Theatrical impresario Edward Alleyn bought a swathe of farmland in southeast London in 1605, establishing a charitable foundation and Dulwich College. On his death, the land passed to the Dulwich Estate. Fast forward to postwar Britain and the Estate was demolishing derelict mansions to make way for the social housing so desperately needed.
Designed by architects Austin Vernon & Partners, hundreds of high-spec council homes were built between 1957 and the late 1960s. One of the earliest townhouses, perched at the top of Sydenham Hill, now belongs to Tim McInnes, who balances his job as a strategy director with a passion for design and cycling (he’s chair of the Herne Hill Velodrome charity).
Born and bred in the area (‘I could probably, with a strong arm, throw a ball and hit the house I grew up in, 300 metres away’), Tim always aspired to move ‘up the hill’. ‘They have good bones,’ he says of the townhouses overlooking Low Cross Wood and the city beyond. ‘There are only 20 of them, so they don’t come on the market that often.’
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Tim’s profound personal connection to this kind of architecture is shaped by his father Ian, a retired architect and former chairman of the Twentieth Century Society, who wrote a book about Dulwich’s 1960s houses. These quintessentially English mid-century gems have a dedicated following that gives the neighbourhood a strong sense of community.
‘For where it is in London, it’s not very well served with amenities, but everyone understands that’s the trade-off,’ Tim says. ‘If I was next to the station or near shops, there’s no chance I’d have the view I’ve got from my bedroom.’
Tim embraced the romance of restoring the townhouse to its former glory, while also putting his own mark on it. His pragmatic approach aimed for homage rather than pastiche. ‘I’m a 43-year-old man who likes 17th-century Dutch paintings – I’m not going to pretend that’s not the case,’ he says. ‘I’ve got stuff that doesn’t “fit”, but find me a house where everything is of the right period. It’s respectful, but also representative of me. I should say “us”, but my partner Fran let me get on with it!’
The pair spent a chilly couple of weeks on site while the windows were replaced, then decamped to a nearby Airbnb when the builders took over. Tim stole space from the generous garage (‘it was big enough to fit a Rolls-Royce, but I’m never going to buy one!’) and reconfigured the ground floor to be open-plan, with a Hølte kitchen that blends modern functionality with retro flair.
He sourced period-appropriate materials, including tiles used in the Barbican, cork flooring and wood panelling, and hung his eclectic art collection on white walls in the main spaces, confining bolder colour to the study and bedrooms.
So far, it all makes sense. Then you open a door and step into a tiki-inspired alternative reality. It all came about because Tim toured a home in the Hollywood Hills while on a cycling holiday.
‘The guy who built it clearly wanted that classic 1960s-LA vibe,’ he recalls, ‘but his wife said, “Just let me decorate the toilet”, which was Victorian with lacy, flocked wallpaper.’ Tickled by the idea, Tim replicated it in his old house, then decided to surprise visitors with a tiki bathroom in his new home.
Every night when he walks into his bedroom, Tim marvels at the view of the city lights and the Wembley Arch glowing in the distance. With his trusty binoculars he can even see Big Ben. Smiling, he admits: ‘I spared Fran the residents’ WhatsApp group for as long as possible, but when she did join, someone wrote: “Welcome to the best houses in London.” That is what people feel here.’
