2 days ago
I hated doing up my Georgian house, but the result was worth it
There is a moment each day when I must admit I am terribly smug.
It will be around 8pm, when I wave goodbye to my partner and teenager slumped on the sofa, climb the grand staircase of our 1842 Georgian home, and sink into our luxurious clawfoot bathtub.
I will lie back among the soapy bubbles, and gaze out through the sash window at our wisteria-clad garden and Bristol's chimney-potted skyline beyond. The water will be hot and flowing thanks to our state-of-the art boiler. And if I so choose, I can even light a fire in the period fireplace. Breathing in the scent of lavender from my Neal's Yard bath salts, I will think: This is it. I have absolutely made it.
But should I cast my mind back to how this room came into being, I will shudder violently and swiftly call on our butler to bring me a stiff drink.
For just three years ago, this house was an absolute wreck.
Years of neglect
Dejected, unloved, with rotten beams and suspicious stains on the threadbare carpets, this so-called home had been neglected by its then-elderly owners for decades. It was bordering on the uninhabitable.
During our initial family viewing after it came on the market in autumn 2021, we held our noses and blinked hard as we entered each room. The walls were yellow from cigarette smoke, the central heating was from the 70s. That's the 1870s. One bedroom boasted an indoor waterfall so impressive it could have been reviewed on TripAdvisor. The basement contained more damp than your average February half term, while the bath tub looked as if it had been used to murder goats.
'Old and nasty,' was our daughter's pithy verdict. And she was right. It was filthy, in need of huge renovations, financially prohibitive. And yet… yet… Underneath this almost criminal neglect, one word screamed out at us: potential.
One of four Grade II listed cottages set on a historical street in north Bristol, its rooms were perfectly proportioned, the hallway spacious and light. The exterior walls were nearly two feet wide, the interior packed with period charm and original features so fetishised by a certain class in this country. Look, cornicing! A gas lamp! A pantry!
My partner was smitten: 'Is this what it feels like?' he asked, slowly. 'Love at first sight?'
The doer-upper to end all doer-uppers
But as we all know, true love defies reason, and this was not logical for us.
We didn't especially want a doer-upper, but we adored the location – set on a vibrant, pedestrianised street close to a good secondary school for our daughter. We were renting a home nearby at the time, but my partner and I both owned small properties that we rented out. It was time to cash in and finally buy together.
But it wasn't that straightforward. Naturally, for a property as foul as this, there was an almighty bidding war, which we had no hope of winning.
We are both barely employed journalists, and hadn't yet sold either of our houses. We had no reserves and were up against Bristol's ruddy-faced Range Rover brigade who all had a million quid down the back of the sofa.
Still, when it went to sealed bids (anywhere over £750,000) we squeaked in with the highest offer of £816,000 – a thousand more than our closest rivals. To seal the deal, we also wrote the owners a gushing letter about how we were the only people who would do the house justice.
The estate agent was nearly sick when he called us to say we had got it. He knew we were the least solid buyers – in need of a perilous bridging loan to make it all work.
And he wasn't the only one aghast. For when my keen but ever-practical partner received the call, he sank to the floor, a broken man.
'Do you –' he asked me presciently. '– know what you are letting yourself in for, buying a wreck like this?'
But of course I did. I knew, for instance, that this doer-upper would be a romantic project to unite us in our mid life. Weekends would be spent strolling hand in hand through flea markets, haggling down the price of antiques. Evenings under candlelight would see us put down our paint brushes, throw off our overalls and make wild love on the bathroom floor, without getting nails in our bits.
Renovating a wreck
What was I thinking?
For it swiftly became clear that doing up a wreck is about as romantic as having a bath with the devil.
Strangely, it seems most people know this. According to recent research by estate agents Hamptons, only 10 per cent of first time buyers would consider a doer-upper. Even among more-experienced second-time buyers, the figure only rises to a measly 17 per cent.
Their expert says people have been put off in recent years by 'escalating building costs'. Plus, we are all apparently 'more workshy' and 'happy to pay a premium for a property that's already done – a turnkey home.'
A turnkey home? But – I ask – where is the fun in that, when you can live instead without running water or a kitchen for two years?
For in early 2022, we finally moved in – an occasion which was somewhat dampened by the fact four builders joined us.
As we couldn't afford to rent elsewhere while the house was being gutted, we confined ourselves to one bedroom as the demolition unfolded.
First the kitchen was ripped out, then the bathroom, swiftly followed by the basement, boiler system and floorboards of an entire floor.
Meanwhile, we tried to stay inconspicuous, huddling around our bedroom's two electric heaters – until we got the bill and swiftly turned them off, dodging leaks and eating repellent microwave meals on the landing.
On occasions we would attempt a cold drizzle of a shower, but as it was the only functioning water supply, we were always accompanied by paint pots that needed washing, or last night's plates still laced with M&S's Butter Chicken.
We were filthy and exhausted, but the discomfort was perhaps nothing compared to the danger. For there is simply no 'elf and safety' when it comes to living on a building site.
Living on the edge
At one point, our free-range child, balancing on bedroom joists, fell off, only to puncture the new plasterboard underneath. Of course, I gave her a firm rollicking for her recklessness, only to commit the same near-fatal blunder myself the following day.
It was equally perilous for the workers. Heat stroke! Nails through feet! One nearly died when an entire slate hearth crashed from a floor above (the ceiling had been removed), narrowly missing his head.
Then there were the decisions! Taps! Sofas! Light switches! Which did I want?
And this was when the real problems started. Because what did I want? What did I like? What were my tastes?
The answer? Well, I didn't know!
But why was I surprised? Had I really thought that overnight, I would turn into an interior designer? That I would actually care about fabrics, cooker hoods and the quality of lawn seed?
My complete indecision and ennui was the last straw for my partner, who had already had a near coronary from the stress of trying to get the sale over the line.
As he muttered Farrow & Ball colours in his sleep (dead salmon, pigeon's breath), took up residency in ScrewFix and slaved over paintwork, I slowly confirmed his worst suspicions: that I would be completely useless in such a mammoth project.
I still feel quite ashamed at my lack of input but I was simply overwhelmed by the speed at which decisions needed to be made.
And to this day, we cannot mention the time he dragged me to a bathroom showroom to choose some taps, only to watch me promptly fall asleep on a toilet.
None of these low-points, however, compared to the turmoil created with our neighbours, for doing up a wreck is really not the best way to ingratiate yourself in a new area. Out went walls, the floors, old carpets and foot of mud from the basement so that it could be dampproofed. (The damp subsequently moved into our neighbour's house). The skip that was so often positioned on the street outside our front door attracted so many complaints, the council banned us from using one.
All these sound like good reasons to not buy a doer-upper. And yet… I suppose it's like giving birth. You forget the pain and discomfort as soon as you have your perfect baby. Now, from the comfort of my finished home, only the good memories remain.
Like when we ripped out a 1950s stud wall and unearthed a huge fireplace, where the servants would have once cooked food for their masters. And when we lit our first fire in the lounge, and stacked up our tins of Heinz baked beans in our glorious pantry.
Finishing touches
The last job – which we have just completed – was to touch-up the front of the house. There, under the creeping ivy was 'Melrose Cottage's' chipped into the stone work, albeit with an incorrect apostrophe. How heartening to think of a skilled workman back in the 1840s carving in this final touch.
Our house is now complete. But I don't feel like we own it; we are merely custodians. The renovations cost us around £200,000 and I have no idea if we will make a profit when we eventually sell it.
But it doesn't matter. Ultimately, we have restored what I personally believe is one of Bristol's most beautiful homes.
We have brought her back to life, and that leaves me with a feeling that we have done something good, for ourselves, the house and our city. Despite everything, it was worth it.
