The new house

A month has passed since we finally moved in, my wife, my youngest son, and I, joined on weekdays by my nephew who’s at sixth form in Leeds. Oh, and also the cat of whom more later.

I might have hinted in my weeknotes, but only now do I dare to write about the entire, long-drawn-out process. 14 frustrating months elapsed between us making an offer and actually moving in, what with the vendor’s probate and the chain that fell through. No wonder this country has a housing crisis, when we can let a good home stand empty for a year and a half while we sort out some paperwork, with essential repairs untouched the whole time.

“Might be moving” became this ever-present hum of uncertainty. We delayed holidays for potential completion dates that came and went. I changed my route to work so I’d walk past the new house, wincing whenever it rained and water poured over the end of a wooden gutter. I was psychologically invested in the house’s future but powerless as to its present state.

We began to feel as if the purchase would never go through, until suddenly the solicitors announced they were ready and everyone in the chain had to agree on a move-in date with uncomfortable haste.

When we last moved, 24 years previously, we brought a 10-month-old baby and a few items from a furnished rental. Now we had a quarter century of stuff to shift in a hurry from the house that our children had grown up in. Some of that stuff was to come with us directly to the new house. Some went to storage while we get the place fixed up. The removal folk earned their fish and chips that day, and finally departed down the narrow lane in their emptied pantechnicon well after 9pm.

The next morning the electricians arrived. We’ve bought the kind of house where each tradesperson who walks through the door takes one look, then a deep breath, and announces: “well, you’ve certainly got a project”. Yes, we know. That’s what we signed up for, Grade 2 listing and all.

Three generations of the vendor’s family spent 70 years here. They had many good times by all accounts, and seemingly met every maintenance challenge with a thick coat of gloss paint.

As backup for the first week or so, I rented a flat round the corner on Booking.com, who incongruously sent me daily emails as if I was a tourist. It turned out we didn’t use the flat the whole time (or go on a River cruise through York) but it was reassuring to have a key to a place with safe wiring and hot water when we needed it.

We don’t intend to rush at this project. Lack of maintenance is the enemy of old buildings, but so is over-hasty renovation. Instead we want to get to know the place. What does the building want, and what do we want of it?

The new electrical circuit is basic and surface mounted, a minimum viable product so we can decide in due course where to put permanent switches and sockets. I’ve started a Trello board documenting all the little bits and pieces which remain in situ.

There are positive features, like a lovely door knob, or the old servant’s bell. There are neutral features like bathroom fittings that will do perfectly well for now. And negative features that will have to go, but only as part of a considered plan and with the appropriate consent. Some of the positive features also present problems, like the tiles now covered in layers of gloss, which will need careful stripping with plenty of ventilation. The gloss paint, so much gloss paint.

After all this time shut up, the house needs to breathe. Windows that have been painted shut are being eased and sashes restored by a heritage joiner. A pair of dehumidifiers have been running at full tilt, but that’s a temporary measure. Damp patches must be investigated and the root causes dealt with. Roof repairs and the flashings around the chimneys are a priority before winter.

Then what to do about heating? It feels wrong, in 2024, to put in a new gas boiler to replace the 1970s system that is beyond repair. We’re taking advice on whether an air source heat pump could work for us with the right insulation. My new favourite toy is a little thermal camera that connects to my phone by USB C. Meanwhile there are electric radiators, and a heated throw to huddle under.

There’s so much to do, I think, then I step out into the garden. Like the house, the garden has once been wonderful, but latterly neglected. Again, not to rush. Watch and learn for the first year or two, see what comes up. It must be a life stage thing, because I’m quite looking forward to this bit.

Igor, our 14-year-old cat, is sceptical. Being shut inside for the first two weeks can’t have helped. A few days before his designated release date, he made a premature break for freedom when there was a delivery person at the door. After an anxious hour scouring the neighbourhood, we discovered that he must have wandered back in of his own accord, and was asleep on the bed upstairs. Now poor Igor has to compete with the other local cats who have already claimed dominion over his garden, and we’re trying to work out where to fit a cat flap in a 1750s cottage.

More follows.