New house on an old hill
by little red pen
We’re two weeks into our new house, and it feels so very right. We looked for a long time, prowling Port like stray cats, hunting for a place to rest our heads. Then my sister said that she’d seen this place in the Valley and liked it; we had a free Saturday so we went along to an open home, and a week later we’d bought it.
It’s a light, simple house — a villa, but not the fussy sort — with a clean-limbed garden and views over the Botanic Gardens and the city to the sea. The people we bought it from lived here for 42 years and cared for it well: everything works and there’s good shelving and storage. And, more importantly, it has heart. It has been easy to make a home here.
One of the unexpected joys of this place is that I’ve realised — as we arrange furniture and rediscover our belongings after three years — that I have old roots on this hill. My grandparents ran a nursery a couple of blocks along the road and their rhododendrons are planted on the hill behind the Catholic church at the bottom of the street. My Dad grew up on the other side of the Gardens, and our friends live all around — along the Valley, up the street, on the hill facing us. I walked up and down the Valley through much of my student life, and I’ve drunk, eaten, bought groceries, had my hair cut, and browsed bookshops in the Gardens village.