Page 57 - JCAU-6-2

Journal of Chinese
Architecture and Urbanism Storytelling in regenerative architecture

6. The Bungalow fallen into disrepair. The coastal climate had chewed the
building’s fabric over successive seasons, and damp had
“The greatest hazard of all, losing one’s self, can occur seeped into its foundations. However, I had a plan to fix it
very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all. up. I used to manage an insurance brokerage, employing
No other loss can occur so quietly; any other loss — upwards of a dozen clerks. Renovating this old place would
an arm, a leg, five dollars, a wife, etc. — is sure to be a piece of cake by comparison.
be noticed.” - Søren Kierkegaard, The Sickness Unto
Death, p. 165. The grounds surrounding the bungalow were spacious.
As I walked through the overgrown pathways that
crisscrossed the property, a sense of determination took
hold. I paid close attention to every detail. Those neglected
pathways once cleared and repaired, would become vital
connections to the sea and, with it, conversation and
companionship.
The eroding coastline certainly posed challenges, but I
believed that just as the waves shape the shore, the bungalow’s
restoration would help it adapt. It would become part of its
changing surroundings, flexing and adjusting to the squalls
and tides, embracing the soft sand to secure its own future.
Each night, I contemplated the transformative journey
that lay ahead. My breath as I slept seemed slowly to
breathe life back into the structure. The weathered walls
would become resilient, and the unstable foundations
would become sturdy and strong! Each generation is a
mere custodian of place, so we must bestow care and
attention during our brief lifetime to secure its persistence
for many years to come. I was convinced that the bungalow
was destined to survive and thrive, its rooms to be filled
Figure 4. Bungalow III. Source: Original work by the author once again with the human sounds of cutlery and chatter.
My days were once marked by clarity and purpose. I attribute On waking, I plunged headfirst into an exhaustive
this to a training that imparted discipline, rigour attention cleaning routine, transforming my quaint abode into a
to detail. The pavement I traversed always seemed firm. As fortress against decay, implementing a meticulous series
I set about gathering, sorting, ordering resources, partners, of measures to combat the insidious intrusion of moisture
and offspring, securing home and hearth with a modest but and mould. My first line of defense involved the strategic
sustainable salary, I led my brood at a stately pace towards placement of dehumidifiers throughout the corridors and
a destination envisaged as a brightly illuminated portal to bedrooms, their low hum creating the ambient soundtrack
another world. In short, everything I did before things fell of my quest for a dry haven. In the kitchen and bathroom,
apart was, once upon a time, a real life. I installed extractor fans, their whirring blades singing of
banished humidity. I hung mothballs and uprooted the
In my 55 year, with the country self-destructing and the creeping moss that threatened to invade every nook and
th
nest newly emptied, I staggered like a drunk toward a place cranny. Tirelessly, I scrubbed the bathroom counters,
of sanctuary, a refuge against the rising tides of stupidity the shower door, and every inch of the bathroom walls
threatening to engulf the land. I wandered the length of the and floor, eradicating any trace of encroaching moisture.
east coast of England to study the ruins of Second World I wielded brooms and mops against the kitchen floor, while
War defence posts before returning to North Norfolk, its glass surfaces and mirrors bore witness to my incessant
desolate mud flats seeming to best mirror the flatness of wiping, an effort to stave off the tenacious moisture
my spirit. Spurred by the twin demands of alimony and the that clings to reflective surfaces. Carpets and rugs were
recent collapse of my modest stock portfolio, I contemplated subjected to a vigilant vacuuming routine, and tiles yielded
the restoration of the bungalow that I had inherited from my to my disinfecting spray that left no corner untouched.
mother, who had been gifted it in turn by a bachelor uncle.
However, my duties were not limited to the visible spaces.
Once upon a time, the bungalow had been a popular I reached into the cold recesses of appliances — the refrigerator
seaside getaway for my young family but had long since became a sterile haven as I meticulously disinfected its

Volume 6 Issue 2 (2024) 10 https://doi.org/10.36922/jcau.1335