Chapter 1- A New Old House and a Discovery
We walked in and closed the door. This house was ours. The agent’s brochure said it was built around 1870. We wondered whose it first was.
We had lived in Balmain for just over a year and come here by accident. Arriving in Sydney five years earlier we were agog at real estate prices in Australia’s biggest and busiest city. So at first we rented a house in Sydney's suburban south from owners who were away in Singapore. Their son was injured so they returned to Australia. Suddenly we needed a new house to live in. Marie, my wife, worked in the city. My job would move there soon too. So a move to inner city Sydney made sense.
With little time before we had to move we looked at houses to rent in the suburbs of Newtown, Camperdown and Glebe, just south of the city. Most were terrible; dirty bathrooms and kitchens, busy streets and little space. Then I saw a listing for a townhouse in nearby Annandale with four bedrooms. My inner-west Sydney internet search had also brought up a four-bedroom townhouse in Balmain, although it was $70 a week more than the Annandale one. Thus far I had left Balmain out of consideration. I thought it was too expensive and only trendies lived there. However, with little time to find a house for three children, we added Balmain to the list.
We visited both properties. The Annandale one was next to a park, along the local creek. It was one of three buildings in the small complex and we liked it. So I made an offer of $20 less than the advertised rate. The Balmain property was spacious, but in large complex and the extra $70 a week was real money. However, to cover ourselves, we thought we should also make an offer for this, at $50 less than asked, to give us bargaining room.
Next day the phone rang. It was the Annandale agent, saying they would rent us the house, but would not accept a reduced price.
I said, “Sorry, that’s our offer.”
A second later I wondered if I should have taken it.
Five minutes later the phone rang again, this time the Balmain agent. They would rent us the house and our offer was fine. So we agreed and headed off to sign the papers and pay the deposit. Five minutes later the home phone rang again but we were gone, so it went to message. That night we heard this message from the Annandale agent saying their client had reconsidered and agreed to rent us the house at our nominated price. Too late; money paid and form signed for the Balmain rental.
Two weeks later the move to Balmain was made. I hate moving more than almost anything, but by the end of the day we were in, just; boxes everywhere, partially assembled furniture; our legs like jelly from endless trips up and down three flights of stairs. But the house was clean, seemed comfortable and it gave us a pleasant home for now.
After a minimal dinner we decided to take our children and explore our new neighbourhood. It was dusk light of a spring day. By this time, in our previous suburban house, the streets were empty; everyone retired inside, in front of TVs, for the night.
Here streets were alive; many others like us out on an evening walk, people from every second house spilling onto the footpaths, chatting with neighbours, patting dogs, dodging kids or just taking in the night air.
It did not feel like suburban Sydney but like a village where everyone was a part. For Marie, from an Irish village, she had found a place where she felt at home, a village of people who came together in public spaces, like ten thousand European villages.
By the time we had finished our walk it was decided. We loved this place. We would buy a house here.
As the weeks passed and we settled into Balmain everything reinforced our desire to live in this place. It was a suburb full of history; one of the first parts of Sydney settled when the colony was founded, the next peninsula jutting into the harbour west of the city. It was a five minute ferry ride to the city, passing under towering Sydney Harbour Bridge. It was full of wonderful places to visit and explore, old stone houses built into hillside nooks looking out across the harbour, grand terrace houses and little workers cottages, wonderful shops and restaurants, lots of pubs with an authentic local feel and many older people who had lived here all their lives, people with their innumerable stories who kept alive a spoken history of this place.
So we began to look for a house of our own. There was not much for sale, at least not much we could afford. Years of real estate boom did not buy a lot of house for your money in inner Sydney. We sold another property we owned. That gave us a deposit, and the interest rates were rising, so perhaps, perhaps, that would help.
Four months into the lease of our Balmain townhouse the agent rang to say that, unfortunately, the owner needed to sell. He was an over-geared victim of rising interest rates which just kept going up. So we needed to find a new place to live. We had not found anything to buy and were determined not to be rushed; so another move was needed, but only within Balmain.
This time we rented a grand terrace in East Balmain, looking out towards Sydney Harbour Bridge. Now, used to Balmain prices, it only cost us an extra $70 a week, which seemed fine. It had million dollar views of the boats on Sydney Harbour and Marie could catch the ferry to work.
Then we found it, or actually Marie did. It was probably the tenth house we looked at in three months. It was a shabby double fronted weatherboard cottage. It was set on a grand street, built on a large level block, at least for Balmain. It was clad in the wide timber boards of a hundred years past, and had the feel of a well built house, well proportioned, though showing its age. It was painted a softened lemon yellow and had a twisted old frangipani tree in the front yard. Across the street, with ridge-top city and harbour views, were the grand terraces and other fine houses of the wealthy, all built around 1870-80. Our street side had houses of ordinary people, mostly two bedroom weatherboard cottages, some renovated and extended; others like ours still standing almost unchanged for over 130 years.
Marie rang the agent inquiring, who said, “Unfortunately an offer has been made and accepted, so it’s too late.”
It seemed our search must continue.
Two days later we saw this same house advertised again.
Marie rang back and was told the bidders had money problems so it was back on the market.
We rushed for an inspection. The house had great bones but a declining air; grand original fireplaces and ceilings; awful mouldy old brown carpet and a collapsing chipboard kitchen. However, the moment we stepped inside it exuded a positive feeling, like a welcoming relative – come in, enjoy me, I am a good place to live; I like you and know you like me too!
Within five minutes we decided to make an offer, near the upper limit of what we could afford. The agent said there was already a conditional bid in from another party, but this person needed a few days to get finance sorted out before they could confirm. The agency said they would put our bid to the owner, but they thought we needed to go higher. They promised to ring us the next day once they had talked to the owner.
So we waited and hoped. Next day the agent rang back. The owner was keen to sell and, having been burnt once, was not inclined to wait for the other bidder. But the listing price was $30,000 above where we were so we needed to close the gap to get favourable consideration. A deep breath; another ten thousand went on the table for the agent to put to the owner. Five minutes later the phone call – offer accepted, the house was ours.