Words Jessica Bellef // @jessicabellef
Imagery Sue Stubbs // @suestubbs_

My husband, Beau, and I were crammed into a shoebox-sized studio in Sydney’s rapidly gentrifying inner city and looking for an exit when we found our new home. We now live far from the urban hustle, in a small community of just eleven streets, surrounded by bush and waterscape in the world’s second-oldest national park. Large numbers of holidaymakers visit our hidden-away hamlet during summer, but we get to enjoy the location all year round. Beau works as an audio engineer in the city, and my work as an interior stylist takes me all over, but our thoughts are never far from home. After years of high-volume living in Sydney, our home gives us the respite and fresh air for which we had been searching.

We bought the house from an elderly man named Brian, who had built the double-storey solid brick home for his family back in 1976 and had been living in it until he put the house on the market. We could tell that the process of listing the property was an emotional experience for him; he shuffled through the rooms, showing us the light switches (he had gotten pretty creative with the wiring, so we appreciated the explanations).

Brian also demonstrated the tools he would leave us, including an extendable clipper arm he fashioned to reach the avocados growing on the higher branches of the thirty-year-old tree in the front garden. He apologised for letting parts of the expansive garden go—he was in no shape to keep it tamed— but he pointed out the veggies, of which there were plenty. We asked if he was going to take the yellow dining chairs with him, and he kindly said that it didn’t make sense to separate them from the yellow kitchen.

Our guests smile as they tell us that our house reminds them of their childhood, taking them back to their grandparents’ home or a holiday house they stayed at in the 1970s or 1980s. Our neighbourhood has always been a popular holiday destination, especially from the 1970s when the only access road was finally sealed. For many people, the area is the source of sunny recollections of sparkling summer days, carefree times when tanning and smoking were thought to be harmless.

While some people shudder at the thought of living in a throwback house, it’s that golden holiday feeling that strengthens our connection to our home and neighbourhood. The original kitchen and bathrooms were in immaculate condition, so we had no reason to tear them down. There were certain things we updated—the busy carpet had to go, fresh paint was a must and new light fittings instantly sharpened up the look of each room—but we love the feeling of living with one foot in the past, complemented by the meaningful bits and pieces we have collected over the years.

“While some people shudder at the thought of living in a throwback house, it’s that golden holiday feeling that strengthens our connection to our home and neighbourhood…”

I am exposed to a dizzying amount of beautiful products and spaces through my work as an interior stylist. I can appreciate the beauty of an object or room regardless of the style or budget, but when it comes to our home, Beau and I are most comfortable living with vintage pieces, handmade items and things that are a little bit scuffed up. Our red-velvet sofa was a hand-me-down from my grandparents, and my dad found our sideboard at a thrift shop for a song.

Art fills the walls, and our books and records sit on the custom-built shelves that we designed and installed with Beau’s dad. The shelves sit opposite a wall of cedar panelling; Brian’s handiwork, it’s a feature that we could never imagine painting over. Our evenings are illuminated by lamplight, which highlights the rich cedar wall and cocoons us in a hugging glow. If I close my eyes to think about the essence of our home, it’s the warmth of timber and the happy hum of the yolk-yellow kitchen that shines through, a type of richness that has nothing to do with high-end design or glossy on-trend pieces.

There is always something to do at home. Beau tends to the garden most weekends, our scruffy rescue dog Charles Barkley needs walking often and, since we don’t have a dishwasher— the downside of living with an original kitchen—there is usually a sink full of dishes to deal with. But when we take a moment to sit on our balcony overlooking the trees, that holiday feeling comes back. Sounds dance up from the water at the end of the street, with boats putt-putting and kids shrieking as they jump off the jetty.

A year after moving in, we started to wonder if we should invite Brian over for a cup of tea, so he could see that we hadn’t completely erased his creation and that his own memories were still anchored somewhere physical. Chatting to a neighbour over the fence, we found out that Brian had passed away not long after he moved out. It was around this time that our grand avocado tree had started to die, and both Beau and I couldn’t help but draw an eerie connection between the two events.

Individual by Jessica Bellef ($49.95, Murdoch Books) is available now

How to honour a home with history

“While some people shudder at the thought of living in a throwback house, it’s that golden holiday feeling that strengthens our connection to our home and neighbourhood…”