From the air, it already looks like more than a house: a tiled Mediterranean roofline rising out of four hectares of Queensland bushland, a white wrought-iron footbridge arcing over the front lawn, and a pool tucked in behind a shed that’s bigger than most inner-city apartments. Built in 1975, it has had a very long time to commit to a vision. It used that time well.
Inside, the scale keeps going: a formal dining room set for a banquet under twin chandeliers, a second lounge in red velvet and gold curtain with its own grand piano, and a stairwell sheathed floor-to-ceiling in mirror panels, multiplying the red carpet runner into infinity. Somewhere in here is also a private theatre, complete with stage, podium and full curtain rig — we did not ask what it was used for, we simply applauded.
And then there’s the room. A perfectly round chamber, brick-papered walls, crossed swords and battle-axes mounted between crimson banners reading “Semper Cum Deus,” two full suits of armour standing sentry, and a round table ringed in blue leather chairs for whatever business requires Crusaders. We have featured bullfighter murals and decorative moats. Nothing has come close to a dedicated knights’ chamber.
The kitchen, by comparison, almost reads as restraint — fully, gloriously yellow, laminate and proud, the one room in the house that looks like it belongs to the same decade as the carpet. This one isn’t on the market, and Domain’s records show it last changed hands quietly back in 2016. We just wanted you to know it exists.
