I can't remember where I snipped this from, maybe a magazine that the architect brought round for ideas.
Back in 2000, estate agents still posted out weekly paper digests of property for sale with the price and a fuzzy inkjet thumbnail alongside each entry. For months, I discarded this house as "too far to walk to the city centre" until one day I looked more closely at the thumbnail and made out a balcony on the first floor.
I'd always wanted a house with a balcony: I'd loved the pair of Victorian three-storey houses along the road from where I grew up, each with a beautiful wrought iron filigree balcony on the first floor and a tiny wooden terrace on the top floor with a door in the dormer that always looked like a cuckoo was going to spring out on the hour.
This was a flat-roofed (we had always been warned against those in this mild but remarkably damp land) modern house with large picture windows, reminiscent, in an anglicised way, of southern California and A Bigger Splash. It was one of six, built in the garden of a large Arts and Crafts era mansion on the junction of the main London Road thoroughfare and a wide, quiet, tree-lined avenue of comfortable early twentieth century villas.
Of course, in later years, when I learned how to walk, I realised that it wasn't that far to the railway station and the shops and I even walked the three miles to work at De Montfort University which, by car, appeared to be miles away on the other side of the city.
I remember the viewing: we gathered at the back, in the shared drive with a border of mature self-sown trees creating a natural wildlife tunnel for foxes, voles, rats and, in the canopy, owls. There were me and my friend Georgie, and a family, mum and dad and two boisterous children.
The estate agent let us in through one of the assets of the house, a lean-to with corrugated perspex roof and wooden gated partition, topped with jalousie slats letting in light and air. I liked this: somewhere to leave your shopping, bikes, wetsuits and other paraphernalia and dry your laundry when the weather was inclement.
It was downhill from there. Through a cramped passage with sight of a tiny kitchen that had the appearance and lighting of an under the stairs cupboard. It was crammed with an enormous fridge and still had the original 1974 built-in kitchen cupboards with enamel worktop and a painted hardboard hatch to the open plan dining lounge. We kept going, a little convoy shuffling through.
Through a half-glazed door into a room of unimaginable brightness. It was late afternoon in July and the sun coming through the window was magnificent. Sadly, the large medallion style pub carpet of many colours laid out over such a large space and continuing up the stairs blinded all of us to the emerging beautiful early evening outside the front of the house.
But then, I turned the stairs and was taken with the light and the sight of the trees coming through the glazed wall on the half landing with another fanlight in the dropped height ceiling over the stairwell. I was captivated by the airiness, the fabulous light, the beautiful unadorned planes of walls and ceiling. I'm sure I saw the bedrooms, and the bathroom was as dismal as the kitchen.
I asked the mother of the family what she thought. She grimaced slightly and said, "Well, it's a lot of work." That's true, it has been a lot of work and I've persisted with that grim little kitchen, cooking for eight people with barely enough work surface to prepare and serve a meal. And, you know, I've barely ever sat on the balcony due to the heavy traffic rumbling by.
The lean-to has probably atoned for the rest of the faults and short-comings of the house. It has been a blessing in extremes of temperature, several degrees lower than the baking asphalt outside, and with a tiled floor, I've sat comfortably through the heat. At night, the layout of the house with the secure partition at the back has meant, by careful arrangement of doors and windows, the whole house benefits from passive air cooling.
I was seduced by those big windows at the front, letting in light, and the green lawn outside, extending to the hedge at the end of the garden. I imagined a baby grand piano in the lounge, playing jazz at low-life Pimm's parties with people spilling out into the garden and art displayed in the stairwell gallery.
I love the inside outside nature of the house, the neighbours gathering in the drive to gossip every time one of other of them steps outside to do a bit of gardening. I like sitting on the verandah at the back, it's cooler and quieter, jasmine and lilies growing pots, bright bulbs in the spring. The natural border has been manicured into gardens with a patchwork of retaining walls. I grow vegetables and weeds and do battle with the bamboo invading from next door.
Three of the houses have been extended with huge kitchens and extra bedrooms and two with en-suites to the largest bedroom. The other two have had more modest makeovers. Only mine remains in its nearly original state. I thought about restoring and furnishing it as a 1970s house, but they don't look terribly comfortable.
I started to collect ideas:
(Source) I was (am) besotted with the kitchens in cooking programmes that open onto the garden.
After twenty years immured in my dingy kitchen, I was longing for light and space and enough room to entertain a friend or two while I finished cooking. I love being able to have a door to the outside open, ideally with plants beyond, but a sitting area will do.
(Source). I knew I wanted a big kitchen, one you can eat in, and to close off the lounge for when you wanted cosy or you had an extra overnight guest
The relationship with the architect has been interesting: we have such wildly different ideas. It took a long while for me to learn how to work with him. I realised belatedly, that I knew exactly what I wanted. But over time, we've come to an understanding. He's very skilled, very experienced and knows everyone from builders to the local inspectors and how they like to work. It's been an interesting journey.
(Source) In the middle lands of England, I couldn't be further from the sea, but as the climate changes, I want more of a drought resistant low maintenance garden near the house.
In spite of creating a large room (more on that in part 2), the kitchen run itself is comparatively small. Both the architect and the builder have been beside themselves to give me more cupboard space. "For what?" I've kept asking them. It seems if you have a big kitchen you must immediately fill it with furniture, fitted or otherwise.
In part 2, I'll talk about the plans and the process.