Some man with a now-heavy wallet is drawing plans for the relocation, so in our usual impatient hardworking manner, mama and I have been doing up the only thing that is on site for us to do up: the cowshed. For the last ten days, we’ve been filling gaps, sanding and painting.
Our friends who owned this little cowshed before us lovingly buffed the tongue and groove walls with a gorgeous French green. We’re keeping the French look, and this week mama and I chose creams and whites to lather on the rest of the walls.
The progress we’ve made is probably best demonstrated by photos.
Before: Entrance to the cowshed
After: Entrance to the cowshed
The Great Dilemma/Disagreement is over the wood beams on the ceilings. I wanted to whitewash them (this seems obvious to me – wouldn’t everybody love whitewashed beams on their ceiling?) but papa thinks it would be easiest to paint them white. Come on papa, what’s the point of wooden beams if you just paint them like the rest of the ceiling?
Not to be dissuaded, I whitewashed them while papa was away, and then got the rest of the family’s opinion on them.
To be fair, papa, it did take me probably three times as long. My motto for the moment (until I get sick of being picky and the work that being picky entails) is ‘do it once, do it right’.
We’re only seven sleeps into the new year, and already those seven sleeps have been under stars, at the beach, by a river, and with four extra people in my room.
I’ve been exploring the North and swimming at every possible moment in every possible body of water. Already: a rugged west coast beach, sun-drenched east coast bays, a north coast sweep of uninhabited beach and island, an estuary, a ‘mermaid lagoon’, a swimming hole in a river wrapped with ferns, a spa and pool, at sunset and sunup, in the heat of the day and the cool of the night, and as tradition now dictates, with 30 others at the stroke of New Year.
Every morning I just put togs on. Naturally.
Anyway, I could go on about all the glorious places in the North. But the countdown is on, my friends. Late February, our new house will be cut in two and driven three or four hours north in the deathliest chunk of night.
Between now and then, we have to cut the rest of the trees down, dig up the earth, make a driveway, renovate the cowshed and sleepout, strip some useful things out of the house down in Manukau, and finish planning structural changes and the little extension we’ve decided on (a walk-in wardrobe and ensuite for the master bedroom).
We’re looking for bungalow doors and windows, timber for flooring and a kitchen.
I’m sure there are lots of other things too… I guess we’ll find out.
Yesterday was a big family gathering in the Waikato. South of Auckland. South of where our house currently resides.
On the way down to our family gathering, we stopped in Manukau.
On the way home, we stopped in Manukau again.
Walking the kauri/rimu/matai floorboards for the first time, running my hands over the paint-chipped balustrades of the wee porch, measuring rooms and doors and windows and wardrobes and nooks.
It was exhilarating.
Mama and papa and brother and I spent an hour and a half roaming the rooms and measuring doors and windows, and then we spent three hours in the car dreaming our new house out loud.
The kitchen in particular is in pretty poor shape. As in, the shape of the kitchen is less than ideal. As in, it is on a single short internal wall. We’ll have to make some decisions about whether to rip it all out or work with what we have.
Oh, and I took photos. So, without any further ado, here is the house in its deserted, quirky, existing condition.
I’ve always been fascinated by lichen. It, like moss, has always seemed otherworldly to me. As if maybe there were fairies hiding in it: fairy carpet.
Well today I pried a few lichen covered fences apart, while a brother denailed the best of the timber.
Unfortunately, it was mostly the lichen covered timber that was put on the little bonfire we’re making on the concrete patch.
Meanwhile papa got one of his favourite toys out – the chainsaw. He couldn’t quite bring himself to cut down the peach trees which are laden with fuzzy little baubles, but he could bring himself to cut down a plum and a persimmon.
We reminded each other that to make something worthwhile or beautiful, you usually have to make a mess first.
We measured out our house spot this evening. It’s summer, so we were in that honey sunshine that melts through the leaves of our apple trees.
Mama had just mowed the grass. My toes love the feeling: grass so thick it’s almost moss.
We used old fencing standards and an orange tape measure with a broken handle that made for tricky winding. As the sun settled behind the row of pines at the back of Appletree, mama, papa and I discussed how to place our house.
It was really good to feel out with tape and stakes where our house will sit, and be able to see the first glimmer of what we will be creating.
If renovating a house was a painting, we’re in the sketching stage. But instead of sketching pencil on paper, we sketch stakes on grass.
However, it’s not all buttery sunshine… we’re not agreed on where the house should sit. Papa wants it to overlap with the shed behind. Mama thinks the house and shed would be best lined up. Meanwhile, I’m drawing up plans on a handy free piece of computer genius (I’ll link it here if you’re interested – it’s quite marvellous); trying to work out where the kitchen should be and how wide the apple tree-lined patio should be.
A gathering of family to celebrate a cousin’s new home. Fairy lights (do we see a theme emerging?) and a dozen small blonde humans playing ‘go home stay home’ in the warm dusk.
Inspiration: Seeing how much a house means to people. A place for celebrations, steak and salad. A place for games and cradles and curling up on the couch in a sea of wriggly arms and legs. A place to belong. I know that sounds rather like a platitude. But surely one of the sweetest feelings in human existence is belonging.
Another cousin’s home: a relocated bungalow. Mama and I get a quick tour of the latest renovations, and some advice about traditional bungalow features (inglenooks and built in wardrobes). I get mobbed in the best way possible (some of the afore-mentioned wriggly arms and legs). A little cousin gets a hold of my camera.
We hurry down the drive with the grown-up cousin to a new relocated house; the next home. This one is older, grander. We follow the dust of renovations-on-the-go, and discuss paint colours, overhead nooks, timber choices.
Inspiration: Cousin advises us to go slow, think things through, splurge on a few features. He gives the best advice and names of suppliers for scoring bargains (mama’s favourite pastime). He also lends us books about New Zealand’s unsung hero: the bungalow.