Against The Grain

How abruptly this summer seems to have ended - I am watching an assembly of grey, rain dense clouds hasten towards me from the southern end of the harbour, the ominous wind that precedes them is chill and clearly announces the advent of Autumn. The lazy, sun baked days of summer are now a distant memory although it is merely a handful of weeks separating then and now. This year, for some reason, I have returned from our indulgent West Coast summer retreat unable to shake the sand from my hair and the feeling of the beach beneath my feet. The administrative urgency of regular life is taking a while to register and a summer induced sloth-ness has accompanied my return to work.

Our little cottage is nestled a few meters from the high tide line, the waves of the Tasman sea break, at times with some ferocity, on the stone strewn beach which is tenuously screened by a barricade of flax. The incessant roar of the sea is the familiar soundtrack to our summer holiday. There is a short pathway which leads down the side of the dilapidated garage beneath the large and incongruous flowering cherry tree. Pohutukawa seedlings defiantly spring up along the sides of the path and there is a cluster of trees, defoliated by the saline onslaught of too many storms, whose bare branches form an intricate and decorative entrance way to the beach.

The beach stretches for kilometres in either direction - excluding the need to navigate the odd river mouth you could walk for hours. Hefty volcanic rocks are scattered here and there along the shore, mussels cling to their surface like an exotic robe and seals bask on one of the largest rocks enjoying their own private lido.  We have a couple of tatty wooden chairs perched precariously amongst the rocks, strategically shaded by the flax. Summer is spent shuffling between the house and the beach with a book, coffee or glass of wine in hand, and on a serendipitous day we will watch a pod of Hector’s dolphins leap through the sparkling waves.

The doors of the cottage stay open from morning to night, the cicadas roar and the gulls squeal. An amiable weka brazenly wanders through the house stealing the cat’s food and the odd morsel from the compost bucket. The clattery scratch of his feet on the floorboards announce his arrival as he goes about his business undeterred by our presence. When it rains you can smell the muskiness of the bush, it is always warm, we eat outdoors, I don’t wear shoes. The candles attract moths and time relaxes.   

Still steeped in the earthiness of a perfect summer I am finding myself drawn to the more rustic pieces in the showroom - simple furniture celebrating the innate beauty of wood. This exceptional English armoire is made from fiddleback oak - it dates to the Arts and Crafts period and it so beautifully illustrates the back to basics ethos of the movement which sprang into being as a reaction to the mechanised production of the industrial revolution. Arts and Crafts decoration is attractive yet sparse and often drawn from Celtic patterns or designs from the Middle Ages. Natural timbers are celebrated and the furniture is hand crafted. This lovely armoire has a later bespoke fitted interior which only adds to its fundamental charm.
The pair of early 20th century oak armchairs have a distinctly Brutalist feel with warmly patinated wood, a beautiful grain and luxe velvet cushions - rustic yet chic.
The beautiful Murano glass pendant lights are handblown in biomorphic forms and add that final touch of organic glamour.

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