As an architectural tribute to the original building on this rural block, a compact, shed-like space fosters multigenerational living.
In a verdant corner of coastal Te Matau-a-Māui/Hawke’s Bay, a new little dwelling, designed with joy and powered by love, punches well above its weight. This clever build has brought warmth and light to its owners: my parents Maz Lusk and Rick Coles. It has also fostered a new way of life — one they’re happily sharing with all of us.
The new house sits on the sunniest spot of a large rural section, originally the hub of a working sheep farm and now the back corner of an idyllic summer community in Waipātiki Beach. When Maz and Rick bought the 10-hectare section in 1998, they used the original woolshed, built in 1969, first as a bach and later, when they moved out here permanently, as their home.
They gradually transformed the shearers’ quarters, which consisted of a bunk-room, ablutions strip and mutton-scented kitchen, being ever mindful of the shape, purpose and spirit of the old building. Their alterations celebrated the shed as a shrine to Waipātiki’s farming history.
They developed the land around it, too, establishing paths, vegetable gardens, orchards and even a tennis court, while allowing the bush outside these domestic areas to regenerate. These days, springy kānuka thrives as a nursery crop, but already well on the way are nīkau, tōtara, karaka, ponga, the ubiquitous kawakawa and, above it all, grandfatherly kahikatea where tūī, kererū and bellbirds swoop.
A few years ago, I asked my parents about the possibility of my husband and I joining them on this land that I loved, and building a new house here for ourselves. Having spent the past decade in Hungary with my young family, I was ready to come home. They loved the idea — but my timing couldn’t have been worse. Soon after, the pandemic came crashing in, effectively quashing our ability to make long-term plans. But a seed had fallen to the forest floor, and somehow it took root.
Even as we were caught in Hungary, Maz and Rick started talking about the possibilities a second dwelling offered them as a couple: they could create a snug new home for their later years that ticked all the boxes the woolshed didn’t in terms of comfort and accessibility. They could gain light and warmth (increasingly at a premium in the valley as the forest matured). They could free up the woolshed as a place for my family to return when we were able. They engaged my sister, architect Chloé Coles, to design the house. She enlisted her husband Jono Coates as co-designer, and worked closely with Maz (herself an architectural graduate of the 1970s).
They agreed to explore a saw-tooth elevation and that this dwelling would co-exist alongside the woolshed. To fit into its rural surrounds, it needed to stay humble: here, family dynamics provided an organising principle. This house would be a baby sister, rather than a flashy neighbour; an elegant tribute, rather than a new direction.
Retaining the functions that the woolshed performed, in particular the easy, classic code of Waipātiki hospitality that summer residents live and breathe, was important. There’d be drinks at five (BYO, and don’t forget a glass); easy cuppas for all comers in the morning sun; and convenient access between house, deck, garden and beyond for beloved dog friends and the neighbourhood tribe of all ages.
Construction began as the pandemic raged outside the valley. Less than a year later, Maz and Rick moved in. At 60 square metres, just big enough for two, it’s small but uber-efficient. The house conforms to Lifemark principles, featuring a level-access shower, wheelchair circles, a wide hallway, ramp and deck, and an open kitchen. The utility space is generous to honour the equivalent space in the woolshed (where washing hangs upstairs, high above the sheep ramps and well-worn mataī crating).
Maz and Chloé chose a robust, profiled metal cladding in mid grey, an update on the woolshed’s warmer tone. Its underlying lime-green hue makes the colour glow against the living hillside. Soft greys also feature within the house, where Jono’s flair for interiors shows. Ply walls throughout are warm and inviting, and are a homage to Maz’s leaning towards a 1970s aesthetic.
Solar panels to power the house were a given and insulation has been bumped up beyond code. On frosty winter mornings, a free-standing fire heats the space amply while large sliding doors contain or disperse warmth and make a breathtaking showpiece of the bush-clad hills outside.
Eventually, I arrived home in Aotearoa with my family to settle into the old woolshed, and the two dwellings function exactly as we had hoped. The children run between the houses bearing a hot drink, an orange from the orchard or chased by a naughty puppy. They help their grandparents in the garden, making compost and harvesting veges. On hot afternoons everyone heads down to the beach and, as the evenings become warmer, we meet for cocktails on one deck or another — wherever the sun is best — and eat together most nights of the week.
When the sun sets, it’s pitch dark in the valley. There are no city lights and no near neighbours. But my extended family is warm and happy in their beds, in the big house and the little one nearby. We are content to be haunted by those true guardians of the forest: the ruru.
Words Daisy Coles
Photography Hazel Redmond