For a long time now I've been thinking that all I would need in terms of a home would be a small motel-room somewhere, or a series of them. Might even be of the romantically shabby type with drooping wallpaper and a mattress for a bed.
I'd stay there when I needed to and be continuously on the road the rest of the time, without ever staking a claim or developing a nesting instinct. No home would be more than temporarily mine, and I wouldn't be more than temporarily fond of them.
And all the while I'd soak in the neutrality of these places, take them as they came and leave them as they were. Only a bare minimum of property would actually belong to me.

I would fill it with the things I always wanted to find in my house, this house, as I grew up: bookshelves that turned when you pushed the right book, thick walls with tunnels in them, Narnia-type closets that didn't end but led to somewhere else. Doors on the third floor that opened straight out into the air, and at the end of a long corridor I would have a secret room, the door to which would always be locked. Residents would simply have to find another, secret, way in.
Nothing should be too obvious here, but there would be hints. Once familiar with the house, one could look at it from outside and go, "hey, this part of the wall protrudes a little too much... there's space not accounted for in there", as to get an idea of where to look.

Sometimes you would have to step on a certain board in the floor, at other times tap a brick in the wall, or reach deep inside a fireplace and pull a little lever. Sometimes nothing would be revealed except for some little cryptic message or picture that could help you solve a bigger riddle, and find a new room.
Finding a hidden room, of course, would come with a reward. Perhaps a good stack of comicbooks not yet read, maybe a Lego(TM) spaceship ready to be assembled, or perchance a carefully crafted sword and shield, lying in wait for a brave knight to pick them up. Anything that would make the heart of a little kid beat faster.
Some riddles would be easy enough, apt for a six-year old running around the house. Others would take more experience to discover, comprehend, and let alone solve. You might discover the first traces at seven, but not be ready to fully engage until you've matured into 13 or 14. They might take a friend to get through, too (to pull two separated levers simultaneously, perhaps). Some would be a challenge to adults.

These are things I used to dream of when I was young. One day I would just stumble upon something - a little handle in the wall under my bed, opening a door (just wide enough for a kid to crawl through) into a tunnel that led down through the walls of the basement, out into a larger system of tunnels located under the garden. Everywhere there were clues and riddles that allowed further exploration, taking me from one part of the house to another. And everything hinting at a big treasure at the end of it, a huge secret to be revealed.
Dreams like this fueled me something fierce during my time awake, of course. I would spend hours exploring all the old-looking cupboards, bureaus and chiffoniers for secret compartments, and climbing into closets to search for hatches or trap doors - but in the cold world of reality, there was always nothing. Not so much as a single wimpy double-bottomed drawer anywhere in the entire house. Disenhearted, I used to wonder how it could be no one cared to build these really exciting and explorer-friendly homes. You'd think everyone would want them.

Today, I still retain a fascination for that kind of construction. The notion of one day, out of the blue, encountering a secret area in my room still gives me that tingling, almost electric feeling of excitement, just like when I was a kid.
Somehow, there's something magical about finding something new in a place where you've spent so many years, and with which you feel utterly and totally familiar. Like discovering a new side of yourself, I guess, or managing to surprise yourself where you thought you couldn't. Finding a hidden place that's been so close to you all those years, but yet evading you.

Were it to happen to me today though, it'd blow me away. I think it would feel like reaching out and seeing your hand disappear halfway to its target, slipping into another dimension. Finding the key to next level. So close, but so different, and hard to reach. Just on the other side.