A year ago, living in a charming old house in Dover on an acre of land, with a beautiful swimming pool, and gardens that were nothing short of spectacular, I never imagined that today I’d be living in an apartment in the Pinehills. At 71, I never saw the divorce coming but come it did, and the house needed to be sold. We’d been in Dover nine years and in Needham for 28 before that, where we raised our two sons.

I’d been to the Pinehills a few times before I came to look at apartments. A law school classmate active in Plymouth Helping Hands for Animals had arranged two book talks for me over the years at the Stonebridge Club in the Pinehills, books I’d written about rescue dogs – the neglected, abandoned, and abused castoffs that wander the southern states, or end up in high-kill shelters, and the fortunate few that find forever homes in the northeast.

I also had a good college friend and his wife, and close friends from Needham, already living in the Pinehills. At my age, having the nucleus of a new community nearby was a priority. It helped that Plymouth wasn’t too far from my friends back near Boston, and the proximity to the sea was appealing. But I also saw Plymouth as the Massachusetts equivalent of “fly over” country, a place everyone drove through going to or from Cape Cod but never stopped to see.

After living and taking care of a house for 40 years, living in an apartment with my two rescue dogs gave me pause. I was used to letting them out in the backyard to run, play, and do their business; now it’s four leash walks a day, starting at the crack of dawn. And the long hallways in The Rowen, the newest of the apartment buildings in the Pinehills, reminded me of the spooky never-ending hallways in “The Shining,” albeit with nicer carpeting. I also had a bias, even an aversion, to the idea of a planned (read “contrived”) community, one that didn’t develop organically, but was more intentional.

Nearly two months after moving in, I’ve found my fellow residents friendly, social, and welcoming and the convenience of apartment living a welcome change. Once I had my books, my artwork, and my familiar furniture, the apartment, which seemed sterile when viewed empty, was transformed into a warm, welcoming, and comfortable space. Problem with the oven? Call maintenance. Need a door adjusted? Call maintenance. No repair bills and no waiting for them to show up sometime between 8 a.m. and noon, either. In our houses I was maintenance, dealing with occasional water in the basement, squirrel invasions, fallen tree limbs, clogged sinks…you name it. I did what I could do myself (my trade skills are minimal) or I called someone to do it, and the bills piled up. It’s been a big relief.

I like walking out the front door onto the village green where there are restaurants, shops, a market, and, most important for me – as an author and devoted reader – a bookstore within steps. It’s like living in the center of a small town and mitigates feelings of isolation that I anticipated, but which have been less fearsome than expected. At least now, with the Cape in hibernation for the winter, driving to Needham for doctors’ visits, a haircut, or to see friends is just under an hour: eminently doable.

As for Plymouth, it’s no longer fly over country; it’s becoming home. The dogs and I have started to explore the beaches and being within minutes of sea views is uplifting. The walking paths in the Pinehills are abundant and since it’s winter, the expanses of the golf courses are also available to us. The planned nature of the community has mattered less than I expected, perhaps because the advantages of my location on the village green and its amenities have been more than a counterweight.

When I would tell people I was moving to the Pinehills, the first question many asked was, “Do you play golf?” I don’t, and I wondered how much of an outlier I would be. We’ll find out when the courses open in the spring, but I don’t think it will matter much. I’m happiest on my bike or walking the dogs. With apologies to golfers, no need for me to chase a little white ball around trying to knock it into various holes with a stick.

Mile by mile, I’m getting the lay of the land. I know where the various grocery stores are, have a new vet in Duxbury, and discovered there’s a movie theater at Plimoth Patuxet Museums, which, like the Mayflower II docked at State Pier, is a replica of the movie theater the Pilgrims built in 1621. Seriously, that came as a surprise. A movie theater in a place created to replicate the early 1600s? I just saw the Bob Dylan biopic “A Complete Unknown,” there, and it was not hard to imagine the Pilgrims’ reaction to Dylan going electric at Newport.

I paid my first visit to Plymouth Town Hall for dog licenses and to see if beach parking permits were available yet (they are not). The views of Long Beach and Duxbury Beach beyond are a remarkable tableau that give downtown a stunning sense of place. The “rock” is probably the least impressive historical monument in the country, especially since the portico enclosing it leads you to expect something, well, monumental. It’s considerably less impressive than Cadillac Ranch outside Amarillo – 10 Cadillac car frames stuck nose first in the flat Texas panhandle at a 45-degree angle. But stand next to the statue of Massasoit on Coles Hill, overlooking the harbor, and it will disabuse you of any thoughts you might have of retiring to Amarillo.

Plymouth: America’s Hometown. And now, mine, too.

Peter Zheutlin – a freelance journalist who has written frequently for The Boston Globe, The Christian Science Monitor, and many other publications – brings the perspective of a Plymouth newcomer to the Independent. He is the author or co-author of nine books, including the New York Times bestseller “Rescue Road: One Man, Thirty Thousand Dogs, and a Million Miles on the Last Hope Highway.” Zheutlin can be reached at pzheutlin@gmail.com.

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