Sunny Siren Before and After
How a forgotten 1966 shack became our colourful family hideaway
Sunny Siren wasn’t something we discovered on a Pinterest scroll. She found us.
Sam’s mum, Hilary, introduced us to what is now Sunny Siren. On one of our visits to her shack in Parsons Cove, Tasmania, we were walking past this tiny waterfront place. It was dark, overgrown, and completely time-warped. A proper mid-century architectural gem that looked like it hadn’t been used, renovated, or touched since the day it was built in 1966.
Fast forward a few years and Hilary shocked us with her passing from an aggressive brain tumour. True to her word, the little shack she always told us we must buy came up for sale at the same time. It felt like a sign. A way to stay connected to Hilary, to Sam’s sisters, and to the bay that held so many memories for their family. It’s where Sam and his sisters grew up visiting, climbing, and being wild little adventurers. We wanted that for our girls too.
I think there are a lot of full-circle moments in life. When they happen, you feel it in your bones.
The befores
When we first stepped into the shack, it was rough.
The block was overgrown.
The deck was decaying.
A water tank on the roof had exploded and leaked down the wall and across the floor.
The kitchen and bathroom floors were bubbling black lino that honestly looked like rats were hiding underneath.
The kids were actually scared to go to the bathroom. We were laughing, but also… fair.
What other people saw was a waterfront knock-down. A shack to replace.
What we saw was the rarest thing. A structure that hadn’t been “man handled” by renovations or altered trends. It was still itself. Built in 1966, and waiting for someone to bring it back to life with vision and grit.
So we got to work.
The grit (Sam’s side of the glow up)
Sam started with the unglamorous stuff, the stuff that makes the dream possible.
He repaired the ceiling where water damage had caused sections to fall down.
He ripped up the old carpet that had literally indented itself into the floorboards.
He re-sanded the floors and stained them to bring the timber back to life.
He pulled up the lino and laid terrazzo tiles that felt right for the era.
Then there was the septic tank. The joy.
Tree roots had grown through it, and it was partially blocked after years of neglect, so he repaired that too.
He also:
Fixed a few piers that were starting to slip
Rebuilt sections of the deck that were deteriorated
Installed a new hot water system
Fixed electrical issues and replaced lighting
Put in a new bathroom vanity and sink
Sam thinks this kind of work came in around $60k, and I cannot confirm that number precisely because it was a mix of him doing the labour himself and sourcing everything directly. What I can say with confidence is this: doing the labour yourself is the only reason a project like this is even possible at this level.
The fun part (my favourite bit)
Once the bones were saved, I got to do the part I love most.
I designed the layout. I sourced furniture. I imagined how we wanted it to feel when you walk in the door.
Landscaping is my jam, and while Sam was knee-deep in the septic tank, I was outside clearing the land, collecting stone, and rediscovering old granite walls like a little archaeologist with a spade and brush. There was so much beautiful granite rock on the site, just buried under years of dirt, leaves, and overgrowth.
We also started pulling stone for the inside fireplace. We knew we wanted to use granite from the site for the fireplace cladding. Not imported. Not fake. The real stone that the shack actually sits on. Staying true to the area, and to the story.
The after
Somehow, after all that chaos, it turned into the most colourful, fun, vibrant little treat.
Our goal was simple: walk in and instantly feel like you’re on holidays somewhere creative.
Not precious. Not perfect. Just joyful.
A place where the kids feel inspired. Where we feel inspired too. Our space to draw again, to make shell necklaces, to be outdoors, and to get creative in every sense of the word.
And we made one decision early that shaped everything.
No TV. Just adventures.
Why it matters to us
Sunny Siren is more than a renovation.
It’s a connection point for us with Sam’s Sisters and families. A way to stay close to Hilary (Sam’s mum, who’s ashes were scattered in the ocean below), and to the part of Tasmania that meant so much to her. A place for our girls to grow up with sand in their hair, salty skin, and freedom. The same kind of freedom Sam had there as a kid.
The full circle part
Life at 43 has shown me something I didn’t fully understand when I was younger. There are so many full circle moments, and when they arrive, you feel them.
I grew up in the bush, and somehow, here we are again, living in the bush. Not because it’s trendy or idyllic, but because it feels like home. The quiet. The space. The way the days slow down. Watching my girls grow up with a freedom that looks so much like my own childhood feels like I’m being given a second chance to live the best parts of life again, but through their eyes.
And for Sam, it’s the same kind of magic. He grew up travelling to Freycinet, climbing, exploring, and spending his days outside being adventurous in that wild, uncomplicated way kids are meant to be. Now we’re back in the very place that shaped him, doing it all again for the next generation. Same coastline. Same granite. Same salty air. Different little feet running around.
I think it’s important to say this too. Full circle doesn’t mean repeating everything. It doesn’t mean reliving the hard parts. It means returning to what was good, keeping what was pure, and rebuilding it in a way that feels safe and steady.
Like a do-over, but the good kind. The kind where you get to keep the magic, leave the rest behind, and do the best parts again.
You can view more images on instagram @sunny.siren.1966
