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 all of us over time, presenting novel challenges that make work that once was easy to do 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 that need upgrading, issues around sourcing things like compatible storm windows that will help keep the house warm in winter, ongoing necessary rehabilitation of degraded wooden components (see the picture above) and replacement of wooden pieces as they wear 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, on a fixed income, money is in short supply for many. There is also management of the processes needed to renew the building (the individual contractor doesn't actually do this work, or at least you don't really want him to be the one doing it, so you yourself have to serve as general contractor on the job - which is demanding and entails understanding it fully). Also, at our place, there were long-deferred plans to develop an unfinished storage attic into habitable space, which involved a staircase, a complicated landing with a dormer facilitating it, and a long west-facing dormer that would enable us to access as much as 800 square feet of new space (including a much-needed second washroom off a new master bedroom). We had been evolving plans to realize this dream when our life suddenly complicated with the inheritance of a Pender Island property that also needed major investment. We weren't wealthy enough to do both projects, so we opted to invest in remaking the Pender property. We don't regret that decision, 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 coming coming due, and insufficient funds to bring it all off) eventually converged in retirement, making sale and a move more or less inevitable. We saw the move 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 two years, prior to actually putting the bungalow 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 2013 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 aging itself magnifies this 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 actions I initiated at the beginning of my tenancy on Grange - replacement of the wooden gutters on the rear of the house, including replacing several missing downspouts - now evidently needed further attention. The gutters were done in 1989, one year into owning the place.  I managed to source old-growth cedar guttering to replace the originals (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 in the handling of wooden gutters. In fact, I'm almost certain this was his first job on an Arts and Crafts house of any kind, and while he didn't do a terrible job, he missed several obvious things, like replacing fascia boards on the south-west section, which had issues as the rot from the existing spent gutters reached back into them. 

 

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

 

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

So if they had needed replacing in 1988, the fascia boards had only deteriorated even further by now. That meant a lot of hard decisions to be made in short order. 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 and deeper than the wooden ones were, 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, the larger downspouts don't block up 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.

 

 

 

Rotted fascia boards that should have been replaced in 1989, but weren't

 

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 2020 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 demand was high and skilled carpenters were extremely busy. These dynamics complicated everything to do with renewal, including things as small and seemingly straightforward as re-cording a double-hung sash window. This is a job that periodically needs doing in a house with double-hung windows, and sooner rather than later if the occupants happen to have painted over the sash cords at some point (rendering them brittle and hastening their demise). The previous time I had needed sash-cords replaced, the masterful Vern Krahn was still available for small jobs like that - yet even someone as knowledgeable as Vern needed several hours (it's finicky work) to re-cord a double-hung window. It takes finesse of execution not to damage the window frame. But alas, Vern was no longer available, so I resorted to the market and tried booking several carpenters who were 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 was in town, had time for an add-on project on a 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 who was game to explore something entirely new

 

 

We began the process by doing some research, which to me meant seeking advice from people with greater knowledge of re-cording heritage windows, 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 could be in a heritage building made of old-growth wood. I quizzed Brigitte about sourcing genuine sash cord - 100% cotton woven in a special braid - and she knew where to find it. Thanks to the folks at Acklands-Grainger on lower Government Street, I secured a supply of genuine cotton sash cord, and at a reasonable price.

 

 

The 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 the retention of heritage windows, plus one dealing directly with sash window-cord replacements. I also watched a couple of YouTube videos on restringing cords, in order to develop a clear idea of the steps involved in doing it right. It's a bit complicated, as there are heavy counter weights inside the window frame to enable easy movement of the sash window (in a double hung window, there are two counter weights inside the frame, on both sides, allowing both the upper and lower sashes to work straightforwardly). 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 that give access to the weights, and getting them out without damage.

Counter-weighted sash windows vent extremely well

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

 

 

Counter weights, rotted cords, and 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 to him.

 

 

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 was 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, who was one of Joy Savage's daughters. 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 about whether he had designed his own home. These floor plans have been a huge aid in developing 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 at the bungalow on Grange Road, in the company of her mother Alys. 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  on getting things done, even as it became harder with pandemic restrictions, supply-chain constraints, and most craft attention now squarely focussed on new construction. One consequence was that there were much longer booking times for virtually everything. This was certainly the case with refinishing the claw-foot tub in the sole bathroom. It badly needed redoing, as its synthetic finish was really worn, and there were multiple chips in it too. The booking time for the Bathtub Doctor (the outfit who do 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 scheduled to be away for my sister's funeral. Talk about quirks of fate! Fortunately, our son Bryn was quite able to oversee the job in our absence. The Bathtub Doctor did an excellent job too, which helped me 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 had to see done before putting the house on the market was seeing the shed re-roofed. The shed was designed to be an eye-catcher seen through the kitchen windows. 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 getting spongy (so no longer shedding water effectively) and that a replacement roof was decidedly in order. This conversation occurred during the winter, when roofing activities typically pause. But we agreed that Jared would tee the re-roofing 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 in a break in the weather, 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 compact as it is.

 

 

Three people working means 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 that was a view from the kitchen. I'm used to this building's overall effect, but I'd forgotten just what a strong impression a brand new cedar roof gives!

 

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 to hail. Welcome to the world, new shed roof!

 

The roof takes a beating, twelve months a year

 

It was a busy spring for us, as we were now cruising towards the place being 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 installed in the living room 25 years ago - bona fide period-ware, but they were discordant with the rest of the bungalow's decor. They also didn't make for the indirect or shielded (thus interesting) light that fits with an Arts and Crafts bungalow. To me, this was a cardinal sin in an important space like the living room! It happened that for the project on Pender, we had sourced an oriental-style lantern that we used to good effect, and we had backups in a variety of sizes. So, we had 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 produce.

 

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

 

Of all the things I wanted to see done before I left Grange Road, repairs to the damaged panels of 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 buy the Savage bungalow more than 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 simple human error) and these damaged areas needed careful 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. But we managed to slip this one in, just under the wire.

 

 

Simone exploring precise colour matches in preparation for repairing the frieze

 

 

It had always irked me that the signed frieze in the living room had deteriorated at a number of points. Heritage consultant Stuart Stark recommended Simone 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 the project, but once she was seized of it, things really flowed.

 

The serious business of identifying accurate colour matches for the frieze

 

If memory serves, Simone and her assistant Will visited us in early December 2022, to undertake 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 coloured entirely differently) that provided her with 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 exceptionally brilliant: she literally adapted her base colours to mimic the effect of smoke 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 the effects of smoke 

 

 

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 still 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 over thirty-five years. The only thing I regret about the experience I've had here is having to actually bring it to a close. 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 effects of tobacco and fireplace 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 Stone

 

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 several 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 of 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

 

Sections 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 stones. 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 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 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 look 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 down 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 about its importance in maintaining the heritage asset. And I was a gardener, so I had some limited experience making loose rockery walls to retain beds, which stimulated my 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 past in order to get 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 didn't have 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 that are not fully covered with vegetation. Bedrock breaking through the landscape defines dramatic contours, 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 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 getting started.

 

 

 

Bodged work stands out and it 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 about 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, without a lot of mess. There things remained murky a while longer. To repair an existing wall, you need a way to transfer 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 itself beyond the apparent problem and the scale of the job increase proportionately. 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 stable 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 to deftly work the outside of the seam, so the mortar stayed within the lines and even took on a finished appearance as a result. 

Intrigued, I borrowed an older knife from my own kitchen, a strong but thin blade 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 narrow for the width of my knife's blade, so I also acquired several of the pointing tools used by masons (I'm still mystified as to 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 to make mortar, I bravely allowed myself to start the job by removing the defective pieces. This phase of repair typically establishes the real scope of a project, as loose material behind the actual breach is brought 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 bedrock. Evidently, it was the movement of this disintegrating pier that had caused the wall to crack and come apart. This new problem caused me a little 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 breach

 

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 things in advance. The trick here lies 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 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 placed 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 the 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 slippage 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 by executing the work, despite having offended 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 rested on 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 needed to be done. But looked at closely and carefully, it was obvious that it did in fact need doing, or else I would 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 once I was satisfied it would be aesthetically compatible. This was a brave step along the problem-finding/problem-solving continuum.

 

 

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 achieve a subtle 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 as regards mortar management). 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 to 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 a systematic way, but my skills have developed in the ways needed to do the jobs of repair and addition that are 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.