Despite decades of natural decay, the house remains strong. The branches that form the walls and roof have aged gracefully, their bark weathised but sturdy. The floor, covered in layers of compacted leaves, feels soft underfoot. “I don’t see it as dirty,” Robert says. “This house is alive. It’s part of the forest, just like me.”
The most fascinating part of Robert’s home is the way it tells a story. In one corner, visitors can see tiny carvings have been etched into the branches. Robert reveals that these markings were made by his late wife, who helped build the house when they were newlyweds. Some carvings are simple shapes, while others are words of wisdom: “Grow with the trees” and “Home is where the heart rests.”
Over the years, Robert has added little more than what the forest offers. Fallen branches become shelves, smooth stones line the pathway to the doorway, and birds often nest overhead—welcome guests, he says, in a home shared with nature. There’s no electricity, no plumbing, and no locks. “If the wind can come in, so can kindness,” he smiles.
At 78, Robert has no plans to leave. “This place has held me through love, loss, and time,” he says softly. While the world outside rushes forward, his home remains still—growing slowly, breathing gently with the forest. It’s not just a house. It’s a life, woven together with patience, memory, and moss.
