Parting Shots

 

 

Hard to believe it now, but it was all over by the first week of June 2023

 

It was pretty much inevitable, given our situation: age finds us all in time, presenting novel issues that make work that once was so easy suddenly arduous to complete. The process of aging is all about encountering this effect: what one once took for granted, or at least found not so hard to do, gradually becomes more and more difficult. Some of us look farther down that particular road and see it complicating life to the point where it becomes something entirely different from what it once was. I'm one of the lucky ones who, while not yet at the point of being unable to do the work, could foresee a time when that eventuality comes about. So that was a major factor in our decision to sell.

All maintenance holidays eventually end: Vern Krahn restoring barge boards

There's also the financial reality of inhabiting a heritage structure today: they require ongoing investment in order to remain viable. There are always services needing upgrading, issues around sourcing things like compatible storm windows that help keep the house warm in winter, ongoing appropriate rehabilitation of degrading wooden components (as in the picture above) and replacement of bits that are now wearing out, like the cedar shingle roof (maybe six to eight years left, if the right things are done to prolong its life). None of this is simple, all of it requires discretionary money to purchase skills, and in retirement, money is in short supply for many. There is also management of the processes that renew the building (the individual contractor doesn't actually do this, or at least you don't really want him to be the one who is doing this, so you yourself have to be the general contractor on the job - which is demanding work and entails understanding the job fully). Also, at our place, there were long-deferred plans to develop an unfinished storage attic by making a staircase with a complicated landing and adding a west-facing dormer, which would enable us to access perhaps 900 square feet of added living space, including a much-needed second washroom off a master bedroom. We had been evolving plans to realize this dream when our life suddenly got complicated with the inheritance of a Pender Island property similarly needing major investment. We couldn't afford to do both projects, so we chose to reinvest in restoring the Pender property. We don't regret that, but it turned out to be consequential for the bungalow on Grange Road.

 

Re-roofing the house with perfection cedar shingles, back in 1998

 

These two realities (a lot of work suddenly needing doing, plus insufficient funds to bring it all off) eventually converged in retirement, making sale and a move more or less inevitable. We saw it coming a couple of years back, yet wanted to keep going for the time being so we could enjoy a place we had put so much of ourselves into. This post covers the things we managed to tackle over the last couple of years, prior to actually putting the house on the market - things that, in retrospect, we are proud to have seen done on behalf of a most deserving house.

 

 

Facade renewed in time for the house's centennial

A recurring theme these days is just how much actually needs doing on an older house, a dynamic that has intensified as I've aged (perhaps the reality is that the aging process magnifies the effect). You simply have to stay with it in order to remain contemporary: no maintenance holiday lasts forever, and many such holidays inevitably come to a close on your watch, especially if you've dwelt there for a while. It was thus not surprising when one of the very first things initiated on assuming my tenancy here - replacement of the wooden gutters on the rear of the house, including replacing some missing downspouts - now obviously needed further attention. The gutters were done back in 1989, a year after I bought the place.  I managed to source old-growth cedar guttering to replace the original ones (milled to an authentic profile by Vintage Woodworks in Victoria) but I naively employed a carpenter who, while technically qualified, turned out to lack experience with wooden gutters. In fact, I'm almost certain this was his first undertaking on any arts-and-crafts house, and while he didn't do a terrible job, he did miss some obvious things, like replacing fascia boards on the south-west section, which were starting to have issues as rot from the existing spent gutters had reached back into them.

 

Scene of the crime: restored wooden gutters en route to premature demise

 

Instead of informing me they needed replacing, this carpenter found just enough viable wood to attach the new gutters to. He also didn't know to use pitch (or a copper-based preservative, inset photo at right) to condition the new gutters, a step that dramatically increases their longevity. As a result, the replacements were already rotting out thirty-three years after installation (the original pitch-treated cedar had lasted nearly seventy-five years)!

And by then the fascia had only deteriorated even further. So there were now a lot of hard decisions to be made. Pivoting from the purity of my initial choice to stay with wood (wiser with hindsight) I had metal gutters in a compatible profile installed in preference, with larger (and thus fewer) downspouts needed. There were numerous advantages to going this route: the metal gutters are wider than the wooden ones, making it easier to clear out the build-up of oak leaves and debris in fall (especially given the cedar roof's drip ledge, which makes it difficult to extricate leaves from narrow wooden gutters). Plus, larger downspouts don't block as readily as the narrow ones, which plugged every year with the onset of fall rains, with predictable consequences. So these are big advantages in drainage and I was very pleased with the results.

 

Metal gutters, fascia and downspouts replaced

I think it would be fair to say that it got much more difficult to get anything done to heritage standards with the advent of the pandemic: costs rose dramatically while booking times became markedly longer as pandemic conditions combined negatively with the ongoing process of skilled artisans retiring or passing away. People were also more focused on their home patch, so skilled carpenters were extremely busy. These dynamics complicated everything to do with renewal, including something as small and seemingly straightforward as re-cording a double-hung sash window. This is a job that periodically needs doing in a house equipped with double-hung windows, and sooner rather than later if the occupants happen to have painted over the sash cords at some point (which renders them brittle and hastens their demise). The previous time I needed sash-cords replaced, the masterful Vern Krahn was still available for small jobs like that - yet even someone so knowledgeable needed a couple of hours (it's very finicky work) to re-cord a double-hung window. It takes a certain finesse in order not to damage the window frame. But alas, Vern was no longer available, so I resorted to the market and tried booking several carpenters on the municipal heritage list, but ultimately it was just too small a job to get their attention. Then, out of nowhere, along came Brook Baxter, a highly skilled carpenter who had done fantastic work for us rebuilding the place on Pender Island. Brook had time for an add-on project on the weekend, and was intrigued by the job, as he'd never done it before. I couldn't believe our good fortune!

 

 

Brook Baxter, a carpenter game to explore something entirely new

 

We began the process by doing some research, which to me means seeking advice from people with greater knowledge, in this case Brigitte Clark of the Victoria Heritage Foundation. I wanted to use authentic components for the job but found that nearly everything available came with some amount of polyester in it - which is as inauthentic as it gets in a heritage building! I asked Brigitte about sourcing genuine sash cord - 100% cotton woven with a special braid - and she knew where to find it! Thanks to the folks at Acklands-Grainger on Government Street, I secured a supply of genuine cotton sash cord, at a very reasonable price.

 

 

Genuine article: pure cotton braided sash cord, polished, in 100 foot length

 

Brigitte's contributions to the window project continued with the sharing of a couple of pamphlets championing retention of heritage windows, plus one dealing directly with sash window-cord replacement. I also watched a couple of YouTube videos on restringing cords, in order to develop a clearer idea of the steps involved in doing it right. It's a bit complicated, as there are heavy counter weights inside the window frame that enable easy movement of the sash up and down (in a double hung window, there are two counter weights inside the frame on both sides, allowing both sash windows to operate easily). Brook is fortunately a quick study, and very curious about the nature of wood construction, so he was quick to figure out how to tackle this project. Initially it involved finding a couple of removable panels giving access to the weights, and getting them out without damage.

Counter-weighted sash windows vent extremely well

The counter weights are surprisingly heavy and operate in severely constrained spaces, side by side. But with genuine sash cord, they work well and will last long - if the installer knows what they're doing. Getting the weights out is a real chore, but Brook was totally innovative at this work.

 

 

Counter weights, rotted cords, some tools and parts used to get there

Restringing the cords is where the real skill comes in. Even the knot used to attach the cord to the counter weight is complicated - not just any knot, but the precise one that knowledgeable carpenters use, firm and durable. Brook, who is also a skilled fisherman, knew his knots from boating, so this piece came natural!

 

 

Finesse with knot-tying is integral to successful re-cording of windows

 

I'll resist getting into the minutiae, but there's a lot of knowledge that goes into restringing the cords on double-hung sash windows. I'm all admiration for Brook's willingness and ability to learn on the fly, which powered this job to completion.

 

A thing of beauty: cord restrung, right knot used

I can't say enough about Brook's skill and panache in bringing this job off, and to a very high standard indeed! I thought enough of his stellar work to make him an extra special brunch as well as paying for his time, but honestly, I am in awe of his craft skills in carrying the job out.

 

Finishing up: the master craftsman at work

Brook's work on the sash-cord replacement inspired me to tackle some more deferred tasks myself. A redecorating project for the room ensued after the window had been restrung and a large cupboard retooled for better storage (also Brook's handiwork). The decorating project went on through late winter and into spring, with a rhythm of its own. I did about two or three hours a day on it, which kept the job inching forward over time.

Redecorating rooms is ninety percent prep and ten percent repainting

 

Later that year, in November, I had an unexpected and meaningful connection with the family of the building's first occupants. I had become Facebook friends with Kim Barth Kembel some years back, one of Joy Savage's daughters. Now she and her daughter-in-law Shansi Zhang proposed visiting us late in 2022, on their way up-island. Joy, who was Hubert and Alys Savage's daughter, married Alfred Barth, both of whom I was fortunate enough to be in contact with over the years. Joy and Alfred were kind enough to share copies of two floor plans of the house, drawn by architect Hubert Savage, which among other things put to rest any ambiguity as to whether he had designed his own home. These floor plans have been a huge aid in developing an understanding of the building (I am resolved to make sure the Saanich Archives has copies for their records). It was absolutely special to meet Kim after knowing her long-distance for years - she recalled summer vacations spent here on Grange, in the company of her mother while Alys was still alive. It was an entirely memorable experience for Susan and me. I was thrilled to be able to point out to her Joy's signature, just discernible on the concrete art-deco steps at the back of the house.

 

With Kim Barth Kembel on the verandah at Grange Road

"Joy, 12-5-30": the date the concrete steps were cast, with Joy present

I was earnestly trying to mobilize myself to keep  getting things done, even as it became harder with  pandemic restrictions, supply-chain constraints, and most craft attention now focused on new construction. One consequence was that there were much longer booking times for everything. This was certainly the case with refinishing the claw-foot tub in our sole bathroom. It badly needed redoing, as its synthetic finish was really worn and there were multiple chips too. The booking time for the Bathtub Doctor (the outfit that does the best job) was over six months, which meant it wouldn't be finished until March 2023. The six months prior to the booking were tough ones all in all. My sister passed away in late winter 2023, an event that was emotionally preoccupying for me. As it happened, The Bathtub Doctor was scheduled to recondition the tub the same week we were to be away at my sister's funeral. Talk about quirks of fate! Fortunately, our son Bryn was quite able to manage the job in our absence. The Bathtub Doctor did an excellent job too, which helped me to feel a bit more optimistic about getting things moved along around the house.

 

 

Refinished clawfoot tub in afternoon light

A really important job that I absolutely wanted to see done before putting the house on the market was having the shed re-roofed. The shed was designed as an eye-catcher that could be seen from the kitchen. I was concerned about the condition of its roof, as it sits under oak trees and accumulates a lot of debris. I'd been chatting with Jared Brokop, who runs Brokop Roofing, about whether we were at the point of needing a new cedar roof installed. Initially he thought not, due to the super-tight spacing of the shingles on the original roof. Upon closer inspection, however, he determined that the shingles were becoming spongy (so no longer shedding water effectively) and that a replacement roof was definitely in order. This conversation happened during the winter, when roofing activity typically pauses. But we agreed Jared would tee the work up as soon as there was open weather in early spring. 

 

 

Early in April 2023, a three-person crew got to work on the shed roof

 

Suddenly in early April, the job was on. A three-person team arrived on a Saturday and began stripping the old roof off, then replacing it with number one 'perfection' sawn cedar shingles. This type of roofing is now a very expensive proposition, so we were fortunate the roof was as small as it is.

 

 

Three people working meant the job proceeded rapidly to closure

 

I was very excited watching this work unfold, which it did very rapidly, basically over the course of a single weekend. The new roof had an impressive impact on the eye-catching shed as seen through the kitchen windows. I'm used to this building's overall effect, but I'd forgotten just what a strong impression a brand new cedar roof makes!

 

The weather cooperated fully in the short window needed for re-roofing

It takes incredible skill to do cedar shingling to a high standard, but Jared and his team have the requisite skills in spades. A lot of finesse went into the job. And, because they were well-organized in the way they went about it, the mess was pretty much controlled and also removed as part of the process.

 

They almost finished the job over the course of that weekend

 

As it turned out, Jared had to come back to finish up the ridge cap the following week. It wasn't long after they were done that the balmy spring weather headed south and it began hailing. Welcome to the world, new shed roof!

Roofs take a definite beating, twelve months a year

It was a busy spring for us, as we were now cruising towards putting the place up for sale. This leant a sense of urgency to getting things done: for example, for a long time I'd wanted to replace a the two wall sconces I had installed in the living room 25 years earlier - bona fide period-ware, they simply were discordant with the rest of the decor. They also didn't make for the indirect or shielded (therefore interesting) light that fits so well in an arts-and-crafts house. This is a cardinal sin in an important space like our living room! It happened that for the project on Pender, we had used an oriental-style lantern to good effect, in a variety of sizes. And we just happened to have a couple of wall sconces left over from that project. These iridescent lamps were installed in early May of 2023, and we are very pleased with the light they give off.

It gave me great satisfaction to replace the existing sconces with lanterns

Of all the things I wanted to see done before I left Grange Road, repairs to damaged panels on the Lawson Wood frieze (picture above) were at the very top of the list. Somehow, almost magically, the super-talented Simone Vogel-Horridge managed to squeeze this work into her busy schedule. The frieze is one of the things that convinced me to purchase the Savage bungalow over 35 years ago. As entrancing as its effects are, there were nonetheless several damaged areas (whether by exposure to daylight, chemicals leaching from a previous wallpaper behind, or from outright human error) and they needed attention. This is not work for amateurs. It takes immense skill and vast knowledge to undertake repairs to historic wallpaper. Simone has these skills, but the challenge was getting her attention for a relatively small job. We managed to slip this one in just under the wire!

 

Simone exploring precise colour matches in preparation for repair

 

 

It had always irked me that the signed frieze in the living room had deteriorated at a number of points. Stuart Stark recommended Simone to me as someone who could work magic in a situation like this, and he was absolutely right. It took a long time, and a good deal of patience, to get Simone's attention on this project, but once she was seized of it, things really flowed.

 

The serious business of identifying accurate colour matches

If memory serves, Simone and her assistant Will visited us in early December 2022, to undertake a detailed assessment of what repair of the frieze would involve. It would be some months before they returned to complete the work, but they needed to produce entire replacement panels that would blend seamlessly with the original artwork. Luckily, I had acquired two Lawson Wood prints in the same frieze pattern (but in entirely different dominant colours) that provided a template for his rendering of clouds - Simone copied this detail with absolute veracity, as it was the key to two of the missing linking spaces.

 

Will preparing to position a replacement panel, for colour comparison

 

Simone was hard at work adapting the base colours so they blended better with the rest of the frieze, which had been discoloured with smoke from tobacco and the fireplace over many years. Her way of dealing with this was brilliant: she literally adapted her base colours to mimic the effect the smoke had had on the original frieze.

 

Simone conditioning and toning a replacement panel

To say I was excited by this development would be rank understatement - it was a form of magic being worked in the interests of original art that I valued immensely.

 

New panel prior to being conditioned to mimic smoke effects

 

I was more than pleased with the results of this long-delayed process. We had already concluded the sale of the house prior to the rehabilitation work being done, so it was doubly magic for me. In this way I was, through Simone's capable agency, getting to make a final contribution to the uniqueness of the Savage bungalow - while being on the way out the door! This was entirely special, and a fitting consummation of the relationship I had enjoyed with this spellbinding building for more than thirty-five years. The only thing I regret about the experience I've had here is having to actually bring it to an end. But in life, perhaps it doesn't get any better than that.

 

Conditioning the clouds to mimic smoke effects

Panel conditioned to better mimic the effect of tobacco smoke

I have been most fortunate in my time here to work with so many skilled individuals, without whom the Savage bungalow would not have been restored as remarkably as it has been. I want to share this with them now, as it's been an honour to have the opportunity of working with them all. Thank you all so much for your skill, hard work and dedication to craft, from the bottom of my heart!

Connecting With Stonemasonry

 

A rough stone base links this 1913 bungalow to its rocky upland site

When I said ‘yes’ to buying an old house built on a stone foundation, I had no idea of the new headaches I was agreeing to as a result. We tend to see things made of stone as permanent (part of their charm) whereas materials like wood we more easily accept need periodic maintenance. But stone needs attention too, only over much longer intervals if it was well brought off originally. And as many do with houses, I went for the whole enchilada without closely examining all the parts, then gradually awoke to the realities of the work needed in order to stabilize and repair the building.

As I settled into my new home, I began noticing among other things that its sturdy stone base in fact sported some breaches. It turns out that seventy-five years of exposure to weather with minimal maintenance will do that to a foundation held together with mortar. The materials comprising it were ordinary at best, mostly collected on site I surmised, and randomly set without conscious patterning or coursing. A lot of different shapes and sizes of stone had gone into that foundation, with a crazy-quilt of seams as a result. Here and there enlarging cracks offered openings to the shallow crawl space lying behind them. Earth shifting, courtesy of forces like tree root expansion or earthquake tremors, plus the annual effects of freeze-thaw cycles, can crack and degrade even the sturdiest walls over time. In some spots the base of the wall was actually coming unglued and starting to dilapidate.

 

 

As roots expand, they raise the surrounding soil and easily crack rock walls

 

Section of wall broken by expanding tree roots, needing care and attention

 

I also began noticing signs of slapdash fix-ups, careless work that had simply smeared mortar across the face of the stone. These sloppy repairs (what the English dismissively call 'bodges') leapt to my eye like carbuncles. So of course my first thought as a naive homeowner with low DIY skills was to involve someone more skilled (‘call the plumber!’) to address the problem.

But back then I didn’t know anything about stone masonry, so I talked a bricklayer I’d hired to fix some spalling chimney bricks into patching up an area on the south wall of the house. I simply assumed that the skills required were one and the same. He was a bit disinclined, a cue I should have taken, but then he agreed to do the job. Once his patching was done, I completely got his hesitation. In contrast to the neat bands of mortar he placed precisely between the courses of the bricks he relaid, his approach to stone involved smearing mortar all over the joints. I’m unsure why irregularity of form should cause that response in a bricklayer, but the results were unfortunate for the look of the foundation. Later on, I spent a few hours chipping away the worst of the smeared cement, to make the joints between stones recede in emphasis and to restore something approximating the original look.

 

 

Mortar smeared across the seams obscures the look of a stone wall

 

A section of rubble stone foundation wall whose base I eventually rebuilt

 

While watching the bricklayer go at this work, I realized how ungainly his attempts to get the mortar into these wandering seams actually were. Using a pointed mason’s trowel for the carry and a smaller one to push mortar into the seams simply didn’t cut it. Pointed trowels may be great tools for dressing bricks before they're placed, but for infilling irregular seams in a rubble stone wall, it clearly wasn’t workable. The outcome argued against continuing further down this path. The thought dawned that I myself needed to learn how this type of work should be done, so I could avoid further damage to the look of the building. I don’t know why I opted to get personally involved rather than just finding someone who was a skilled stone mason, yet it was but a small step from there to begin working directly with stone. 

 

 

Ongoing repair: the buttress base needs attention

 

A stone base under a house creates a distinctive impression, gluing the building firmly to its site in a very particular way. If the rock used is collected from the site itself and the building is placed on bedrock, the house feels very firmly ensconced in the surrounding landscape. But let that look become marred by walls that are entombed in concrete and the stone is thereby demoted to an indistinct element in a matrix, causing the original aesthetic to be obscured. Taken far enough, the original disappears entirely. You may as well have a full concrete foundation as have rocks masked over with mortar. I thought it important not to go any further along that path.

 

 

 

Seams slathered in mortar, for a messy outcome

 

So that's when I naively began what is now twenty-five years of working with stone and mortar to repair and make things. I wasn't inclined to DIY by nature, had no skill at all when I got on this learning curve, but was curious about the medium and resolved that it was important in maintaining the heritage asset. And I was a gardener, so I had some limited experience making loose rockery walls to retain beds, which resulted in an inclination to pile rocks together. I decided to begin by tackling what seemed the most visible breach first, upping the ante considerably. It appeared at the centre of a low wall between two tall battered stone piers supporting the house’s most prominent feature – an elegant entry verandah that is walked by en route to the front door. It appeared that a few weaker chunks of rock had seams that had popped apart, causing a crack to appear.  

My first job site: a serious breach in the low wall between the piers

 

I hadn’t a clue how to go about making a repair, so I began by observing some other masonry work in progress around the region, mostly of the low stone wall type. Here in Victoria rock often breaks through the landscape, dotting it with outcrops and larger hills not fully covered with vegetation. Bedrock breaking through the landscape defines dramatic contours for the landscape, and loose rock on the surface seems to prompt a lot of boundary marking with stone walls. And because this material is local and often not much worked before it is used, the results often feel natural and fit for their surroundings.

 

 

A small knob of glaciated bedrock protruding through the ground

Rocky outcrops define a landscape with oaks, firs and arbutus groves

Regional character: rock outcrops, Garry Oaks, and low boundary walls

The operations I observed and the masons I chatted with all used mortar that was made from scratch, combining sand, cement and water in mechanical mixers to produce large batches at a time. My first problem was that none of this apparatus would fit in at my site, which had no place to store and mix sand and cement that would not have been an eyesore and in the way. Nor were industrial quantities of mortar actually needed for the relatively small and picky repair work I was preparing to attempt. How to access mortar in small quantities was an initial obstacle to my getting started.

 

 

Bodged work stands out and doesn't last

 

 

Things stalled there for a while, until the puzzle of how to make mortar solved itself with the discovery that it came pre-mixed in 25-kilo bags – not exactly a blinding insight, but until you know of the possibility, it doesn't really exist. I learned about it purely by chance, in a buddy’s back garden in North Vancouver, when he enthusiastically shared his rather exuberant approach to building a low retaining wall of stone. I watched fascinated as he whipped up a small batch of bagged mortar in a plastic pail (‘just add water and stir’) then proceeded to use another one of those pointed trowels to rather awkwardly place it. It was a eureka-moment for me - here was a way to make mortar that was manageable for repairs.

If sourcing mortar is one essential, it’s also necessary to have tools that are suited to the work of mixing it up and placing it, with no undue mess. There things stayed murky a while longer. To repair an existing wall, you need a way of transferring small quantities of mortar to niches of varying sizes. This is picky work. And moist mortar is prone to sliding on metal, a bit unpredictably too. And you need to place it with sufficient precision, in awkward spaces and at varying angles, to avoid marring the face of your stones. Otherwise, you risk the look of entombment, which is pointless and inartistic at the same time. 

 

 

Successive bodges mar this stone wall, which even the drains aren't saving

 

Stone retreating behind the mortar, imprisoning it in concrete

 

As I began preparing the breach for repair, I anxiously watched the opening enlarge beyond the apparent problem and the scale of the job increase in tandem. I'd improvised a partial solution to the transfer problem by selecting a compact drywall knife in preference to using a trowel. Initially I chose it just to mix up mortar in the pail – its continuing utility evolved naturally from there. A compact blade offers a horizontal platform from which small quantities of mortar can be eased into seams.  I am still using Quebec-made Richard knives to this day, both for ongoing repair and for new construction.

 

 

Impractical mason's trowel above, more serviceable Richard knife below

 

 

Yet another tool was needed in order to transfer the mortar from the knife to the seam and to work it into place. One day, watching a city worker setting stones in a piece of sidewalk art on Douglas Street, I noticed he was using a table knife to fill and dress the openings. He allowed that he’d ‘borrowed’ it many years ago from his wife, but hadn't ever returned it. He used its narrow blade deftly to work the outside of the seam, so the mortar stayed within the lines and even had a bit of a finished look to it. 

Intrigued, I borrowed an older knife from my own kitchen, a strong but thin blade made of Sheffield steel with a bit of ‘give’ to it. This combination of firmness and give enables a surface tension that’s useful in working mortar into crevices. It mimics the design of a brick mason’s pointing tool, which has a similar spring or tension to it. I soon realized I would need to get mortar into spaces too tight for the width of my knife's blade, so I also acquired several of the pointing tools used by masons (I'm still mystified why the mason I originally hired opted not to use pointing tools to push mortar into the seams rather than slathering it over the stones!).

 

 

Basic tools: kitchen knife (right), Richard knife, variety of tuck pointers

 

While I was still stymied by the challenge of how I would make mortar, I bravely allowed myself to start the job by removing defective pieces. This phase of repair typically establishes the real scope of a project, as loose material behind the breach comes to light. Here it revealed the presence of a brick pier, obviously meant to support the verandah floor in the vertical plane, but now tilting alarmingly due to the brick disintegrating where it had been in contact with wet rock. Evidently, it was the movement of this disintegrating pier that had caused the wall to crack and come apart. This new problem caused me some anxiety about proceeding at my skill level, but I decided it was better to know about it and attempt a repair than to neglect it and likely soon cause an even bigger problem. I was also realizing I'd have to replace some rocks that had actually broken apart, and that compatible materials needed to be found.

Securing the brick pier before fixing the wall

Getting to the point of mortaring anything took a very long time, but a logic for the placement emerged once I located some suitable stone and had dry-fitted it as best I could. A skilled stone mason would be able to visualize an outcome without needing to mock it up, but as a beginner, I needed to see in advance as best I could. The trick here lay in finding material that mates well with what is already in place, so the patch doesn't call attention to itself. My challenge was to fill up the opening as much as possible with a single piece while maintaining a vertical alignment consistent with the rest of the wall. And then to place it and seal it as though it had always been there, leaving no blatant marks of repair. It complicated matters that in this location the bedrock dipped somewhat (photo below).

 

 

Candidate replacement stone, now being positioned for fit

 

There was a lot of loose rock lying about the place, but nothing that felt right for the opening I was dealing with. So I began scouring highway cuts and old excavations looking for available materials, which back then could more readily be found. Finding usable material is part of every job, and compatibility is always an issue when working on an existing structure and striving for seamless repair. Nothing shouts 'bodge' like stark contrasts in materials – unless, that is, it’s sloppily applied mortar! My first structure was well-weathered at seventy-five years of age, made of indigenous stone of various colours and textures – the opposite of green stone of more uniform colour. Mating new and old was a challenge that had to be met by a process of careful selection. 

 

 

Many years later the repair doesn't stand out unduly to my eye

 

Replacement stone that is broadly compatible with the original rocks

 

Eventually I found what I thought was a suitable piece for the large opening, then assembled a supporting cast of smaller pieces to fill in the gaps to neighbouring stones, as well as to other crannies in the wall. It took me a painfully long time to complete this small project, a result of proceeding slowly with novice, awkward hands that were learning how to slide mortar carefully into place (a moving target that) and then smooth it to a uniform face. A comparable awkwardness might be the one a boy experiences when first trying to guide a razor over the contours of the face in order to effect a shave. The kitchen knife however quickly proved invaluable, and in time a rudimentary process for transferring mortar also evolved. The trick was keeping it where it was wanted despite the gravity-fuelled tendencies for it to travel to where it wasn't. I kept a wet sponge and toothbrush handy for cleaning any sloppage from the stones. Vertical seams are bedevilling in this genre of repair, even to this day. A special tool for vertical placement is an obvious gap in the repairer's tool kit.

 

 

Massive stone pier, also in need of base repair

 

 

When finally completed, this first project gave me a sense of satisfaction far beyond the modest scope of the work undertaken. I felt I’d opened a door to the world of stone building and won some knowledge through the execution of the work, despite offending many rules that I was then totally unaware of. And while my hands would be busy with restorative projects indefinitely, completing just one prompted me to wonder what it would be like to make something from scratch. That experience actually lay close to hand: while passing many hours staring at my first repair's slow progress, I also noticed that the massive tapered uprights supporting the verandah's roof were beginning to come unglued at the base. While one of these could be repaired as was, my intuitive feeling was that the other needed a foot, or a plinth, added in order to truly secure it. It appeared that there was a brick support at the heart of the stone pier too, and that as with the wall, the bricks were spalling where the base sat on the moist rock.

Looking back on it, this was a very big leap for a newbie like me. The implications were potentially large, because I was about to modify an original design that was still substantially intact. Indeed, aesthetically and from a distance, it wasn't at all evident that anything at all needed to be done. But looked at closely and carefully, it was obvious that it did in fact need doing, or else risk the integrity of the original column down the line. And I knew I wasn't capable of rebuilding that pier to its current standard. So I decided I would proceed by laying out the design for a new base completely before placing any of the stones permanently – and only go ahead when I was satisfied it would be aesthetically compatible. This was a brave step along the continuum of problem-finding/problem-solving.

 

 

Making the new plinth feel like it was always there

 

This second job led to more searching for appropriate materials that fit in with the existing composition. It was only a minor amount of new construction, but visually it had to be right and so it too advanced at a glacial pace. As compatibility of stone was imperative, I studied the shape of the existing construction and the way the rocks had been put together, to subtly rustic effect. Eventually, by an endless amount of playing around, I got what I thought was a goodish look, meaning one that didn't stand out as incongruous or arbitrary. And with my evolving skill in placing mortar, the job moved slowly but steadily forward in execution (new construction is far easier than repair for the management of mortar). When I look back on this small yet prominent project, I’m amazed I tackled it with so little experience. In effect, this repair is what launched me on the path of new building with stone. Looking at it twenty five years on now, I take satisfaction from the fact that my eye doesn't notice anything amiss, that what was an original artistic ensemble before my hand was on it, remains one after it was.

 

 

Weathering elements, like powder lichen, help the new plinth blend in

 

Down the line there were many such repairs (and there still are) plus a whole lot of stacked garden walls between me and the next bit of new mortared construction. But my choice to tackle repair myself had launched me on a path that continues to elaborate itself 25 years on. I haven't become a stone mason by any means, and it's certainly too late to acquire true journeyman's skills in any systematic way, but my skills have developed in the ways needed to do the jobs of repair and addition required in my own milieu. And using those skills has become an increasingly expressive act that continues to hold my imagination. 

 

 

Dedication: this piece is affectionately dedicated to my too-early-departed friend Dennis McGann, a hugely talented designer, communicator, and artist who, among many other important things, inadvertently turned me on to bagged mortar. Dennis respected and cultivated craft in all his doings and equality in all his dealings with people. He was a fine person, who is sorely missed.