Inspiration, delivered

In a seaside town populated almost entirely by retired couples who rattle about in vastly extended properties, I have bucked the trend and downsized to just two rooms in the orchard at the bottom of my garden.

Moving here was my daughter-in-law’s idea. Their family wanted to move back to the coast from the sticks and I was considering a move somewhere smaller. Luckily, my house in Whitstable was built on a large plot, so we sought planning permission to build a house for me using consultants 

 who specialise in family annexes, even in conservation areas. 

They applied for dual approval: the usual householder authorisation with the fallback of a Lawful Development Certificate for a caravan – which relies on the building being technically removable – and consent for both was granted quickly and easily.

), wife Saskia and sons Ludo, 14, and Etienne, 11, moved into my three-bedroom 1910 Arts and Crafts chalet bungalow and together we came up with a design for The Yellow House. My younger son Max (of 

) helped turn my ideas into drawings with depressingly sensible queries – like ‘Will the doorways fit a future wheelchair?’ Jacques and his colleagues started to turn the plans into substance.

We were confined by size restrictions to a single story, and overall by the width of the garden. But I also had my own criteria. My much-loved 10-foot table attached to a dresser and used as a desk determined the width of the living space, and my 17th-century Flemish cupboard needed to fit in the bedroom. And it did, as if by magic – but more by design – to the right of the window. 

I wanted two spaces – one to live in, and the other to sleep in – and I wanted them joined together by a corridor, somewhere light and airy to grow plants. Originally, I had dreams of a real greenhouse, but then more realistically we created a room with two large glass doors and roof vents to house my collection of elderly succulents (started in the 1980s) that used to live in my sun trap of a porch. They’ve settled in reasonably well, but don’t like the warm nights.

Starting this project, we were green – green to imagine we could manage without an architect and green in our ambitions to build with as little effect on our surroundings as possible. The building’s foundations grew on giant metal screws that are 10 feet tall, magically installed in just one afternoon with an enormous screwdriver: no noise, mess, concrete or disturbance to the surrounding trees. There are thirty of them, joined together afterwards with a timber ring beam.

We have worked to distribute the rainwater around the woodland garden, and it’s readily gulped down by the 120-year-old oak tree that the original owner of the house, a Swedish sea captain, planted from an acorn. I tried to get permission to similarly dispose of ‘grey water’ (the relatively clean wastewater from baths, sinks and washing machines) and even found a filter that would have made it more palatable to my plants, but it didn’t remove chemicals and so wasn’t approved. 

Our efforts were ferociously battled by the building inspectorate who needed to be persuaded on every front. An architect would have forewarned us, but we learned to arm ourselves with consultant reports to prove we’d done everything by the book. 

I did win with my installation of a compost loo – a sleek 

 – and am slowly coming to terms with the faff of emptying pints of liquid onto my compost heaps (it’s a first-class compost activator) and parcels of solids into a covered Hotbin hopefully to spread onto my (non-edible) plants next year. 

Inside, the huge windows are triple-glazed, as are the skylights and roof vents. And of course, the house is wooden, though ultimately made almost entirely of insulation panels, which are so efficient that it’s a struggle to get an internet connection. 

My bedroom leads directly into the chicken run, which means no more early morning trips to the far bottom of the garden to feed the hens, dressed in full combat gear ready to do battle with the squirrels. 

Looking around, I can see my colour palette hasn’t changed much in life. All is soft and muted. Here, the yellow interior (‘Lute’ by Edward Bulmer) is mellow and the blue (‘Steel Symphony’ by Dulux) is cloudy. The exterior is painted in the bizarrely named ‘Amusement’ by Sadolin. I’m not keen on primaries, and I loathe white. It doesn’t sit well in this gloomy climate – lovely in Scandinavia or the South of France, but here, it manages to look both shocking and dingy at the same time.

I rarely buy anything new. Some bits and pieces are inherited, others renovated, and I dye, sew, and paint. But mostly I’ve accumulated my belongings from visits to boot fairs and antique markets. The paintings and pottery are by friends and family and it’s a joy to be surrounded by so much talent. I studied textile design and in the bedroom, I’ve indulged in a few Jacobean prints, Indian fabrics and embroideries. My collection has been greatly diminished by two attempts at downsizing and has, I hope passed its final edit.

Now, after just six months I have finally moved in and I love my home. I love its compactness and neatness – and being engulfed in greenery with views on all four sides. I’m watching the current panorama as blossom erupts from the quince, damsons, apples and greengages in the orchard. 

It’s a shame the word cosy invokes such suffocating connotations, perhaps the French word ‘

The house has been built on a tight budget – our only luxuries have been a real rubber roof, a real lino floor (from Forbo Flooring) and a heated towel rail by Italian designer Elisa Giovannoniso. I’ve mostly enjoyed the process, dipping in and out to help in small ways, and I really love the result. Its success is down to my sons and their friends, but most of all I delight that this house was designed and built for me by some very talented people. I feel very fortunate.

Francine will be opening her garden for the 

 with the Whitstable Joy Lane Open Gardens on May 18

Francine Raymond

Ellen Hancock

Homes

Interiors

Designer and journalist Francine Raymond has moved out of her Arts and Crafts bungalow beside the sea and into a handmade home at the end of her garden. Sensitively designed and built by her sons, the ‘intime’ proportions of The Yellow House manage to hold a lifetime's worth of beloved possessions – and a few new ones, including a state-of-the-art composting loo and a luxe heated towel rail …

A (New) Home with a History: moving into The Yellow House in Whitstable