So, someone mentioned “iceberg houses” to me a while back. I just nodded, you know? Figured it was another one of those fancy architect terms for a house with a big basement. Didn’t give it much thought, honestly. I’ve seen plenty of basements, dug plenty of foundations. How different could it be?
Then, this project landed in my lap. Wasn’t my first choice, mind you. It came through a guy I knew from an old job, one of those situations where you owe someone a favor, or maybe they just think you’re the only one stubborn enough to take it on. The place looked normal enough from the street. Nice little two-story building, tidy garden. Nothing to write home about.
First Look Around
I remember walking through it the first time. Standard stuff. Living room here, kitchen there. The owner, a chap who seemed more interested in his phone than the house, mumbled something about “wanting to understand the lower levels better” before some renovation. “Lower levels,” he said. Plural. That should have been my first clue, but hey, I was just there to do a survey, map things out.
I started with the known basement access, a narrow staircase tucked away. Went down, flashlight in hand. It was big, alright. Bigger than the house’s footprint. Okay, a large cellar, I thought. I’ve dealt with those. Started taking measurements, tapping on walls, the usual routine. But then I found a door. A heavy, steel door, almost hidden behind some old shelves. That wasn’t on any plans the owner gave me.
Going Deeper Than Expected
Getting that door open was a mission in itself. Took me a good hour of wrestling with the rusty lock. Finally, it creaked open, and the air that hit me was… old. And damp. And then I saw it. Another set of stairs, going down. And then another. It was like the house just kept going, layer after layer, deep into the ground. This wasn’t just a basement; this was a whole other world down there. Suddenly, “iceberg house” made a whole lot more sense.
Here’s what I ended up dealing with, just to give you an idea:
- Three sub-levels I had no idea existed.
- A weird network of tunnels connecting different sections – who builds this stuff?
- Rooms that had clearly been abandoned for decades. Found some old newspapers from the 70s.
- Crazy plumbing and electrical work that looked like a rat’s nest. Total nightmare.
- And the damp! Water was seeping in everywhere on the lowest level.
I spent the next few weeks just trying to map it all out. Crawling through tight spaces, trying to figure out the original purpose of these rooms. It felt less like surveying a house and more like exploring some forgotten bunker. I had to bring in extra lights, dehumidifiers, the works. My knees were shot, my back ached, and I was constantly covered in dust and who-knows-what else. The owner? Popped in once, looked horrified at the mess I was uncovering, and then made excuses to leave.
You know, it reminded me of some old projects I got dragged into years ago. Companies that looked shiny on the outside, but once you got hired and looked under the hood, it was just chaos. Everyone doing their own thing, no proper plans, just patch jobs on top of patch jobs. This house felt exactly like that. Built by ambition, maybe, but without a clear, single vision, or maybe over generations with everyone adding a bit without thinking of the whole.
In the end, I got it all documented. The sheer volume of space underground was staggering, probably three times the size of the house you saw from the street. It was an engineering marvel in some ways, and a complete disaster in others. The cost to actually renovate it properly, to make it safe and usable? Astronomical. I gave my report to the owner, and I think his jaw just about hit the floor. Last I heard, he was still “considering his options,” which probably means he’s trying to forget those lower levels exist.
So yeah, “iceberg houses.” They’re a thing. And they’re a perfect example of how what you see on the surface often tells you absolutely nothing about the complexities hidden underneath. Taught me to be a bit more suspicious when someone says “just a big basement” ever again. You never know when you’re going to need a hard hat and a whole lot of patience.
