As a bit of an epilogue to the saga of our restoration of the bit of Australian Architectural History, I promised to add some photos.
You can see the professional ones done by the good photographers at the Design Files. Those are amazing, much better than anything I could take.
I have a policy of only putting my own photos up on this blog — very long story involving a copyright troll operating from underneath a bridge in Las Vegas — but I’ll make a small exception here to include some publicly available real estate photos so you can see what changed. Keep in mind they used a wide angle lens, which I can’t reproduce.
At this point in the narrative, I’m a little worried you might think that the restoration of our Priceless Piece of Australian Architectural History was an unmitigated nightmare and that I was on the verge of catastrophic sleep failure.
So let me reassure you. There were many, many things that were going well. Sure, the completion date was moving away from us at a fairly steady pace and our starting budget was only a rosy memory. But with Jane and Christopher on the scene, we were spared the majority of the minutiae.
They designed the new bathrooms and chose a tile scheme, for example. Have you ever gone into a tile showroom? It’s a complete nightmare. If you haven’t, then don’t. Fake stone, real stone, shiny, matte, bumpy, skinny, wide, retro, contemporary. It’s all there for you to put into the great bathroom in your imagination. A decision is impossible. Unless you’re an architect with a decent sense of style.
The choice they made was perfect. We simply said great, love it! and we all moved on. Same with the door hardware, the lighting, and so many other details. They’d pass it by for our approval, and we’d pat ourselves on the backs for having been able to foist yet another difficult decision into such capable hands.
We also got a huge boost around this time: At the request of Jane and Christopher, Sam Cox, Melbourne’s best native landscape architect, had come by to see the house, and he agreed to take us on. This was so exciting! The surrounds of old Salter House had been rigidified over the years in an attempt to keep up with the neighborhood. In Toorak, original homes are continually being flattened and replaced by faux-french palaces and boxy edifices of gargantuan proportions to appeal to the riche, the nouveau riche, and the wanna-be nouveau riche. (Paling house, another Griffin gem, sadly met that fate in the 1990s.) The pool, the bluestone slate pavers, the box hedges, the tropical plants… But like a nerd at a pep rally, Salter house was never going to fit in. It needed to be in a native habitat, as we were certain Walter and Marion would have wanted. And Sam was the man who could make that happen.
The other thing keeping me sane was the presence of my brother Rob, who had come over to do some hiking and biking with me. We escaped the mayhem with three wonderful adventures — hiking the Rees Dart track in New Zealand, the Overland Track in Tasmania, and a six-day guided trek on the Larapinta Trail in the outback. We also did a 145km bike ride on the Great Ocean Road. Maybe I’ll write about those some other time.
So it definitely wasn’t all bad news. It also wasn’t all house, all the time, which was good both for me and for the architects. I’m guessing that meddling, angst-ridden clients aren’t a whole lot of fun.
Back to the worms. Where were we? Right, the laundry room-to-be. Stuart had removed some bit of a wall and discovered the thing you really, really don’t want to discover when you’re looking at wood: termite damage.
It wasn’t extensive, basically just one small board, but I didn’t know that at the time. Predictably, I freaked out. Termites! We’ll have to fog the house with toxic chemicals!
Why is it that I always assume the worst?
A termite inspection was thenceforth conducted, and no further damage was found. Andrew explained that in that crappy post-war period a board would sometimes be sold with a termite or two in it. They’d munch away, but in the absence of a queen, the problem stops there. Sweet relief!
The fireplaces were up next. Or maybe they were up before, I can’t remember. I have to impose a chronology for the sake of a narrative. In reality, a lot of this stuff was happening simultaneously, in waves. Nothing for a while, then one thing after another.
The living room fireplace was ostensibly functional, but the mortar between the bricks was disintegrating, there were moisture issues, and it would have to be re-built. The other two fireplaces — one in the TV room and one in the dining room — had been boarded over. The dining room flue was filled with rubble and the guts of the HVAC system. We could never use it as a fireplace, but it could be cleared out and an insert placed inside it.
Legend has it that the living room fireplace originally held another Griffin invention — a trapdoor system through which the ashes could be dumped directly into the crawl space under the house. That innovation was apparently deep-sixed when the house nearly caught on fire.
Did I mention the windows? The mechanisms for working them, another Griffin innovation, had all been coated in layers of paint. They were dipped in acid, hung out to dry, and then I sanded them all down. They worked again!
From here on in, most of the worms that were going to come out of the can had done so, and the rest was just little stuff. The fascia around the courtyard was rotten, and would need to be replaced. The roof pointing was sub-par, and should be replaced. The plumbers stepped on the fragile knitlock roof tiles while installing the gutters or flashing the chimney or some other such thing and broke a few of them, causing a leak. The bathroom tiles got held up at customs, pushing the completion date back another couple of weeks, which meant we had to find yet another Air BnB as the one by the Botanic Gardens was booked for August. The bathtub that arrived wasn’t the right size for the spot it was supposed to go into. The stormwater drainage was completely blocked. The usual kinds of things that happen when you’re renovating or building.
On August 24, 2018, we moved in to Salter House. The final engineering works for stabilizing the front wall had not been completed, and the outside painting was not yet done. I’d be getting up before 7:00 every morning until Christmas to welcome the landscaping crew (and Jim’s adorable dog Indie). But for the first time in fifteen months, we were not living out of suitcases. Correction: I was not living out of a suitcase. Marc was traveling. So the first few nights, I was alone in the house. I wondered briefly about ghosts, but nothing came to disturb me as I slept in my mother’s bird bed in the guest room (our bed being backordered). Home sweet home at last.
Me being me, I periodically went over to inspect the front wall, to see if the crack had gotten bigger since the last time I had looked at it, say, fifteen minutes earlier. It didn’t ever change. I know the contours of that crack like a London Taxi driver knows his A to Zed. I am happy to say that now, more than a year later, it still hasn’t shifted an iota.
And so we come to the end of The Can of Worms. The landscaping was great fun, and I’ll share that story next, along with many more pictures. Thanks for coming along on the adventure!
I left you after the last post about to rip the carpets out of the bedrooms. We’d tried to peek at the state of the floor around the heating/AC vents earlier, but given the presence of mould on the east wall, I wasn’t too optimistic.
You may recall, in the last episode, I was lying awake fretting about neurotoxic mould and wondering if we had made the biggest mistake of our lives.
Well, morning arrived and the house was still ours. We went by to meet the project foreman, Andrew. During the night a large branch from the gum tree in front of the house had broken off. These eucalyptus trees are known as widowmakers, for their propensity to unexpectedly shed branches at random moments and kill people. Fortuitously, this one missed the roof and it happened at night, so no one got hurt. Was it a sign? As in Yes this project is going to be full of scary surprises but no one will die. Continue reading →
That’s what the builder said, a couple of months into the Project.
You don’t open a can of worms, and not expect to find any worms in it…
In September 2017 our Australian Real Estate Adventure came to an end. We had signed the papers for Salter House, negotiating a long settlement (January 15) in exchange for fifty grand off the price. That gave us lots of time to think about what we wanted to do. Continue reading →
Marc and I are not real estate neophytes. We have bought and sold houses in three countries. I know the sellers’ tricks and the buyers’ tactics. We were flush with cash from selling our Vancouver townhouse and ready to embark upon yet another real estate adventure on a new continent, in a new city. Our stuff was sitting in a storage facility, and we were living out of suitcases. We needed to settle down.
About a year ago in an attempt to make some connections in Melbourne, I joined the Crosbie Crew, a horde of enthusiastic runners led by a guy named Tim Crosbie. A bunch of them had just finished an epic trail run and for the first couple of weeks, that was all they talked about. The Two Bays. I felt like I had missed out on the run of the century. It also seemed kind of crazy, to do a long trail run like that in the middle of the hot Australian summer. Continue reading →
As many of you know from past posts, I’m a runner. I am much slower than I was in my 20s, and I rarely enter races any more. I find them a bit demoralizing, not to mention expensive. I’m not going to set any PRs, so why bother?
But there was one event that I hadn’t yet ticked off the list, and that’s the marathon. I watched Marc train for and suffer through a few, and earned a healthy fear of the distance. We had hiked 27 miles one day on our Oregon hike, and I was completely trashed.
You have to seriously train for a marathon, Marc said, in a serious voice. Seriously.
I haven’t done anything serious for years! Plus, there’s all that research showing that ultra long distance running is terrible for your heart.
Maybe I should just eat cookies instead.
But this year, I decided the time had come. Enough is enough. I’m going to run a marathon! Continue reading →
Remember when I was obsessed with the microbiome? I still am. I still think it holds the key to understanding our immune system and, by extension, human health and disease. I still think we’re being crowdsourced by microbes. Long after our idiocy, greed and hubris have destroyed any possibility of human survival on our planet, they’ll be happily bubbling away in a toxic pool somewhere.
The picture I painted of the microbiome was incomplete, I’m sorry to say. I’d like to introduce you to a little-known but critical player in the drama, a beastie that I only recently met, thanks to an interview with Monash biologist Jeremy Barr.
As I’m coming down from the bedroom at my uncle’s house, my attention is on my aunt in the kitchen below. My foot misses a step, and I tumble head over heels to the bottom of their wooden staircase. After a minute at the bottom,I make an assessment. Nothing’s broken – not my laptop, none of my bones. My ankle hurts, and I know I hit my head. I’m shaking, like I always do after a faceplant. Continue reading →