The History of a Place

My faith and my own experiences have taught me that creating places of enduring value isn't always limited to what we can touch or measure.

Sometimes I believe the unseen history of a place needs healing before a new chapter can begin.

Let me tell you about Heathcote.

Heathcote was one of the most beautiful homes I've ever had the privilege of caring for, and it changed the way I care for houses forever.

Built in 1908, Heathcote sits quietly above Sydney Harbour in Hunters Hill, one of Sydney's oldest suburbs. With its sandstone boathouse, private beach and century-old gardens, it felt as though it belonged to another era.

When we bought the house, we deliberately resisted the temptation to renovate straight away. Instead, we gave it a decorative refresh and moved in with our family.

I've always preferred to live in a property before changing it.

I like to think every house reveals itself in its own time. You learn things by living in a home that you could never discover from plans or drawings.

Not long after we moved in, the previous owners gave me a photo album documenting the history of the house.

Inside were photographs of some of the families who had called Heathcote home over more than a century.

One photograph caught my eye.

A young woman sat quietly on the front verandah steps. She wore a high-collared white blouse buttoned to her neck, a long dark skirt and her hair was loosely gathered into a bun.

There was something about her that stayed with me.

Her story explained why.

The story I was given was that Heathcote had been built by her father as a wedding gift. She and her husband lived there together only briefly before war took him overseas. He never returned.

She never remarried and spent the rest of her life in the house he had left behind.

One of Heathcote's most beautiful features was a stained-glass window in the front sitting room. Incredibly unusual, it featured an upside-down heart which I was told she had commissioned after her husband's death as a reminder of the love she had lost.

I found myself wondering about her often.

Not because I was looking for ghosts.

Simply because her story was woven into the house itself.

Our family filled Heathcote with life. Children, friends constantly visiting, birthday parties, music, laughter and all the beautiful chaos of family life.

Yet despite all of that life, I felt a little uneasy there.

It wasn't dramatic.

Just a quiet feeling that something wasn't quite right.

The strangest part was our ensuite bathroom.

I'd walk in with a clear idea for its renovation, tape measure in hand, only to leave feeling strangely clouded. Every time I tried to resolve the space, my thinking seemed to stop.

Historically, our bathroom had been the kitchen of the home.

Around the same time, one of our daughters began having disturbed nights in another part of the house. Even our dog seemed reluctant to enter her room.

I know many people would explain these events differently.

I can only tell you what happened.

I was invited to morning tea with another local school mum who told me about a woman called Caterina.

Caterina worked with people who believed they were experiencing unexplained activity in their homes. Her practice involved prayer and what she described as helping lost spirits move on.

It caught my attention immediately.

Not long afterwards, I called her.

I remember feeling very nervous as I made the appointment.

When Caterina arrived at Heathcote, I hadn't told her anything about the history of the house.

Nothing about the young woman in the photograph. Nothing about the bathroom.

She simply asked if she could begin.

For the next few hours I worked quietly downstairs while she moved through the house.

What I remember most wasn't what I heard.

It was what I felt.

It was a beautiful sunny day, yet the house seemed to grow colder as the morning passed.

It remains one of the strangest physical sensations I have ever experienced.

When we finally sat down together, she began describing what she believed she had encountered.

She described a deeply saddened young woman wearing a high-collared white blouse, a long dark skirt and her hair gathered loosely into a bun.

She believed the woman was connected to what had become my bathroom.

I knew immediately who she was describing.

Her description was remarkably similar to the woman in the old photograph.

Caterina told me she had helped her move on.

She also believed there was another, more troubled presence connected to a different part of the house.

I have never felt the need to fully understand what happened that day at Heathcote.

I can only tell you what changed afterwards.

The disturbed nights stopped.

Our dog seemed completely comfortable in the room again.

The house felt lighter.

The air felt clearer somehow. Calmer.

And, almost overnight, the bathroom that had seemed impossible to resolve finally revealed exactly what it wanted to become.

For the first time since moving in, Heathcote felt completely at peace.

It was ready for its next chapter.

And, as it turned out, so were we.