Dunollie

Dunollie stirs in the half-light, its walls breathing the day’s warmth back into the evening air. The front rooms, steadfast in their Edwardian symmetry, hum with the memory of decades past, while the new living room reaches for the garden, catching the scent of damp earth and cut grass. From the balcony above, the Clifton Hill Shot Tower stands sentinel, rising through the dusk, steady and watchful.

Inside, Frances moves quietly across the timber floors. She pauses at a shelf, tracing the spines of books and family photos. Andrew is outside already, glasses clinking on the timber deck as he welcomes friends – car club companions – laughter spilling freely into the garden.

“Galvanised,” Andrew says to a guest, running his hand along the shimmering cladding, “it reminds me of engines and old sheds. Honest, no fuss.” Frances smiles, already knowing the line. For her, it is less about engines and more about light. She watches how it shifts across the perforated screen, catching shadows, throwing lacework onto walls.