It's not Scooby Doo

I did not feel anything at all.

Granted, the bungalow was a bit dour looking, typically 1950's style in wire cut corporate style facing bricks and the dark appearance was only compounded by the now established, but at one time, brand new woodstained finished hardwood windows and doors.

In fact the place on first impresion was quite boring, nestling in a large corner plot, within very thickly lush and green boundaries  in a now rather unrestrained privet hedging that was so high that in a gusty wind there was good reason to expect it to just blow down flat and broken.

The return to nature was to be expected given that the owner had died some months before. After a flourish of concerned interest and a bit of jockeying for position , cap in hand, by the nearest relatives it was revealed  that the property had long since been traded for a small Annuity with an Equity Release Company .

Consequently, there was nothing to inherit apart from  few ornaments and nick-nacks. With this realisation the number of potential beneficiaries of the estate evaporated to just one distant, elderly cousin who would sadly miss his weekly visit for a cup of tea and reminiscence of family things.

I got to the bungalow when it had been largely cleared of the collected chattels of someones life and endeavours. A few bits of furniture remained awaiting the perusal of the man in the white charity van or failing that just a house clearance company whose costs to remove said items were greater than the value of the goods. Room corners were taken up by a few small stacks of books, mostly hardback coffee table publications on the Royal Family, Royal Air Force, Royal Horticultural Society and other things Imperial and Empire. There were also carefully trussed and tied bundles of bed linen and towels which showed no apparent sign of ever having been used.

The former occupant had been there a long time. This was evident from the dark patches where framed pictures, prints and photographs had been hung and preserved the wallpaper from the bleaching and fading effect of the sun as it penetrated deep into the hallway and living room on the south facing side of the bungalow. I even thought that the property may only have had the one owner from new in that the internal doors were the original flush faced and featureless type which otherwise would have been prioritised by a new incoming resident for replacement in those very flimsy, pressed panelled and corrugated cardboard formed ones.

Kitchen and bathroom fittings were similarly dated, the former limited to a chipped enamelled sink and a few wooden units and the latter to a blushing pink suite with an oversized but shallow draught cast iron bath. The bedrooms at the cooler north side of the bungalow were a bit dark and fusty, one being dominated by a wall to wall array of cupboards, doors ajar and loose on their hinges following a rifling through by the previous waves of scavenging family members. It struck me that there was no space for a bed in the room. The occupier had lived alone. The carpet, in th adjacent main bedroom bore the indented outline of a single bed and with a compressed path of fibres in a well worn route in and out of the room.

Saying it was a bungalow was not strictly accurate. A ladder type access had been formed many years prior into the loft space. It was of a  narrow, steep, hamstring tugging gradient requiring some upper arm effort to ascend in the absence of a stout handrail or similar. I popped my head into the opening at the top. There was some daylight from a grouping of four glass tiles, reclaimed from a much older property but fitting snugly amongst the post war pantiles of the roof.

As my eyes became accustomed to the different light the room revealed a large flat boarded arrangement, which on a level plane was just a mish-mash of colours and textures. A bit of blue, grainy green, earth brown and black. Easing myself up to almost full height under the roof ridge the display was now in full view. It was what remained of quite an expansive model train track . I think that I blurted out "ooohhh" aloud  in a boys own expression of excitement at the sight of the layout before remembering my training as a Surveyor and quickly assessing if many apparent hours of enjoyment of the train set had been to the structural detriment of the roof framework. It had not, in fact what had formed the main line of the set-up had been run in a very tortuous route so as not to disturb the integrity of the roof. All timbers remained in position even where there may have been a temptation to apply the hand-saw.

I could easily imagine the sights and sounds of a fully operational rail network under those eaves. I had to negotiate the steep access backwards to get back to the main part of the bungalow. The former owner, from my observations had been either an engineer from the precision of the layout or a seafarer well used to clambering between decks on similarly angled ladders.

I finished off my visit in the back garden. The unseasonably warm start to the spring had encouraged a normally well regimented lawn and borders to run riot giving the appearance of dereliction and decay. A few concrete gnomes, their gawdy colours faded sat around looking glum in the company of a couple of stone fawns and a bird bath. The side gate onto the street had been dislodged from its post and I wedged it back and braced it with the wheelie bin as a small gesture of respect.

To say that I did not feel anything at all was as far from the truth as possible.

For a few moments I had seen the bungalow as through the eyes of its former proud owner. What had, at first, resembled an empty shell stripped of its goods had taken on the form of a safe refuge, a comforting environment of cherished belongings and above all a home. I had not been spooked or phased by my experience. Perhaps, in my empathy the bungalow had welcomed my intrusion. I was not a threat like previous visitors intent on scavenging and looting in misguided family loyalties.

I could appreciate the life and times of the former occupant and had some sadness at how things had turned out. It was not therefore surprising that some months later the Asset Managers for the property contacted me for a very unusual request. The bungalow had been actively advertised for sale and had excited a good bit of interest from prospective buyers. However, none of the parties had progressed to an offer in spite of the clear opportunity of acquiring it at very advantageous price. The feedback was unanimous that the viewers had all experienced a strange feeling but could not be more specific as to what it was. It was enough of a strange feeling to be a deal breaker.

I reported that some people were a bit over sensitive in the case of an empty property, illogically superstitious and suddenly possessing supernatural senses and powers. The company agreed with me and we laughed a bit at there being nowt as queer as folk.

It was wholly apparent to me that the bungalow was undertaking its own vetting process as to who it would welcome as its new owner.