Roots and Rhythms.
Some houses are viewed in 20 minutes. Some take hours. Tanyards reveals itself slowly. It doesn’t respond well to the wide angle lens of an estate agent photographer, nor the brightly lit insistence that every corner be illuminated.
It is not a house built to impress in photographs. It was not designed around open-plan symmetry or glossy minimalism. It transcends fashion and carries its history quietly and without apology. 17th-century houses are - by definition - rare. And they undoubtedly bring with them their own challenges. Impediments that might not necessarily be encountered in a shiny modern house with its comfortable underfloor heating and hermetically sealed windows.
But within these old houses you will find soul. Personality. Reassurance of a different kind. A sense of history, of being part of a bigger story. The cyclical continuity of life within old walls. Tanyards has stood for centuries not because it is on trend but because it is grounded. Its materials, proportions and setting were chosen for endurance rather than display. Over many decades - centuries even - as seasons have passed, stories and lives have unfolded and changes have been made, its walls hold the imprint of time.
Old houses are shaped by seasons. They have watched them arrive and recede for centuries. Tanyards gives us cool stone floors in summer, luminous green light filtered through the huge handkerchief leaves of the catalpa tree and an elevated platform overlooking the pool to enjoy the last of the sunshine with a G&T.
We enjoy the warm crackle of the inglenook fireplace in winter, reassuring reliability from the old Aga (and fantastic overnight porridge) and slow, candlelit evenings in rooms and spaces that simply do not exist in open plan houses.
Spring brings hope and colour and a sense of promise. The cautious return of a few tentative ducks and moorhens, quietly pottering around wondering where to make their nest. The optimism of the magnolia that will, once again, peak too soon and have its waxy white flowers clobbered by a late frost.
And autumn. Autumn has a vocabulary all of its own. The sweetness of fallen apples beginning to soften in the grass. The earthy smell of crushed leaves underfoot. Damp grass cooling after summer heat. Woodsmoke threading through the air at dusk. The way the light is reflected rich and golden off the fallen leaves. The first frosts sculpting the ornamental grasses. It is autumn that I will miss the most
If this sounds overblown and flowery, it is because I write as someone who makes art. I have learned to see rather than simply observe. To notice tiny details. And it is often in the smallest shifts — of light, of temperature, of season — that the true character of a place reveals itself.
And here we are in late February, once again on the cusp of change. It’s barely noticeable - perhaps its way the late winter light shifts across the lake. The branches are still bare and skeletal, and the gently meandering roofline - soft and weathered rather than sharply angular - is still stark against the pale grey sky.
And yet beyond the surface change is already underway. The days are lengthening. Finally! The evenings are starting to stretch. The snowdrops give way to crocuses and a few precocious daffodils. The orchard is still bare, but if you look closely there are small green tips forming at the ends of the branches. Everything suddenly seems possible and optimistic. February is the quiet before the extravagant exuberance of spring.
We arrived in February many years ago and it seems fitting that we should be preparing for our departure at the same time of year. Over the past few months we have continued to share the house with viewers who understand what properties like this represent. Not simply square footage or location.
Of course not everyone gets it - some walk around complaining about the poor sense of ‘flow’ or wondering idly if the orchard could be repurposed as a football pitch. More bedrooms, fewer bedrooms, different location. The wrong coloured gravel. And on it goes. The emotional turbulence involved in selling a home is really not to be dismissed lightly.
We are confident that the right guardian will arrive sooner or later. Because houses of this age are not owned so much as held in trust. Each custodian contributes a chapter, but the narrative is longer than any one family. Tanyards has passed through many thoughtful hands over the centuries, and as our stewardship draws to a close we look to turning the page and welcoming those who will continue its story with the same care and curiosity.
As another season shifts and so the narrative continues. Onwards ever onwards. FULL DETAILS on INTRO page
”Hold the old holding hand. Hold and be held. Plod on and never recede. Slowly with never a pause plod on and never recede.”
― Samuel Beckett