The house that dad built - Windows that dimmed the light, bedrooms too small to sleep in – Isobel Atkinson’s childhood home was eccentric but enchanting
In the 1930s, when my father became engaged, he bought an acre of land and the stone from two derelict cottages and drew up plans for building our family home.
It wasn't something of which he had any experience, but he was optimistic and undaunted, a practical Yorkshireman. His fiancée lived some distance away in Scotland and was the very opposite of practical, so I think that her input would have been slight.
I have a photograph of my mother, on a visit to the site, nicely dressed, smiling to camera and holding a stone. I suspect that will have been the only stone she ever held.
The house plans were eccentric, the unequal distribution of interior space due to the fact that my father had already bought the matrimonial bed. He had purchased at auction an enormous half-tester with matching sideboard.
This furniture was created from carved wood, reputed to have come from Wakefield Cathedral during the time of the dissolution of the monasteries. The bed had pegged figures that could be lifted from their niches and heavy side curtains. This was the bed in which I was born, the doctor taking the precaution of having the wooden figures taken down before asking my mother to push.
On Sunday mornings my brother and I were allowed to join our parents in their bed and given strict instructions not to wriggle and let in any cold draughts. There was room for the whole family to stretch out in comfort. Because of this bed my parents' bedroom had been designed to be large. Our home, overall, was not. This presented no problem at first, but when my brother grew until his feet touched his bedroom wall the upstairs rooms had to be reconfigured.
The house looked well enough from the outside with its stone walls and leaded windows. These had small diamond-shaped panes that threw only a subdued light into the rooms and were a nightmare to clean. 'Home improvements' were constantly taking place. It was clear that a man had designed the house. The kitchen was not a practical place and after alterations it became even less so.
My father was full of bright ideas. One of these was to have an ironing-board fixed within a cupboard. Open the cupboard door, let down the board, et voilà! This worked well enough until he decided to move the kitchen door a little to the left, in order to give more space for his armchair in a favourite corner of the living-room. Once the door had been moved you could iron or you could go in and out of the kitchen but you couldn't do both because the ironing-board now neatly filled the doorway.
The staircase was ill lit, twisting up with a short flight of steps before each right-angled turn. I took every corner with care for fear of what might be around it. If I could not persuade anyone to accompany me upstairs then I would sing loudly for a bit of false courage and arrive on the landing with only one more turn on the corridor before the safety of my room. No architectural prizes for you, father!
The house was set well back from the road and approached over a long straight driveway, and the gates were usually kept closed to give our dog the freedom to roam the garden. The postman disliked being ominously shadowed up and down this pathway by the doberman and waved his cap to send the dog away.
What a mistake! From then on our postal service became very erratic. When letters did arrive the envelopes often bore the pencilled message, 'Could not deliver, dog out.' I loved the garden and especially the orchard, where the fruit trees were under-planted with hundreds of spring bulbs.
I worried as a child about having to grow up and leave my home, but as a young adult I went without a backward glance. My parents sold the house while I was living elsewhere. I have never been back, but I sometimes wander happily through my childhood home in my dreams, accompanied by my grown-up daughters, who have never been there. There are some places that you never leave. ( telegraph.co.uk )
Blog : Concentrate On One Man | The house that dad built | Concentrate On One Man
In the 1930s, when my father became engaged, he bought an acre of land and the stone from two derelict cottages and drew up plans for building our family home.
It wasn't something of which he had any experience, but he was optimistic and undaunted, a practical Yorkshireman. His fiancée lived some distance away in Scotland and was the very opposite of practical, so I think that her input would have been slight.
I have a photograph of my mother, on a visit to the site, nicely dressed, smiling to camera and holding a stone. I suspect that will have been the only stone she ever held.
The house plans were eccentric, the unequal distribution of interior space due to the fact that my father had already bought the matrimonial bed. He had purchased at auction an enormous half-tester with matching sideboard.
This furniture was created from carved wood, reputed to have come from Wakefield Cathedral during the time of the dissolution of the monasteries. The bed had pegged figures that could be lifted from their niches and heavy side curtains. This was the bed in which I was born, the doctor taking the precaution of having the wooden figures taken down before asking my mother to push.
On Sunday mornings my brother and I were allowed to join our parents in their bed and given strict instructions not to wriggle and let in any cold draughts. There was room for the whole family to stretch out in comfort. Because of this bed my parents' bedroom had been designed to be large. Our home, overall, was not. This presented no problem at first, but when my brother grew until his feet touched his bedroom wall the upstairs rooms had to be reconfigured.
The house looked well enough from the outside with its stone walls and leaded windows. These had small diamond-shaped panes that threw only a subdued light into the rooms and were a nightmare to clean. 'Home improvements' were constantly taking place. It was clear that a man had designed the house. The kitchen was not a practical place and after alterations it became even less so.
My father was full of bright ideas. One of these was to have an ironing-board fixed within a cupboard. Open the cupboard door, let down the board, et voilà! This worked well enough until he decided to move the kitchen door a little to the left, in order to give more space for his armchair in a favourite corner of the living-room. Once the door had been moved you could iron or you could go in and out of the kitchen but you couldn't do both because the ironing-board now neatly filled the doorway.
The staircase was ill lit, twisting up with a short flight of steps before each right-angled turn. I took every corner with care for fear of what might be around it. If I could not persuade anyone to accompany me upstairs then I would sing loudly for a bit of false courage and arrive on the landing with only one more turn on the corridor before the safety of my room. No architectural prizes for you, father!
The house was set well back from the road and approached over a long straight driveway, and the gates were usually kept closed to give our dog the freedom to roam the garden. The postman disliked being ominously shadowed up and down this pathway by the doberman and waved his cap to send the dog away.
What a mistake! From then on our postal service became very erratic. When letters did arrive the envelopes often bore the pencilled message, 'Could not deliver, dog out.' I loved the garden and especially the orchard, where the fruit trees were under-planted with hundreds of spring bulbs.
I worried as a child about having to grow up and leave my home, but as a young adult I went without a backward glance. My parents sold the house while I was living elsewhere. I have never been back, but I sometimes wander happily through my childhood home in my dreams, accompanied by my grown-up daughters, who have never been there. There are some places that you never leave. ( telegraph.co.uk )
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