When we bought an older country house in England, I naively thought the process of renovating it would be a universal language. After all, I’d done this before in Virginia… drywall is drywall, paint is paint, and a power drill is, well, a power drill. Turns out, none of that is true.
We’ve just embarked on what will almost certainly become a months-long renovation odyssey in our newly purchased, charming-but-chaotic English country house. I went into this project with the blind optimism of someone who has renovated before in America and therefore assumes they understand “how houses work.” But within days, it became clear that we hadn’t simply bought a home that could do with a bit of sprucing up; I had actually enlisted myself in a long-term cultural, architectural, and emotional exchange program. Pipes from the Victorian era, switches in totally illogical places, and walls that reject screws like it’s a sport: this renovation isn’t just a project; it’s an initiation. And apparently, I’m in it for the long haul.
Back home in the States, we renovated with an unshakable optimism that HGTV had installed deep in our DNA. You rip out a kitchen, knock down a wall, and boom—instant open concept. In England, knocking down a wall without consulting a structural engineer, the council, and possibly an archaeologist is treated like a minor felony. When I asked one builder about removing a wall, he looked at me the way a priest looks at a sinner mid-confession.
Then there’s the electricity. In America, you flip a breaker and you’re back in business. In England, there are switches on sockets, fuses in plugs, and mysterious circuits powered solely by witchcraft. I once spent half a day trying to figure out why my kitchen light wouldn’t turn on before discovering the switch was across the room, next to the toaster. Every English home is a choose-your-own-adventure story written by a retired electrician with an ironic sense of humor.
And let’s talk about measurements. The first time a hardware clerk told me that I’d need a “3-meter roll of lining paper,” I smiled proudly, pretending I understood. I did not. I went home and converted meters to feet, only to realize I’d underestimated by precisely half a wall. Now my living room has one corner that looks distinctly like I lost interest halfway through the project (which, to be fair, I did).
Paint colors have different names here too. Americans have “eggshell” and “cream.” The British paint catalog offers options for “emulsion” like ‘Farrow White No. 40’ and ‘Elephant’s Breath.’ What even is an emulsion finish? (Although, real talk:… I adore Farrow & Ball now that we’re here. I tried Farrow & Ball when we lived in Virginia and was very disappointed, but my inexperienced self chose a yellow tone for a bathroom, and of course yellow is not going to look nice in a bathroom! All about flattering skin tones, I soon learned. Anyway, I digress.) I once stood in a shop, debating between “Mizzle” and “Cornforth White,” while pretending not to panic about the fact that I didn’t know what either of those things looked like. Everything here sounds like a Jane Austen character, for better or worse.
Plumbing is a national pastime in England, but not one for spectators. In America, you might complain about low water pressure. In England, your shower might simply stop mid-rinse because the entire system was installed when Queen Victoria was still reinventing the monarchy. Hot and cold taps rarely mix, meaning you perform daily water-based experiments that resemble 19th-century chemistry. (Everyone’s daily goal: a temperature that doesn’t either boil or freeze you.)
As an American expat tackling an English country house renovation, nothing has surprised me more than the British attitude toward storage. Closets, as Americans know them, simply don’t exist. While I’m used to walk-ins, linen cupboards, and enough shelving to recreate a small Target aisle, a traditional British home typically offers one mysterious wardrobe that looks like it’s survived since the Great Fire of London. I’ve quickly learned that I own more coats than the average London flat has cubic footage for storage, turning every day in this UK renovation project into an ongoing negotiation between space and sanity.
Even the tools have different personalities. David’s trusty American drill refused to adapt to the British outlets. A neighbor handed him a 240-volt monster that sounded like it might bore straight through to France. I’ve since learned to approach all British tools with reverence and mild fear—the same attitude I reserve for hedgehogs and the IRS.
Yet, between the delays, the metric meltdowns, and the constant discovery of yet another crooked wall, we are accidentally falling in love with the process. There’s something strangely endearing about wrestling with decades or maybe even centuries of history that refuses to modernize just because I have a Pinterest board. This house has stubborn charm—cracks, creaks, and all.
So yes, renovating in England has humbled me in ways America never could. But now, every time I sit under my slightly off-center light fixture and sip tea from a mug that used to hold brushes, I feel oddly proud. This house may not be straight, square, or energy-efficient, but it’s mine. And if the shower stops mid-rinse, well, that’s just part of the charm (or at least that’s what I’ll keep telling the kids until we find the right switch).
Now, as David and I stand at the very beginning of what will no doubt be months—if not seasons—of ongoing repairs, surprises, and dramatic sighing, I’m strangely excited. This old English house has already proven it won’t bend easily to modern expectations, and I’m slowly accepting that neither will this renovation timeline. But there’s something oddly comforting about settling into the rhythm of long-term transformation, learning the quirks of a home that’s older than anything I’ve ever lived in, and knowing that each crooked corner and confusing switch is part of the story we’re building here. The renovating may take ages, but I’m ready—tea in hand, toolbox nearby—for whatever this wonderfully stubborn house throws at us next.