Every so often, one comes across an ancient house that feels as though it has been waiting for the right owner to come along. Once brought together, there grows a symbiotic understanding to the mutual benefit of both, allowing hidden corners, previously unseen shadows and angles, to enjoy renewed beauty. Such is the case of designer Martin Hulbert and his partner, Mark Jowell, and the home they moved into five years ago.
For several years prior, the two had been working in London, Martin as head of MHD – an award-winning design firm known for elegant, sophisticated interiors – and Mark for local government. They had become accustomed to spending their weekends in a small cottage in Northamptonshire, and eventually decided to move permanently to the country. Martin had studied at university in Sussex, would often visit nearby Great Dixter (WoI March 2011), the home of garden writer Christopher Lloyd, and had grown to love the area. Several of the people he had known at that time remained there, so it was natural to search for their new home in the neighbourhood. In 2020 the pair found this white, 17th-century clapboard hall house, hidden behind high walls and hedges. ‘It had an air of being cocooned in history,’ says Mark, ‘with a rumoured past of smugglers and underground tunnels taking brandy to the sea.’
Built as cruck-framed structures, hall houses were often two storeys high and had living areas or parlours on either side, but today, few such buildings remain in their original form. This particular example had had a varied past: at one stage it had belonged to a Romani man who had owned much of the village, employing staff and building a coach house to accommodate three horses and a groom.
A Georgian makeover took place – examples of double glazing from early in the period still exist in the upper bedrooms – and at one stage, the house had been used as a smallpox hospital (18th-century graffiti by one possible survivor was found scratched on a window). In a somewhat ad hoc manner, different parts of the house were added on at separate times, so that long, narrow corridors give way to rooms that are angled in unexpected ways. It is thought that the architect Edwin Lutyens, when working on Great Dixter, was involved with the interior here, leaving behind such marks as the distinctive banister feature of curved indents, as well as early examples of window detailing.
Martin was now to be his own client, and very sensibly let the house do the talking: for several weeks, innumerable skips of chipped paint and wallpaper were filled up as he ‘defenestrated’ the site. Acres of carpet were ripped up, revealing gloriously wide and generally immaculate oak floorboards; the few more recent pine ones he simply painted over. ‘These old houses are dusty places, and carpets, it is true, do keep down the dust,’ which is why, states Martin vehemently, ‘I cannot bear them. I don’t think I have ever put down fitted carpet, other than on stairs, in any project I have worked on.’
The walls are made mostly of lath and plaster and, along with the brickwork, these have been made good in several instances. The layout of the house has been left exactly as it was. It is as if an enormous industrial vacuum cleaner had sucked out all that had been installed in centuries past, leaving only the original parts of the house intact. Martin and Mark finished the process by using a pigment paint as close to the natural colour of the plaster and lath as possible, giving the house a creamy, milky shade throughout.
The garden was a different story. Only an acre in size, it had been wholly neglected, borders exhausted by the previous owner’s overzealous use of weed killer. ‘There was hardly a worm left in the garden,’ Martin says with a laugh. Liking the idea of formality and informality existing side by side, they dug a narrow rill to be surrounded by plants in the centre of the lawn. The old tennis court is now a beautiful, largely self-sufficient vegetable garden, with home-made gates and larch poles supporting sacking or sheets to protect an outside dining table from the sun.
In the dining room they immediately took out an ugly 1970s brick fireplace. Not wanting to go through the business of planning consent – and as a temporary measure – Martin bolted a couple of pieces of wood together, and, using cardboard, string and foam, created a papier-mâché formal screen with a design based on his beloved espaliered trees to cover the whole thing. Now full height, it stands against the wall, surrounding what would have been the fireplace.
Once uncovered, the beams in the kitchen were found to be attractively detailed. A fitted kitchen had been built over original niches for cupboards and shelves. Since much of their lives is spent in this room – and they believe that every piece of furniture there should have a function – Martin and Mark have used these spaces to position the oven, sinks and other pieces of equipment. The floor here is laid with handmade tiles produced locally by Aldershaw, whose craftsmen use clay found in the ancient woodland nearby.
Its new owners already seem an ideal fit for this house. Paintings by Duncan Grant, for whom Mark modelled in his youth, as well as works and sculptures by Martin, give the place a distinct Bloomsbury air – although both men dismiss this as being unintentional. ‘It is in our DNA,’ says Martin, ‘we just have similar tastes.’ They have brought the house up to date without making any drastic interventions. And they have instinctively embraced its quirks: ‘The slope of the floorboards is at such an angle in the bedroom,’ explains Mark, ‘that I leave my slippers at some distance from my bed!’
For more about Martin Hulbert’s work, visit martinhulbertdesign.com
A version of this article appeared in the October 2025 issue of ‘The World of Interiors’. Learn about our subscription offers
