As a child, I was a nerd. More specifically, a book nerd. And thus, as book nerds are wont to do, I read many books. Several such books included the Little House series, which my mama, one loving mother of a nerd, read along with me.

From the get-go, Laura Ingalls Wilder had us hooked, regaling us with touching family tales set in America’s developing heartland. All was going swimmingly, until we stumbled upon Farmer Boy. 

Not only was the content objectionable (”No!” I remember my mother shrieking. “First, you ice, and THEN you apply heat — not heat first!” [Though, in fairness, looking back, it WAS summer, and in days pre-Frigidaire, being THE 1860'S AND ALL.]), it was downright boring. 

For weeks we tried to plow forward, stubborn and insistent upon just. getting. though. this. cursed. book. Over time, Farmer Boy became in-house vernacular for something so unbearably monotonous it brought on the snoozles. 

Needless to say, we didn’t make it. But despite never finishing it, we could not bring ourselves to remove the (much-beloved, may I add) flat plastic neon yellow googly-eyed snake bookmark that nestled within the tedium, marking the spot where we simply gave up. We were too strong, too proud; prairie women were we, through and through.

Thinking it all over, I believe that one of the secrets to Farmer Boy’s abysmal failure (for us, at least) was the absence of chickery (no Laura, Mary, and Carrie — aka the Girls Gone Wilder). And then, most glaringly, the lack of details on domestic dwellings. 

For all the horehound candy in the world, I could not tell you the plot of On the Banks of Plum Creek. But I can recall being enraptured with the dirt dugout the family lived in, until Pa built a proper above ground house for the gang. It sounded so cozy, so bunnicular; truly fantastic. Screw the restored Victorian house I was growing up in, with its six bathrooms, antiques-laden parlors, original stained glass picture windows, and optimal sled-trail backyard. Just dig me a hole in a hill and I’d be in heaven.

As can be gathered from the images featured in this here blog, some lucky besterds finally have that chance. Coming atcha straight from Vals, Switzerland (what, you haven’t heard of it? Guess you’re not one of its 1,049 inhabitants) is the chicest rabbit hole this side of Alice’s golden afternoon. (Leave it to the Swiss to put holes in things and make ‘em great…)

And so, I must ask you: Would you like one mountainside manor of your very own? START DIGGING.

Love,

Allison