In Brenda’s mind, possession was 10/10en of the law. She saw a six-month window. And in that window, she didn’t just build a beach. She went for the gold. She announced phase two, the pinnacle cabins, an exclusive collection of rustic luxury waterfront vacation rentals. 139 of them, to be exact, clustered along the very shoreline she had just stolen.
These weren’t just little shacks. They were pre-fabricated high-end units with plumbing, electricity, and HVAC set on concrete slab foundations. Her gamble was that by the time we got to court, the cabins would be a fa accomply, and no judge would order the demolition of a multi-million dollar development. It was a brazen, shocking escalation.
It was also the beginning of the end for her. Because while she was focused on bulldozers and concrete, I was focused on history, on water, and on the fine print of a deed signed almost a hundred years ago. She was building on the shore of Loach Mloud. She had forgotten that the lock answered to me. The construction was a whirlwind of noise, dust, and arrogance.
Every morning I’d watch the fleet of trucks rumble past the turnoff to my lodge, kicking up clouds of dirt. They worked with incredible speed, a testament to what you can accomplish when you ignore trivial things like permits, environmental impact studies, and property rights. The 139 cabins sprouted like ugly rectangular mushrooms along my shoreline.
They were packed in tight, each with a tiny deck facing the water. a parody of the spacious nature they were meant to celebrate. Brenda was a constant presence on site, pointing and directing from the seat of a golf cart, a queen surveying the expansion of her empire. She would sometimes drive up to the edge of the construction zone nearest my house, stop and just stare up at my lodge, a smug little smile on her face. It was a silent daily taunt.
