As he looked at the job in question, I noted a bit of a nervous shuffle, and a scratch of the chin. I knew when he finally spoke that it wasn’t going to be good news. Even so, “you may want to have a JCB standing by when we tackle this bit” wasn’t what I was hoping to hear.
The object of the discussion was the oldest part of our house. Built sometime before 1530, what was originally an oak-frame had been much adulterated and then covered up with render. Goodness only knows what horrors are lurking underneath but seeing the colour drain out of my face, he smiled and said: “It’ll be alright Luce – we’ll leave it ‘til last.”
And so this summer, the task of repairing the oak frame. Taking the safer option, we eased into the renovation by starting the other end of the house where just a few acrow props were sufficient to hold up the house while the walls literally came down.
Here much of the frame had been ‘repaired’ in the 1970s, sometimes using oak but also elm. Instead of crafting traditional mortise and tenon or scarf joints, the posts and horizontal rails were slotted into the sole plate and nailed into position. Consequently the movement has been fairly considerable.
The infill panels had been replaced with a steel mesh, cement rendered and painted with a waterproof paint. Unsurprising, and probably not too long after the building had been ‘made good’, the problems must have begun – where the hard render couldn’t move with the building, cracks let water in and being unbreathable, it couldn’t get out. Consequently wood rotted and then gaps were patched up with another blob of cement, silica or worst of, expanding foam.
The knowledge of how these buildings work had been lost and what should have lasted hundreds of years was not fit for purpose after less than half a century. These were the unintended consequences of adopting easy to use, modern materials and forgetting about the necessity for old houses to breathe.
When I think of my house, there are so many parallels with what’s happened in agriculture during that same period. As chemistry became available, we gradually became more and more reliant on synthetic inputs. Most problems were pretty easy to solve and there became very little necessity to understand what was causing the problems in the first place. We became lazy in our thinking.
There’s no doubt that regenerative agriculture has raised its profile over the past few years. For some the very mention of it is like a red rag to a bull and that’s why I’m not too keen on labels. We all have the potential to be more regenerative – to me it’s more an attitude and the one thing that stands out about so-called regen farmers is that their journey to acquire knowledge, to think ‘what can we do differently’ is feeding a love and enthusiasm for the job.
And that’s what our timber-framers evidently have for their craft as they’ve worked with the asymmetry and twist of the building. It’s taken a lot of care to joint the old to the new in a building that is so on the wonk – the obtuse angle of some of the new tenons bears testimony to that. It’s taken a real understanding of the materials they work with to restore the frame’s strength and keep its character. It’s been a labour of love.
Just how many changes you can make to your own farming practices is a personal decision – it’s got to be what works for you spiritually, physically and financially. My house has taught me this. It’s never going to be as energy efficient as a Passiv house but, as we speak, 150mm of 100% sheep’s wool is being nestled between the timbers in the walls and the roof. Sandwiched by wood fibre or hemp boards and, ultimately, a lime render outside, lime plaster internally the walls will be warm and breathable.
When all is done – and I think I’ll be retired by the time it’s finished – there’ll be some satisfaction in knowing it’s as far as we can go with what we have to work with. The carbon stored in the fabric of the building should be good for a great many years to come. It’s a very similar story to soils – restoration is a commitment that’s not for the feint hearted, you’re never quite sure what you’re going to find or whether what you’re doing will have the desired effect. But it’s one hell of a journey to go on!
Based in Ludlow, Shrops, Lucy de la Pasture has worked as an agronomist, while among the Twitterati, she’s @Lucy_delaP.
lucy@cpm-magazine.co.uk
