Orientation decides everything
West-facing glass takes the full afternoon. A room that is delightful at eleven can be unusable at five, and no amount of equipment elsewhere in the house fixes it. That room gets its own head and its own control.
These houses were built without air conditioning because in 1958 the Peninsula did not obviously need it. Sixty years later people do want it, and the building makes that genuinely difficult. Here is how it is actually done.
In a conventional house the ceiling is a plasterboard lid with a void above it, and that void is where the ductwork lives. In a post-and-beam house the tongue-and-groove decking is the ceiling, the beams are the structure, and the roof sits straight on top. There is no void. There is nowhere to go.
The usual contractor answer is to build a soffit — a boxed-out channel under the ceiling to carry a duct. In an ordinary hallway that is invisible. In a room whose entire character is a continuous plane of wood running out through the glass and becoming the overhang outside, a soffit is vandalism.
So the ducts do not go in the ceiling. Everything else follows from that.
Original heating in these houses is hydronic: warm water circulating through tubing cast into the slab. When it works it is the most comfortable heating there is — silent, even, no draughts, warm underfoot.
The problem is age. The original tubing was copper, it is sixty-plus years old, and it is encased in concrete where it cannot be inspected. Leaks happen, loops block, and the boiler that drives it is usually long past its own replacement date.
Our position on this is simple. If the radiant works, keep it. Add cooling alongside and let each do what it is good at. Nobody should rip out a functioning radiant slab because a contractor would rather sell a furnace.
If it has genuinely failed — several dead loops, unrepairable leaks, a slab that has been cut into twice already — then it is a replacement conversation, and a heat pump doing both heating and cooling is usually where it lands.
The glazing is the reason to own the house and the reason it overheats. Both things are true and the design has to hold both.
West-facing glass takes the full afternoon. A room that is delightful at eleven can be unusable at five, and no amount of equipment elsewhere in the house fixes it. That room gets its own head and its own control.
Plenty of these houses still have original glazing. Replacing it is expensive and contentious among owners who care about the frames, so the system frequently has to be designed around glass that is staying.
Concrete has real thermal mass, which flattens the peaks. It also means the house responds slowly, so scheduling matters more than it does in a light-framed building.
If your load is dominated by one glass elevation, shading — an exterior screen, a planted overhang, a film — will do more per dollar than upsizing the equipment. We would rather say that and quote a smaller system than sell you the bigger one.
On a conventional house, placement is a technical question with a handful of acceptable answers. Here it is an architectural one, and there is usually exactly one right answer per room.
Search for mini-splits in mid-century houses and you will find plenty of tidy interior shots and very few photographs of the elevation. There is a reason for that.
A line set has to get from the indoor unit to the condenser, and on a single-storey house with board siding there is nowhere to hide it. Done carelessly it is a diagonal grey scar across the front of a house people photograph for magazines.
Done properly, it runs vertically in rigid trunking that follows a board line, turns at ninety degrees, and is painted the exact colour of the siding. From the street you have to know it is there.
No. If the radiant system still works, the sensible approach is usually to leave it doing what it does well — quiet, even background heat — and add a cooling-only or heat-pump system alongside it. The two are not in conflict. Replacing a working radiant slab because a contractor finds it inconvenient is a waste of something good.
Usually a side yard or the rear, never the courtyard itself, and never where it faces a bedroom's glass wall across a few metres of paving. Setbacks, the neighbour's windows and sound rating all get checked before we propose a spot, because in these houses an outdoor unit in the wrong place is something you hear every evening.
Sometimes, in a limited way. A slim ducted indoor unit can be hidden in a closet, a hallway soffit or a laundry, feeding two or three nearby rooms through short runs. It is a good answer for a bedroom wing where nobody wants a head on every wall. What does not work is trying to serve a whole open-plan house that way.
Buyers of these houses care intensely about what has been done to them. A neat, well-placed system that respects the architecture is an asset; heads placed carelessly on feature walls, or a line set taped across a front elevation, is something a buyer will ask to have corrected. That is precisely why we agree positions before quoting.
We mark the positions, draw the routes and leave you the plan — whether you use us or not.