~e found it because we had lost our way. It was the<br > er of 1964， and Bill Whitehead and I were looking for<br > affordable country property with an old house and the<br > ~sibilities， we hoped， of a garden.<br > .What we were seeking was not only a home， but a base for our<br >~ careers. After almost twenty years as an actor， I had just<br > litten my first novel. Bill， having worked both as research<br > ~st and actor， was then moving into the world of writing<br > ~entaries in the arts and sciences -- for radio， film and<br > | ~sion. Toronto was our professional centre. That s where the<br > ~k was. But since most of our writing could be done at home，<br > It better workplace than an old farm? You can already see we<br > innocent romantics. And， looking back， I give thanks for<br > it. Worldly sceptics must have the dullest lives on earth.<br > The trouble with new careers is they take time to produce<br > income. Hence， there was considerable emphasis on the<br > ~lrdable aspect of our search. By the time our weekend<br >~derings had finally brought us to a real-estate agent<br > whose<br > tion of affordability was even remotely close to ours， we<br > in a village never heard of by us. Very much heard of by<br >~tizens. Cannington. The Heart of Ontario.<br >
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