Blimey, talking about a 1700 bath, you’ve really sent me down memory lane! I was just thinking about this the other day, actually. I was helping a mate sort out his Georgian-style townhouse in Bath—yes, the actual city, funny enough—and we got into a right old chat about what you can and can’t do.
Honestly, if you’re dealing with a proper 1700s bath space, you’re not just slapping in a fancy freestanding tub and calling it a day. Oh no. It’s a whole different ball game. The proportions, they’re… intimate, let’s say. We’re talking about rooms that were often an afterthought, tacked onto the back of the house or squeezed under the eaves. I remember once, in a cottage in the Cotswolds, the original bathing area was barely bigger than a modern wardrobe! They used a tin bath by the fireplace, of course. So your first guideline is this: don’t fight the cosiness. Embrace it.
Space-wise, you’ve got to be clever. Think “fitted” rather than “freestanding”. A 1700 bath corner might only be, I dunno, 1.5 by 2 metres if you’re lucky. You can’t just bung a huge modern basin unit in there. I made that mistake early on, trust me. Bought this gorgeous marble-topped vanity for a project in Spitalfields, looked smashing in the showroom. Got it up the narrow staircase—what a palaver!—only to realise it swallowed the whole room. Felt like you were washing your hands in a furniture shop. Had to sell it at a loss, gutted.
So fittings? They need to be scaled down. Look for a petite, wall-hung basin. Saves floor space and gives you that lighter feel. Taps? Go for cross-head or lever taps in a unlacquered brass or pewter finish. Those modern mixer taps with their sleek lines… they’ll look like they’ve landed from Mars, they really will. I found a supplier in Shoreditch that does beautiful reproductions, they even feel a bit stiff to turn, just like the old ones. Adds to the charm, even if it’s a bit annoying when you’ve got soapy hands!
And materials—this is where you can have a bit of fun, but you’ve got to be authentic. Forget large-format porcelain tiles. Small, hexagonal floor tiles in limestone or terracotta. They’re cold underfoot, mind you, so a wee rug is essential. The walls? Traditional lime plaster or simple tongue-and-groove panelling to about waist height. I painted some in this deep, inky blue for a client in Edinburgh, Farrow & Ball’s ‘Hague Blue’, I think. With the candlelight from a sconce… oh, it was magical. Felt like you were in a different century. But you try keeping that plaster looking pristine with all the steam! It needs to breathe, see. Modern vinyl paint would just trap the moisture and cause no end of grief.
Ventilation is the silent killer in these projects. Those old rooms often had just a tiny sash window. You can’t rely on a noisy extractor fan that sounds like a helicopter taking off. I always try to preserve the original window and make sure it opens properly. Maybe add a discreet trickle vent above it. There’s nothing worse than that damp, mildewy smell creeping in after a few months. Ruins the whole experience.
Storage is another headache. They didn’t have cabinets full of lotions and potions back then! I tend to use a simple, open wooden shelf above the loo, or a small, painted cupboard that looks like it’s always been there. Hide the modern necessities, but don’t try to hide the fact it’s an old room.
At the end of the day, the guideline isn’t really a rulebook. It’s about respecting the bones of the place. Don’t try to make a 1700 bath behave like a 2024 spa. It’ll fight you every step of the way. Let it be what it is—a bit quirky, a bit cramped, but full of character. You’re just the caretaker for a little while. My biggest lesson? Sometimes the best thing you can add is… nothing at all. Just a good clean, some sympathetic repairs, and a really fluffy towel.
Right, I’ve gone on a bit, haven’t I? Hope that’s given you a few ideas. It’s all about the feel of the thing, really. Cheers
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