I had the good fortune of growing up with a family bach, located not far from Russell, Kororāreka, in the Bay of Islands. In their early 20s, my parents dreamed of building a simple home away from home — a place to relax, unwind and enjoy holidays. In 1979, they found a steep, narrow beachfront section at the end of a dusty gravel road on the Te Wahapu Peninsula. The main attractions? The ability to launch a boat from the property, the semi-remote bush setting, its proximity to idyllic Russell — and the boating playground beyond. They purchased the section for a mere $15K from the owner of the Kawakawa fish and chip shop and engaged the late architect Graham Pitts to design a house that has since served — and shaped — the cultural identity of our family for over 40 years.

The brief was simple: a small house with a decent living area, designed to optimise ocean views, connect with the native bush, and stay within a tight budget. Graham — who later completed three more projects for my parents — may have been my first real introduction to the concept of architecture. My parents would often talk about his ability to sketch concepts on the fly — quick hand-drawings he affectionately called “grubbies.” He had already completed several homes on the peninsula, was familiar with the planning regulations, and had developed a typology well suited to the steep terrain and style of the era.

The documentation Graham produced was typical of the early 1980s: sparse, hand-drawn, and intentional — without the 3D modelling software or council-mandated clutter we have now come to expect. The design intentions were clear, and the construction detailing kept to a bare minimum. In 1983, construction began. Access was difficult — all materials and tools were carried down through the steep bush. The contractor completed the base build (including building shell, decking, water storage and septic tanks) for just $32K. My parents later finished the interiors and did the electrical wiring themselves, with help from family tradies.

Approaching the house is a short stroll down a native bush path. The loud hum of cicadas and smell of manuka offer a welcoming relief after the long drive from Auckland. Once the bush clears, you're greeted by the view and the outdoor living. The house nestles into its surroundings — timber weatherboards and steeply pitched corrugated iron roofs sitting harmoniously in context. Its skewed orientation ensures views to the southwest are celebrated, and living areas enjoy northern sun. The house steps down the site in five part-levels, designed on poles in a treehouse-like aesthetic. Black-stained screening was later added to conceal the subfloor, and the house itself stained a neutral grey to better complement the landscape. Access to the lawn and beach is via another steep path — and many, many stairs.

The house is now named Tirohanga — a te reo Māori word meaning view, perspective, or scenery — or as I’ve always known it, “the house with a view.” It also honours the name of my great-grandparents’ house in Feilding, where my father lived for several years as a child.

Most of my school holidays were spent here. Summers were blissful in the balmy ‘Winterless North’ — collecting shells, boating, waterskiing, bush walking, rope swinging, swimming and fishing off the little wooden jetty. We'd take bacon and egg pie on our island excursions, have BBQs on the deck, smoke fish (when we caught them) behind the old concrete water tank, and cook damper on makeshift fires on the beach. We'd argue over the dishes, get mauled by mosquitoes, and all the kids would sleep in the ‘bunk house’ — a later addition to accommodate our growing family. Over time, it became the perfect place to take friends for boozy weekends — and now, it’s my escape with my own small tribe.

Improvements were slowly made: fixtures and fittings replaced, a dishwasher, washing machine and dryer added — and more recently, Wi-Fi and Netflix. Yet, once the heat of the day fades, board games, cards and long dinners remain firm favourites.

The site itself is rich with history. In 1831, the land was sold by local Māori tāngata to Scotsman Gilbert Mair. The sale, recorded in te reo Māori, included 7 muskets, 400 musket balls, 3 casks of gunpowder, 144 pipes, 290 pounds of tobacco, flints, scissors, cooking pots and tools. One of the sellers, Ana Humi — a wahine — was later a signatory to Te Tiriti o Waitangi. Mair built his home on the ridge just metres from our bach, overlooking the shipyard and trading station below. The area soon became a settlement with cottages, a blacksmith, a boatbuilder’s shop, an American Consul’s office, school and more.

The old well still exists at the base of our section. Over the years, we’ve uncovered lead musket balls, nails, a leather shoe, and other remnants from that time. In the 1830s, Russell was infamously known as the "Hellhole of the Pacific" — a lawless port town full of drinking, brawling and prostitution. The quaint neighbouring beachfront cottage is rumoured to have been a successful brothel. During the Northern Wars, the area was abandoned by settlers and later used by Kawiti and Hōne Heke as a staging area. In 1846, 300 British troops occupied the site and transformed the civilian village into a military barracks. Puriri stumps from the old parade ground sea wall are still visible at low tide — echoes of colonial reclamation depicted in early watercolours.

My family has spent years researching this history — captivated by its stories. Historic paintings and maps are proudly displayed, and this rich heritage has sparked a deep interest in history in all of us.

The house itself is warm — sometimes too warm. It creaks. The west-facing glazing isn't double-glazed, and on stifling nights, we open the skylight for cross-ventilation. We’ve added a large retractable shade, heat-reducing film, and made small updates over time. Now 40 years on, it’s somewhat dated — and if we started again, the design would be very different. But Graham got the fundamentals right: the position, orientation and materiality still work. We’d love to improve the indoor-outdoor connection, enlarge the kitchen, and add discreet mozzie screens. The current project — an outdoor shower — is under family consultation. A dream of building a beachside studio remains, though resource consents and neighbour politics make it tricky.

My father, now in his 70s, is as resourceful as ever. Partly due to distance from hardware stores — and partly due to age and frugality — he does all of the maintenance himself. He’s a self-described "active relaxer", claiming pride in DIY. But it worries us. He’s often found up ladders, at excessive heights painting, clearing gutters, or replacing flashings. The epitome of a health and safety nightmare. My parents still haul buckets of shells up steep stairs to line paths, repair retaining walls, and plant natives on what they call their “holidays in the Bay.” There’s always a project. But I hope that in retirement, they’ll start to delegate more and finally sit back with a cold beer and soak in all that this special place has to offer.

Tirohanga — our house with a view — is a place of connection, reflection, enjoyment and relaxation. The modest house my parents built, its rich history, and its unique setting have given our family a deep sense of belonging to the Bay of Islands. It’s remarkable how much a simple bach can shape who you are. My husband proposed atop Tapeka Point overlooking the Bay, we married at the historic Pompallier Mission and celebrated at the Russell Town Hall. I will continue to honour this place, bringing my children here often and am hoping to instil the same connection in them.

The Kiwi bach is a true symbol of our national identity. It reflects our love of nature, and our desire to return to a simpler way of life. Whatever its size or finish, its value is immeasurable. At Wingates , our purpose is Creating Places That Truly Matter. We understand the importance of designing homes that respond to each unique site — celebrating landscape, history and culture — and we look forward to working with clients to create enduring, meaningful architecture.

- Elizabeth Mark

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