I turned onto Lamington Road in Bedminster, thankful to escape the four lane traffic on Route 202/206. Just past the Clarence Dillon Public Library, only an occasional pickup truck would be in sight, often with a horse trailer in tow. With any luck, I'd see a horse and rider trot by, with no need for a trailer at all.
I was in God's country now. Or maybe Noah's. There were enough animals around to fill an ark.
I passed one horse farm after the next--two of them for sale. Some were clearly custom built within the past couple of decades, while others had deeper roots. I spotted a plaque predating a home prior to the American Revolution in 1776. Another sign announced "Sheep & Lambs For Sale." Still another proclaimed "Preserved Farmland," thanks to The Gackstatter Foundation.
I wasn't in the market for a farm, historic or new. And I certainly wouldn't know what to do with a sheep or lamb. But I did know the Trump National Golf Club was in this neck of the woods, about three miles down as the crow flies. Regardless of how a crow actually flies, rumor has it that the club baring the Trump name offers a helicopter landing pad.
Pity. My helicopter was in for repairs. I needed to rely on my car.
For all the daydreaming the Somerset Hills inspires, I had to put it aside. I was on another mission to preview a home new to the market. I had to stop the thought that kept running through my mind:
'Shoud I be wearing riding boots? Or golf cleats?'
No question about it, I was heading in a promising direction. Then again, I could be wrong. My GPS announced I was to turn onto an unpaved road. Was its compass broken? Was I still in New Jersey? Or had I magically arrived in the middle of Iowa?
I was tempted to turn back and preserve the treads on my car's tires. But the farther I traveled on Cedar Ridge, the more intriguing my adventure became...
In all their majestic glory, a flock of wild turkeys was swooping in for a landing in an open pasture--one that served as the front yard of a home that could have been a cousin of Scarlet's beloved Tara. Most promising of all, dotting the landscape were more impressive homes, without and without a large red barn or equestrian facility, and not a single sheep or lamb in sight.
Ah, yes. Unpaved road or not, this neighborhood was one I would not snub. It must rank high as a best kept secret of unique and desirable locations in the Somerset Hills, if privacy and nature are sought.
My ultimate destination was a slightly more modest abode by comparison to its neighbors, but appealing nonetheless. Its rustic charm was fitting for the blissfully bucolic setting. At first sight, it was reminiscent of a farmhouse transported from somewhere in a European countryside. Ironically, the listing agent said the owners were European themselves, originally attracted to the house by that very same trait.
Inside, close attention was made in every nook and cranny to assure modern updates blend seamlessly with mid-century features. They will please the next buyer of the property, as will the architect's blueprints that are all ready for possible expansion.
In this setting, there's plenty of room for that without ruffling the feathers of wild turkeys. --OpenHouseScribe
