Many people were sad to see the house fully gutted. We get it. There's something that feels wrong about stripping a 200-year-old cottage down to bare stone. Like you're erasing history. Like you should have just done a lick of paint and a new roof and called it done.
The home valuation basically said exactly that: new roof, lick of paint. We knew better. Or at least we suspected better. And when we pulled out the interior wood and saw what was behind it, we knew we'd made the right call.
The crack
There's a crack in one of the stone walls. Not a hairline crack. A proper structural crack that runs from foundation to roofline. You couldn't see it behind the interior cladding. The previous owner couldn't see it. The surveyor didn't see it. But we saw it the moment the walls were bare.
In that moment, everything we'd wondered and worried about clicked into place. We could have spent months and a lot of money renovating around problems we hadn't even seen yet. Instead, we were able to deal with the structural issues properly. Which means rebuilding that wall. Which means the roof had to come off.
It's not the most exciting part to watch. But it's the most important one. Because the only way this house lasts another two hundred years is if we do this part right.
The gut
Gutting the cottage was a family affair. Everyone suited up. The mold had to go (and honestly, what a relief). The cottage had been vacant for about nine months before we got the keys, and the damp had taken hold aggressively. Behind the walls, behind the plaster, in the ceiling joists. It was everywhere.
We went into this project knowing it wouldn't be a cosmetic, room-by-room renovation. Old houses don't work like that. You have to see what you're actually dealing with before you can decide what comes next. So we stripped everything. Interior wood, plaster, insulation, flooring. Down to the stone.
And then the stones could breathe for the first time in decades.
Renovating with kids
We imagined slow days working side by side, teaching the kids to build something with their hands. Making memories. That happens, in short bursts. There are also lots of biscuit breaks, complaints about how long everything takes, and strategic disappearances when the weather turns.
Between the kids, the weather, and the forty-minute commute from our rental outside Portree, there are no perfectly productive days. It's life. It's messy. Calvin is genuinely helpful when he's engaged. He asks good questions about why things are built the way they are and how we're going to fix them. Millie contributes spirit. She once handed me the same rock four times and told me it was "for the wall."
They'll remember this as a good time. Right?
Where we are now
The interior is completely stripped. The cracked wall is being rebuilt. The roof is coming off and going back on with proper structure and insulation. We're in the phase where things keep getting worse before they get better, and while it's all part of the rebuild, seeing anything "new" go in is exciting.
The plans are approved. We're keeping the classic Scottish cottage look on the exterior but opening up the interior for how we actually want to live. The extension on the back will give us enough space for the family to gather. The original cottage rooms will stay cozy and proportioned the way they were meant to be.
Carol's favorite part of the plan: you'll be able to spot the sea from the main circulation area of the house. My favorite part: fixing the asymmetrical entry that had one window where there should have been two. Symmetry matters. I will die on that hill.
We're the proud owners of a massive pile of reclaimed stone from the demolition. We haven't decided what to build with it yet. Suggestions welcome.
Follow along as things start going back together. The messy part is almost over. The magic is coming.
