It’s not a castle. Let’s get that out of the way. Nobody is pouring boiling oil off the parapet. But 739 Mount Macedon Road is definitely castle adjacent. It has sandstone-coloured block walls, a chimney stack standing up like a turret, a parapet on the roof, and a curving stone staircase that wraps up the outside of the house and appears to lead straight to the sky. It looks grand. It also looks like it hasn’t seen a pressure washer since the Hawke government. And it looks, more than anything, like the best party house in the Macedon Ranges.
The agent agrees, sort of. In five long paragraphs of family history they mention that the Clarkes have partied and even gotten married here for generations. So we’ve done the obvious thing and drawn up the run sheet. Willowmount, consider yourself booked.
Saturday, 10am: hire the Karcher.
Before anyone arrives, the place needs a wash. The stone stair is streaked and mossy, the courtyard flagstones are wearing a decade of leaf litter, and the walls have the grey patina of a house that has been weathering on the side of a mountain since the 1980s. It was built from reinforced concrete and blocks, which means it’ll survive anything you throw at it, including a pressure washer on its highest setting. Book it for the whole weekend. You’ll want it again on Sunday.
4pm: guests arrive at the sign.
There’s a timber sign in the hedge out the front that says WILLOWMOUNT in carved capitals, which is about as close to a portcullis as you’ll get in Victoria. Then it’s a walk up past the elms, oaks, tulip trees and Japanese maples to a house you can barely see through the branches. It’s on 1.59 hectares. People will get lost. That’s fine. That’s the point.
5pm: drinks on the roof.
This is the main event, and what that staircase was built for. The agent says it’s “a roof you can walk up on to enjoy the view with a cup of coffee and a book,” which is a lovely way of saying the whole roof is a terrace, with a parapet and an outdoor table and the forest crowding up against every side. Tell your guests the stairs go to the roof. They won’t believe you. Then watch their faces when the stairs really do.
7pm: dinner.
The kitchen is a long run of timber cupboards with a double oven, two dishwashers, a large pantry and, the agent promises, “even more bench space.” Feed thirty. Off the kitchen is a big enclosed courtyard, and upstairs a big balcony with a cable balustrade and a view of the sun going down behind the mountain. There are three open fireplaces, so whichever sitting room you pick, there’s a fire going in it.
9pm: the cinema.
Okay. Look. We need to talk about the cinema. Whoever decorated it chose acid green for two walls and electric blue for the other two, then painted the concrete floor blue to match, then covered the green walls and ceiling in green egg-crate acoustic foam. Into this they placed a red rug, three red recliners and two cream ones, a full wall of DVDs, a cardboard Spider-Man display stand, and posters for Bend It Like Beckham and Domino. It’s like a colour wheel exploded inside a Blockbuster, and we mean that with love. Lights down, projector on, and nobody will be able to see the walls anyway.
11pm: someone needs the bathroom.
There are five bathrooms plus two extra toilets, so the queue moves quickly. But send at least one guest to the main bathroom, because it’s the best room in the house. Everything is timber: the panelled bath surround, the vanity, the drawers, the benchtops, even the frame around the mirror. It’s very handsome, and in a house on the side of a damp, misty mountain it’s a brave choice that we hope comes with a good exhaust fan. Next to the bath hangs a print of a Vermeer woman in blue reading a letter. And in the mirror, on the far wall, is a poster from Melbourne Zoo, 1992, of three badgers curled up in a pile of leaves.
Why are there badgers in the bathroom? Australia doesn’t have badgers. They’re not even facing the bath. Ask the agent. Ask the Clarkes. Ask the gentleman in the gilt frame over the roll-top desk, who has clearly seen everything that’s ever happened in this house and has thoughts. Somebody knows.
1am: everybody stays over.
Eight bedrooms. One is purple, with books floor to ceiling and a mirrored wardrobe. There are window seats in nearly every room, most of them in gold-framed bays looking out at the mountain. Whoever can’t get a bed gets a window seat, and whoever can’t get a window seat gets the bamboo grove.
Sunday, 9am: the garden.
Hangovers are walked off down the lawn, past the rose walk and the orchard, under the timber arch, through the bamboo, to the pond with its rope swing and down to Turritable Creek tumbling through the ferns. It’s the most beautiful thing on the property and it’ll fix anything. Then bring the Karcher back out, because the stair will need another go.
The bill.
Three point two million dollars, eight bedrooms, five bathrooms, two car spaces, 1.59 hectares, and a short walk from the Mount Macedon pub for when the beer runs out. For the first time in nearly a hundred years it’s open to somebody new. We’d say pick up the keys, hire a DJ and give the place the party it was built for. Just say hi to the badgers on your way in.
