So, imagine returning to your immaculate, multi
-million dollar summer mansion. Right, the absolute
dream house. Yeah, but only to find that the
government has literally welded a giant concrete
public bathroom directly to the base of your
exquisite historic architectural tower. Oh, I
mean, it really is the ultimate nightmare for
high society, isn't it? It sounds like a bad
architectural joke, but in 1944, that is exactly
what happened to one of Australia's wealthiest
families. It's wild, but it perfectly illustrates
how fragile the concept of private ownership
can be when history just decides to intervene.
Exactly. And I am so glad you're joining us for
this deep dive today, because we are looking
at a truly fascinating Wikipedia article. It
really is a great source. It is. It details the
history of a sp - Adelaide Mansion, known as
Beerily, Bel Air, and also its beachfront sister
property, Beerily, Glen Elg. And for you listening,
our mission today is to explore how this single
piece of architecture acts as a perfect, and
honestly, sometimes incredibly messy, mirror
for an entire century of changing societal, military,
and medical needs. We often just walk past these
old houses without realizing there are actually
time capsules. We really do. And it is quite
a setting for a story. We are talking about the
Adelaide Plains in South Australia, which is
a region that underwent massive transformations
from the late 19th century all the way through
the 20s. We saw a lot of change. A ton of change.
And I want to set a calm, analytical tone here
because this isn't just a timeline of who bought
what. Right. It is a story about how global events,
economic boom and bust cycles, existential world
wars, public health crises, how they force our
physical spaces to constantly reinvent themselves.
OK, let's unpack this. We have to start at the
very beginning back in 1887. Let's go there.
So the mansion at Bel Air is originally built
by a man named Thomas Kinley Hamilton. He was
an Irish doctor, an ENT surgeon, who had been
practicing up in the South Australian mid -north
before moving down. And he builds this vast sweeping
estate and names it Willa Willa. And you know,
vast is really the operative word here. Oh, yeah.
Yeah. This wasn't just a large house. It was
a sprawling domain. The estate extended all the
way to Brown Hill Creek, reaching west to James
Road and Old Bel Air Road. Oh, wow. That is huge.
It is. Hamilton was a man of significant status.
I mean, he was even on the governing board of
the adjacent National Park. He had the resources
to essentially carve out a personal kingdom.
Right. He even had his brother build a smaller
house on the corner of the estate. And he donated
land nearby for the Church of the Holy Innocents.
He was very busy. He was. But reading through
the sources. Hamilton sounds a bit like a modern
day HGTV enthusiast who is trying to fund a dream
house through some very whiskey side hustles.
That's a great way to put it. Because he made
his money from his medical practice, sure, but
also from aggressive land speculation. And apparently
he lost massive sums of money later on speculating
on York Peninsula land. Right, he took a big
hit there. So before we get into the house itself,
how did that mechanism actually work? Like, why
was a prominent surgeon gambling on random land
tracks? Well, what's fascinating here is that
this behavior was practically a defining characteristic
of the era's colonial ambition. Really? Just
everyone was doing it? Pretty much. In the 1880s,
South Australia was riding high on copper booms
and agricultural expansion. Oh, okay. There was
this prevailing frontier mindset that land was
an endless guaranteed escalator for wealth generation.
Professionals like doctors or lawyers, they often
didn't just want to be wealthy in a bank ledger.
They wanted to play the lord of the manor. Exactly.
They wanted to be landed gentry. You would borrow
heavily to buy vast tracts of agricultural land,
assuming the value would only ever go up, just
to fund your immediate aristocratic lifestyle.
Wow. The house, willa willa, was the physical
manifestation of that exact ambition. But the
bubble bursts. Right. I mean, he loses a fortune
because agricultural land values plummet when
the climate or the markets just don't cooperate.
Precisely. It was built on a highly volatile
foundation. And like a lot of grand visions,
the physical estate fractures almost the moment
the visionary is gone. Hamilton dies in 1917
and the grand estate just sits vacant. It's simply
too big, too unwieldy to maintain. Exactly. So
an architect named Gil Cully steps in, buys the
land and starts carving it up. Which is really
the inevitable fate of many of these massive
estates. The maintenance, the staff required,
the sheer scale. It's just too much. Right. It
becomes entirely impractical for the next generation,
especially as domestic labor became more expensive
in the early 20th century. But Cully's subdivision
is quite clever. architecturally speaking. He
really is. I mean, he converts the old stables
into this asymmetric Tudor bungalow. I'd look
that up. It essentially means he took the rectangular
utilitarian footprint of a horse stable and slapped
a steeply pitched cross gabled roof on it. Yeah,
deliberately making the front facade uneven to
hide its original purpose, which is so sneaky.
And in a wonderfully confusing twist of history,
he takes the original name of the Grand Mansion,
Willa. Willa, and attaches it to this new converted
stable house. He does. He also converts the coach
house into a home. The sources note you can actually
still see the infills in the brickwork where
the massive old coach stall doors used to be.
That is so cool. And you can even see traces
of the old internal dirt roads that used to connect
all these ancillary buildings across the estate.
Oh, wow. It is a perfect example of architectural
ghosting. The original skeleton of Hamilton's
ambition is still there. It's just repurposed.
But because Cully chopped up the land and stole
the name for the bungalow, the grand main house
is left sitting there. completely stripped of
its original identity. It's a blank slate. Right.
Which creates the perfect vacuum for a soap magnate
looking for a summer retreat. Enter William Burford.
Yes. William Burford, who runs WH Burford and
Sons. It's a massive soap and candle manufacturing
business that eventually becomes part of the
liver and kitchen empire. A very successful business.
Oh, massively. So he buys the remaining estate
around 1919. And here's where it gets really
interesting. He renames the Bel Air House, Beerily.
And that name carries a lot of weight. It does,
but I have to push back on this a bit. Oh. Yeah,
because Burford's primary residence was a beachfront
mansion in Glenelg, and the name of that house
was also Beerily. That's right. Plus the name
was heavily tied to his soap brand. If you are
that incredibly wealthy, why are you essentially
just copy pasting your brand name onto your summer
house? You think it's lazy. I mean, was this
early corporate synergy, or did the man just
lack imagination when it came to naming things?
It honestly sounds like a massive ego trip. Well,
it absolutely has elements of an ego trip. But
in the context of the early 20th century industrialist
class, it is actually a profound statement of
legacy and ownership. OK, has so? You have to
remember, Burford was new money built on industrial
soap and candles, not old aristocratic wealth.
Renaming a great house is how you establish a
new dynasty. Ah, I see. By applying the name
Birrily, which is a name synonymous with his
commercial success and his primary seat of power
in Glenelg, He was effectively stamping his family
crest on the Bel Air property. That makes sense.
Right. It wasn't just a summer house. It was
an extension of the Burford corporate and familial
empire. OK, I can see that. He's marking his
territory, turning his brand into a physical
dynasty. And the Glenelg Burleigh was no joke
either. Not at all. It was a massive hub for
the family, heavily used by his wife and daughters
until he sold it in 1921 after his wife passed
away. But the Bel Air Burley really becomes the
fortress of the family after Burford himself
dies in 1925. That is when we see the house transition
from a summer retreat into a full -fledged mechanism
of elite leisure. Elite leisure, I like that.
Yeah, the descendants, the Parks, the Beals,
the Robertsons, they take over. And they use
the house exactly as it was designed to be used
by high society. And the sources paint such a
vivid picture of this era. You have Octavius
Cyril Beal. the son of a wealthy Irish -born
Australian piano manufacturer marrying into the
family. Right. Imagine the specific opulence
of industrial soap money merging with luxury
piano money in the roaring 1920s. You have these
grand wedding receptions on the lawns. It sounds
incredibly lavish. It really does. In 1932, there's
a note about a cheery party hosted by Miss Gwyneth
Burford. They are playing bridge in the lounge
another group is playing bridge in the study
and supper is being served in the formal dining
room Classic high society. Yeah, and they also
hosted at -home days, which is a crucial detail
really Why? Well, for those unfamiliar, an at
-home day wasn't just inviting friends over to
hang out. It was a highly choreographed social
ritual. Oh, OK. Women of high society would designate
a specific day of the week or month where they
would formally receive callers. You would leave
calling cards. There were strict rules about
how long you stayed and what was discussed. Honestly,
it sounds exhausting. It was. It was a full -time
job of social stratification. And the architecture
of Bureau Lee dictated that social flow. Right,
specific rooms for specific leisure activities.
Exactly. The wealth generated by factories had
been converted into this highly insulated world
of domestic tranquility. The house functioned
as a physical barrier against the working class
reality that actually generated their wealth.
Wow. But of course, the fatal flaw of a fortress
of leisure is that when a real war starts, the
military tends to want it. They do. You can't
play bridge in the study forever when the rest
of the world is catching fire. Precisely. That
bubble of high society was about to be violently
popped by the reality of a global conflict. Which
brings us to 1942. World War II is raging in
the Pacific, and it suddenly arrives on Adelaide's
doorstep. Things escalated very quickly. They
really did. In April 1942, the US Army urgently
needs a location for a military hospital. They
look at Scotch College, which is a boys' school
located at Torrens Park, and decide it's perfect.
Yep. But how does that even work? Does the government
just walk in and say, hey, we're taking your
school? Under wartime emergency powers, yes.
Really? Just like that. Just like that. The National
Security Act gave the government sweeping powers
to requisition property for the war effort. They
didn't ask politely, they issued a directive.
The military needed infrastructure immediately,
and large institutional buildings like schools
were prime targets. So the school is forced to
frantically pack up and relocate entirely to
Bel Air. And they don't just move into Beverly.
They take over a neighboring Bradley Lodge, too.
Which is quite a story in itself. Oh, totally.
Because, wonderfully, there is still debate among
the old -school boys whether Bradley Lodge was
the brother's house to the east or Cully's Tudor
bungalow to the west. History is funny like that.
It is. Regardless, they requisitioned these pristine
luxury private properties. I just cannot get
over the logistics of this. Trying to fit 176
schoolboys into a single -family mansion is like
trying to run a commercial server farm out of
a studio apartment. That's a great analogy. The
infrastructure just melts down. It is a complete
mismatch of form and function. Think about it
from the family's perspective for you listening.
Imagine you were a wealthy socialite. used to
hosting elegant, quiet suppers. And you receive
a government notice that you have to hand the
keys to your pristine home over to 176 teenagers
and 14 resident staff. It would have been utterly
jarring. They literally had to erect four massive
marquees with wooden floors out on the grand
drives and front lawns just to have classroom
space. Wow. The boys are sleeping in makeshift
dorms out on the open back balconies facing the
city. And the best detail from the sources, the
sudden influx of nearly 200 people put an enormous
comical strain on the water supply and the septic
tanks. The plumbing entirely failed. Why did
it fail so spectacularly? Well, you have to look
at the mechanics of the era. Bel Air is in the
hills, so water pressure is already a challenge.
Right. Combine that with 19th century terracotta
clay pipes designed to handle the daily output
of maybe a dozen people. Oh, boy. Yes. Suddenly,
you have 200 people showering, using the latrines,
and washing clothes every single day. The physical
pipes literally cannot handle the volume. It's
a literal and figurative overflow. It really
is. And if we connect this to the bigger picture,
the requisitioning of Beverly shows how the existential
threat of WWII completely erased the line between
civilian luxury and military necessity. Nobody
cared about the luxury anymore. Not at all. The
government didn't care about bridge games or
high society pedigrees. They needed beds and
they needed them immediately. And the irony is
the Americans never even used the original Torrance
Park School. Exactly. By May 1942, the Battle
of the Coral Sea turns the tide of the war in
the Pacific. The threat of immediate invasion
drops and the American military hospital never
eventuates. But the school can't go back. Nope.
because the Royal Australian Air Force swooped
in and takes over Torrance Park instead. So Scotch
College is stuck at Beerly, dealing with overflowing
septic tanks until early 1944. And the physical
toll on the house during those two years was
immense. Which brings us to the aftermath. When
the boys finally leave in 1944, the government
formally offers Beerly back to the Burford descendants.
And the family flatly rejects it. They do. Which
is wild, but... Honestly, you can hardly blame
them. Not at all. The military and the school
had installed what the family considered severely
disfiguring features to make the property functional
as an institution. Right. The most offensive
addition apparently was a giant ablution block.
The famous Ablution Block. Yes, that massive,
utilitarian public bathroom facility I mentioned
earlier. The military had slapped it right onto
the base of the mansion's beautiful historic
tower. It was an eyesore. Huge eyesore. The family
looks at this ugly concrete bathroom block, looks
at the ruined lawns, and basically says, no thanks,
keep it. So what does this all mean? The family
just walks away, and the soap dynasty's hold
on the hills is over. It means the house is unmoored
once again, but its brief stint as an institution
during the war permanently altered its trajectory.
Because it wasn't a private home anymore. Right.
Because the family declines to take it back,
a man named Major Milhouse steps in and urges
the minister for repatriation to acquire the
property. Wait, before we move on, who exactly
is Major Milhouse? And why does the major have
the power to step in and dictate real estate
to a government minister? Uh, that is a great
point of clarification. Major Milhouse was the
president of the RSA. The RSA. Yes, which at
the time stood for the Returned Sailors and Soldiers
Imperial League of Australia. It's the precursor
to today's RSL. OK, got it. He was a massive
advocate for veterans welfare. He had enormous
political clout because Australia was suddenly
dealing with thousands of returning servicemen
who needed long term medical care. That makes
total sense. So he sees this massive vacant estate
sitting in the hills and realizes it's the perfect
medical facility. And the minister is impressed
by the site. June 1945, Beerly officially opens
as the Bel Air TB Sanatorium. Right. It completely
transforms into a place of public healing. But
why this specific house for tuberculosis? It
comes down to the medical protocols of the 1940s.
Before antibiotics were widely available, the
primary treatment for TB was heliotherapy and
fresh air. Just sunlight and air. Sunlight and
CRISPR. Beerly is situated high up in the Adelaide
Hills above the smog of the city. More importantly,
it had those massive sweeping balconies where
the schoolboys used to sleep. Oh, perfect. Exactly.
The medical staff could literally wheel the patient's
beds out onto the balconies so they could breathe
the crisp hill's air all day. The architecture
of the house perfectly matched the medical needs
of the era. That is brilliant. And it stays in
the medical field for decades. It really does.
From 1952 to 1976, it operates as the repatriation
hospital beerily. Then in the 1980s, it morphs
again into St. Anthony's Drug and Alcohol Rehabilitation
Center. There is an incredibly poetic arc to
this building's life. There is. Think about where
we started. It was built by Thomas Kinley Hamilton,
a doctor. Right. It began as a monument to a
medical professional's wealth. Then it served
as an elite social fortress designed to keep
people out. Yeah, the at -home days. Right. Then
the war traumatized the building, fundamentally
altering its architecture. But that very trauma,
that ugly ablution block on the tower, prevented
it from returning to a site of exclusionary wealth.
It forced it into public service. Exactly. It
evolved into a place treating tuberculosis, a
physical respiratory plague. When that need faded,
it transitioned to St. Anthony's, healing the
psychological and addiction scars of modern life.
Wow. It spent nearly half a century serving the
most vulnerable members of society, directly
because it was deemed too disfigured for high
society. That is just incredible. And you know,
the story has a happy ending, too. It does. In
recent years, after all that service, it has
finally been meticulously restored. It is now
a private home again, owned by Hans Eamon and
Valmai Spicer. The grounds are maintained, the
beautiful architecture is respected, and it's
found peace. A very well earned piece. It has
come full circle, but with legacy of public service
that Hamilton could never have envisioned when
he first bought that land back in 1887. It really
has been an incredible journey. If you look back
at everything we've talked about today, we started
with Willa Willa, born from risky frontier land
speculation by an ambitious surgeon. Right. We
watched it become burly, the soap dynasty's summer
fortress filled with choreographed at -home days.
We saw it get completely overrun by 176 schoolboys
and their failing wartime septic tanks. The poor
plumbing. Yeah. And finally, we followed its
path from a tuberculosis sanatorium to a rehab
clinic, all the way back to being a serene, beautiful
family home. This raises an important question,
I think. Oh, what's that? We have spent this
entire deep dive looking at how a physical building
absorbs the history of the people who pass through
it. But it makes you wonder about the future
of modern architecture. How do you mean? Well,
today we build homes with integrated smart tech,
customized wiring and personalized data ecosystems.
We are tying our houses so closely to our specific
digital identities that a blank slate historical
handover might be impossible in the future. Oh,
wow. 100 years from now, a house won't just hold
the architectural ghosts of its previous owners.
It might literally still hold their data. That
is a completely entirely different kind of haunting
to think about. A digital ghost in the walls.
That is a brilliant thought to leave on. Thank
you so much for joining us on this deep dive.
And for you listening, next time you walk past
an old house, take a second look. Keep questioning
the history that is hiding right there in plain
sight.