The Entrance Hall - Journal V

The entrance hall is the first articulation of a house. Not a room exactly, but not simply a passage either - a space of arrival and orientation. In eighteenth- and nineteenth-century houses, it was composed not for lingering but for reading. You were meant to understand the building almost immediately upon entry.

Ours sits, slightly awkwardly, on the intersection of our 'L-shaped' house and is in constant use - less a threshold than a point of return. That distinction mattered when it came to colour. The hall needed to feel resolved rather than decorated, capable of holding strong, simple furniture, an open fire, and the general chaos of a house in constant use.

A good neutral doesn't announce itself. There is a quietness to it that doesn’t steal the eye. From a design perspective, that restraint felt necessary here. But also from a historic perspective; this room, which was never designed to impress anyone, doesn't warrant strong, punchy pigments - the kind that were historically far more expensive, and reserved for the rooms that were.

I've long admired the work of colourist Edward Bulmer - particularly his knowledge of how colour operates within historic buildings. It’s never in isolation, but always in relation to architecture, light, and material. So having him over for lunch to discuss what the house needed naturally felt like the right thing to do.

We moved through the house first, observing how light shifted across surfaces, how spaces connected, and how the building read as a whole. The colour came later. What emerged wasn't simply a palette - it was a clearer way of seeing the house itself.

The colour we decided on was Paris Grey - and once Edward said it, nothing else made sense. I’m not sure why it’s called a grey but, knowing Edward, there’ll be a good reason. I see it more as a very soft green which becomes much more present in our west-facing rooms. Against the mix of 19th century oak and 18th century Delft tiles we have in our entrance hall, it feels at ease. It does exactly what a neutral should do: sit there quietly and make everything else look beautiful.

The finish was considered as carefully as the colour. After visiting our friend’s Robin Lucas and his partner, Tom, we were inspired to take a gloss to traditional tide-line height on the lower portion of the walls - sponge-friendly for when the dogs decide to shake-off inside - with a softer, chalkier finish above. Both in Paris Grey.

Paint is often treated as a purely visual decision. It isn't. It has a material presence that affects how a space is felt, and working with natural paint felt essential here, as it did elsewhere in the house. In the kitchen, a chalk white limewash was mixed with a sandy pigment found beneath the flagstones - a reminder that even the walls carry traces of what lies beneath them. The same sensibility continues in the hall. In houses of this age, materials that breathe and settle tend to sit more comfortably within the structure. The effect is understated, but it contributes to something felt rather than immediately seen. The entrance hall doesn't announce itself. It just holds together - which, in a house this age, is exactly enough. Words: Will Green