was unbelievable.