It seems most New Zealand architects have the same vision of Arcadia. The vision unfailingly involves a pōhutukawa, through which one looks to sun-dappled water. One architect slipped into exactly this Utopian reverie while writing about Jack Manning’s house at Stanley Point, in Tāmaki Makaurau: “All of Auckland should be like this; all of Auckland was once like this, I would like to imagine. Golden evenings, tangles of pōhutukawa above the mud of the harbour, a simple, unpretentious but elegant house crafted out of wood, a big deck and, down in the tide, the sound of kids playing.”

If, in Tāmaki, this idyllic scene has played out in Devonport and Stanley Point, with those hallowed mid-century Group houses, in Te Whanganui-a-Tara Wellington it centres to my mind on Roseneath and Hataitai. The presence of abundant pōhutukawa and a water view is no doubt mostly responsible. But so too is the fact that these hillsides turn their backs on the city, facing the generally undeveloped bush-clad slopes of Miramar Peninsula. Granted, the sun dapples all-too-rarely on the water below, and it disappears behind the hill all-too-early, but watching airplanes battle their way in to land against a southerly provides plenty else to see. And when Wellington does have a good day… well you know what they say.

It’s here on these slopes in Hataitai that Sam Kebbell of KebbellDaish Architects and his clients have built a house that tries actively to contribute to the community and public space. The project began when the section next door to the clients’ 1920s house came up for sale. The couple purchased the site and eventually approached Kebbell to design a low-cost yet thoughtful house that they could rent out.

The first thing you notice about the house is, of course, those pōhutukawa-framed views. From the street you walk down a short driveway to a carport. Here is where you stop and lean on the railing to take in the view. The house has what seems like two front doors: one is next to the carport, the other just around the corner next to the existing house. It’s the first sign of well-crafted informality, with the route between the two doors designed perhaps for children’s games of tag. It’s bachy and casual and suits the site: the game of tag could extend down the internal stairs, out the downstairs door, through the lower courtyard and back up the external stairs between this house and its 1920s neighbour.

Inside, the sloping timber ceiling draws your eyes down to the water. You gravitate towards leaning against the balustrade, and here is where you stop the second time to take in the view and space. From here, the kitchen is behind you, with two large windows framing views of the street-level picket fence. Down the stairs is the living area and balcony (the third place to lean against the railing and take in the view). Down one more level are three bedrooms, a bathroom, laundry and outdoor courtyard.

Materials are simple and modest throughout, with focus given to the public spaces. “It’s just pine,” says Kebbell of the wall linings in the living area, “but it makes the space warm.” Colours match the home’s playfulness and informality, with the exterior in light blue with orange-yellow accents. A ply-lined recess in the living-room wall is reminiscent of a bachy version of tokonoma, the ornament space used to display flowers, art or objects in a traditional Japanese house.

Walking to the local craft brewery after showing me around the house, Kebbell – a Hataitai local – slips into his own reverie as he reflects on how the house contributes to the community. “House boundaries weren’t always so defined. It used to be that kids could roam free, swimming together at the beach after school, raiding neighbours’ fridges on the way back home. People didn’t know where their property boundaries were.” For Kebbell and his clients, the happy opportunity of owning two neighbouring sites offered the chance to restore, in a small way, that sense of community spirit by forming a path between the houses down to the beach for neighbours and friends.

The house is located on a cul-de-sac. To reach the water, residents of this street, and those further up Hataitai’s slopes, wind their way down along the roads. The historic accidents of subdivision and building mean there are no pedestrian zig-zags here – none of what writer Kirsty Gunn has called “those crazy, zany, hopscotch-stepped paths that criss-cross all over Wellington’s hills.” But Kebbell became interested in the fact that below this new house and its existing 1920s neighbour is a council-owned reserve. What if a zig-zag could be formed between the two properties, then through the public reserve to connect the street to the sea?

In Kebbell’s words: “Perhaps there will be a time when our concern for individual security gives way to a bigger concern for collective resilience, and the path can become more of a suburban alleyway – a shortcut to the beach for a wider circle of friends and neighbours.” For now, though, the reverie remains just that; the beach is a windy (both meanings are true in this city) couple of streets away. This collective spirit has done much to form the house itself, defining the broad, well-planted pathway on its southern boundary, waiting for the council to, perhaps one day, extend the path through the reserve.

In the meantime, there’s a beautiful house-bach for some lucky tenants. All of Te Whanganui-a-Tara should be like this – or was once like this, I’m tempted to say. Golden evenings, tangles of pōhutukawa… a simple, unpretentious but elegant house crafted of wood… a big deck and, down in the tide, the sound of kids playing. I, for one, will take the architects’ Arcadia any day.

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