The Making of The George
When I first decided to turn The George into a holiday home, it wasn’t part of some long-term plan. It was my dad’s place, his home, and after he passed away, our family began the difficult process of trying to sell it. But something about that didn’t sit right. It never felt like the right hands, the right people, or the right ending. After a few viewings and a few silly offers, I started to wonder if maybe it wasn’t ready to leave the family just yet.
My dad was one of those people who could strike up a conversation with anyone. He loved to feed people, pour a drink, and make sure everyone was comfortable. You’d usually find him in the kitchen, music on, glass of wine in hand, singing away while cooking seafood pasta, one of his favourites. He was a born storyteller, full of tales (many of which somehow traced back to North Shields being the birthplace of just about everything). That humour, that warmth, it never really left him. Naming this place The George just felt right.
By the time I decided to keep it, the house had been standing for about a year. It wasn’t a mess, just still, waiting. I knew it needed a bit of love and care to bring it back to life. So I rolled up my sleeves and started the slow process of turning it into something new. Some rooms only needed a touch of paint and light; others asked for a bigger rethink. I wanted to keep its heart, the high ceilings, the Victorian details, the sense of calm, but also make it feel fresh and welcoming again.
Working on the house brought up all sorts of small memories: usually AC/DC blasting when his phone rang, a phrase he’d say mid-conversation, the way he’d have an opinion on every little decision. There were times I could almost hear him, commenting on what I was doing and wondering why I hadn’t done it sooner. And whenever I made a decorating choice, I could just imagine him saying, “Yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking,” with that familiar laugh that meant he definitely hadn’t been thinking it at all. As the work went on, it started to feel good, like giving the place a new purpose while keeping a sense of him within it. Every choice, from the colours on the walls to how the light moves through the rooms, became a quiet way of continuing that story.
Piece by piece, room by room, The George started to come alive again. It became a way of honouring him, not by preserving what was, but by creating something that carries his warmth forward.
Now, when people stay here, I like to think they feel some of that spirit, a place that invites slow mornings, seaside walks, good food, and easy conversation. The George has become more than a house by the coast. It’s a small tribute, filled with heart, to someone who always had a story to tell.
