Earlier this year, we bought a ridiculously old house. Well, it’s actually called a “court,” but for me, it’s both a holiday home and a twist of fate that feels straight out of the romcoms everyone loves to revisit once the weather turns. There’s an over-the-top and overdressed fish out of water (me), a raffish Englishmen homesick for Great Britain (my husband Aidan, who will be mortified to read any of this), and an ensemble of quirky characters.
There are also rules. A lot of rules. Both of the formal (i.e. legally binding) variety when it comes to any repairs, renovations, or updates to historical homes in the U.K., as well as those rules of the more arbitrary, class-driven kind around what is “proper” and “best” for a home of this sort and stature. My husband is incredibly by the book when it comes to all things British. I, unfortunately, have a naughty Commonwealth hooligan streak (I’m Canadian) that comes out when told I can’t do something by the powers that be.
Where art thou, you might ask? Smack dab in the middle of the English countryside—a grade II* listed Tudor property built in 1596 on Henry VIII’s former hunting grounds. Bordering Warwickshire and Worcestershire, it’s a stone’s throw from Aidan’s hometown of Dormston, which inspired Bag End in JRR Tolkien’s The Hobbit. To say it’s idyllic as feck (Feckenham is the name of a nearby hamlet)—but also extremely overwhelming to embark upon—would be an understatement.
You see, I’ve had to restore, renovate, decorate, investigate, and interrogate all aspects of country house living, while also learning to communicate in the terribly polite yet passive-aggressive style of British negotiation. Because despite my husband’s roots, I am an easy-target expat. I leave most interactions knowing my ignorance and bluntness were either endearing or irksome and shall be discussed over the next cup of Yorkshire Gold tea. Served piping hot with just a dash of milk, the only way to drink it if you want to be taken seriously. (I like mine a bit creamier, as the dairy here is divine.)
But I digress. Regardless of the scale of your pile—be it a pied a terre, starter home, or something a bit more grand—we all face the same obstacles when it comes to putting our own personal spin on a home with provenance. Some of the lessons I’ve learned so far?
One: hodgepodge must be embraced over seamless uniformity, a fact which certainly applies to my floors. I originally envisioned bleaching all the original herringbone on the first floor to match my icy hair. Well, it turns out each room has a different wood varietal and therefore different whims. Shades of dirty blonde and honey brown it is!
Two: history doesn’t care that you’re not a bath person. It’s easy to forget that showers are a relatively modern home flourish. Our place has so many tubs, I wonder if it might have once been a bathhouse? I’d like to rip many of them out immediately. Regardless, trying to design loos that feel both luxurious and fitting for a place that’s as long in the tooth as ours requires a lot of careful consideration. This is not the setting for a techy shower or too many shiny hard surfaces. I’m trying to think Middle Earth, not Miami.
Three: aloofness is your secret weapon. All my favorite protagonists have a healthy dose of it, along with stubbornness, delusion, and grit. These traits are essential when it comes to empowering others—be it skilled tradespeople, experts out of your budget, antiques dealers, and contractors—while also allowing them to be a little bemused and take pity on you. I’ve found that around here, if you ask enough questions, people just give in and help you. It’s also the only way you can learn the traditional methods and decide if you want to abide by or break the rules. For instance, I plan to go a bit (by which I mean, a lot) rogue when it comes to the English ideals surrounding gardens, classical art, and curtains. Stay tuned for more.
But until then, I shall persevere, armed with my moodboards and a pandemic summer school course in interior design from RISD. My dream is to artfully amalgamate our two respective styles and heritage: his classically English tastes infused with my family’s Scandinavian sensibility. (I’m still working out a name for this hybrid design approach: Ye Olde Hygge? Anglo-Scandi?) I very much doubt HRH would approve of my desire to add a copper bathtub next to our bed (which I find much nicer than plonked next to a sink and toilet), but sometimes you have to ask for forgiveness not permission—and tumbling into bed straight from a hot soak sounds like my kind of heavenly sin.
I also have a contrarian need to buck the status quo of English countryside decor, and am making my own law of the land: floral and chintz prints are verboten. As is wall-to-wall carpeting, which I recently ripped out much to everyone’s dismay, even though it was masking beautiful wide-plank wood floors underneath. Our visitors worry: Won’t you be cold in the winter? Why, that’s what shearling, wool, and fireplaces are for. I’m the descendant of Vikings. I’ll be fine.
Did I mention we have stables to muck out? And neglected tennis courts closer to a prison yard than Wimbledon? And a family room we plan to convert into a mini-pub, complete with pints to pull? And a sauna situation I’d like to Scandi-lize with a cold plunge? There’s a lot of ground to cover—most of it covered in bird droppings. Just call me Lady of the Manure.
