Some of the houses in this book look like the inside of a Cracker Barrel, which would normally chap some of my German ass genes. But the Welsh genes, a cheek away, the kind that love color, drinking, and dancing have made peace with the pictures, because most of them portray tennis rackets, sun hats, berry baskets, and those items are usable, reasonable things for cabin porches. But then, oh my eyes! I would turn another page and a wooden goose with raffia feathers would be resting on a wood floor, beak inside a doorway. Cast iron roosters would be in kitchens for no good reason- they weren't cake pans, bread molds...they were just there, strutting around soffits. In a cabin, every space counts. And it pains me to see all the people who love cabins waste their space, just like it hurts to open a design book for home interiors and see nothing but white floors, ceilings, slipcovers, with a light khaki lampshade thrown in for what someone thinks is naughtiness.
Still, this book had some good things- information on house placement in regards to prevailing winds, and a cabin plan that I loved, called Le Porch. But I can't live in Le Porch forever, I have four children and have not enough Thoreau appreciation.