There’s something humbling about realising your house is taller than you thought. Thirteen metres, to be exact, from ground to rooftop on the gable side (Giebelseite, if we’re being technical). Not that we’d measured it before. It was just... our house. You live inside it, not on top of it. Until you suddenly have to.
We only became intimately acquainted with its full height when scaffolding arrived. Poles, platforms, metallic clinks at 7 a.m., and the peculiar intimacy of strangers peering into your upstairs windows while you’re still making coffee. The roofers had promised a two-week job - efficient, clean, no fuss. They said it with the confidence of men who assumed we wouldn’t be checking.
And to be fair, who checks a roof? Most people don’t. That’s sort of the point of a roof: you forget about it, until it fails.
But we didn’t forget. We climbed. We looked. We photographed. We had an expert on call. And we quickly discovered that our gable side, high, hidden, and far from street view, was being treated like a blind spot. A perfect place, in other words, to skip a few steps, cut a few corners, and assume no one would notice.
They were wrong.
Because here’s what we’d learned from other renovations: just because something is out of sight doesn’t mean it should be out of mind. Especially when it’s holding the house together.
So we did what any design-obsessed, renovation-weary homeowners would do: we took a holiday. But not the relaxing kind. The kind where you spend your mornings documenting zinc flashing and your afternoons decoding builder small talk. We were there every day - balancing on a blank with a clipboard and clenched jaw. And slowly, the work began to match the promise.
Also, I should mention: I have a mild fear of heights. That fear did not appreciate climbing scaffoldings at seven in the morning to peer over details with a cup of coffee in one hand and my phone camera in the other. But necessity is a powerful motivator.
By week three, the two-week project had become five. But something else had changed, too: the roof was beginning to look… right. Precise. Like it belonged not just on any house, but on this house, with its tall silhouette, its quiet grandeur, and its long memory.
And after all the scaffolding, setbacks, and sideways glances, our house was finally getting the roof it deserved.
Slate: A Short Cultural History (and a Subtle Status Marker)
Slate is one of those materials that doesn’t shout. It doesn’t gleam like zinc or flash like copper. But its dignity is unmistakable. For centuries, slate has covered everything from grand civic buildings to quiet mountain homes. It’s the roof you choose when you want something to last, and when you’re not trying to impress anyone but yourself.
Historically, slate was expensive to quarry, difficult to transport, and even trickier to install. Which is why it was often found on properties that mattered - architecturally, symbolically, or socially. In much of Europe, a slate roof was a mark of distinction.
We opted for high-quality natural slate from Spain, dense, dark grey, smooth-textured, and with excellent longevity. Compared to softer varieties from other regions, this one ages gracefully and holds up beautifully in Luxembourg’s climate.
Which brings us to the 1960s and ’70s. A time of mass construction and minimal budgets. Eternit, that eternally problematic fibre cement product, was everywhere. Light, cheap, and often riddled with asbestos, it became the default choice for developers and budget-conscious owners alike. Our house, like many others, had been “updated” in that era with a practical but joyless grey Eternit roof. Function? Yes. Charm? Not exactly.
So when the time came to replace it, we didn’t just want new tiles. We wanted to restore a level of grandeur. We wanted slate.
The Details They Don’t Tell You
Here’s something most roofing companies won’t advertise: the devil is in the details. And if you don’t ask about them, you won’t get them.
You’d think a new roof quote would include information about the metalwork - what material is being used for gutters, downpipes, and flashing. But no. Unless you insist, you’ll get the cheapest possible option. Aluminium, or worse. Thin, generic, and guaranteed to corrode or buckle within a few years.
We recommend Rheinzink. And proper Spenglerarbeiten. No shortcuts.
And we learned something else: most sample tiles they show you are meaningless unless you understand what you’re looking at. There’s Spanish slate, Brazilian slate, Welsh slate, all wildly different in durability, colour, porosity, and finish. Some age gracefully. Others age like milk.
Slate, to its credit, also wins on sustainability. It’s a natural material, non-toxic, recyclable, and incredibly long-lived, often 80 to 100 years or more. Compare that to synthetic options or fibre cement with 15–30 year lifespans and it’s clear: slate isn’t just beautiful, it’s ecological common sense.
So we did our research. We wandered the neighbourhood. We photographed good roofs. We found examples we liked and referenced them in every conversation. If the roofer looked surprised, that was a good sign. It meant we were on the right track.
Supervise. Supervise. Supervise.
There’s no polite way to say it: our roofers were lazy. Not catastrophically bad, just complacent. They assumed the height of the house would protect them from scrutiny. They weren’t prepared for homeowners with a camera, a daily checklist, and the preparedness to call an expert if needed.
We caught small things: uneven edges, inconsistent spacing, rushed detailing around the dormers. And we flagged them all. Calmly, professionally - and persistently.
And then there were the comic moments. Us showing up out of nowhere, smiling brightly and offering coffee, while they hastily tried to cover up some slapdash shortcut they’d hoped we wouldn’t notice. Or the way they looked slightly guilty, like children caught drawing on the walls - which, to be fair, they were doing, just with slate.
And on the final day, we stood in front of the house with a bottle of wine and some chocolates, trying to wrap things up graciously. They smiled back, all wide-eyed sincerity, and said: “Wir haben das Maximum für euch rausgeholt.”
We smiled. Froze a little. Perhaps twitched. Because what they meant was: We tried our best for you. But what we heard, standing there in awkward silence, was: we squeezed the maximum out of you. And they did. Imagine the exhaustion after this daily climbing marathon for five weeks!
A Roof Reborn
The state of the roof when we bought the house: old Eternit tiles and in overall bad state.
The finished slate roof doesn’t shout. But it doesn’t need to.
It frames the house with quiet elegance. It reflects the sky in soft, matte blues. It anchors the structure in a way that the old Eternit never could. And it signals to those who care to look, that someone paid attention. That this house was worth it.
Year 2022: The new slate roof in all its glory. What a change and it will hopefully hold for another 100 years.
Yes, it cost more. Yes, it took longer. And yes, it required daily vigilance, an uncanny ability to detect laziness from a distance, and a surprising number of emails about how to put slate on a roof.
But it was worth it.
Because quality always is, especially when it’s attached to a building with soul.
We don’t know what kind of roof it had in 1870. But we know what it has now: one that will last, one that belongs, and one that finally matches the architectural soul of the building beneath it.
Final Thought: Restoration Requires Care, Respect and Long-term Thinking
A good roof isn’t just protection from the rain. It’s a declaration of care, of values, of design integrity. It’s what happens when you treat a house not as a commodity, but as a story worth preserving.
This approach of demanding quality, respecting character, and thinking long-term, applies to every part of restoration. Whether you’re choosing tiles, plastering walls, or defending a crooked doorway from demolition logic, the philosophy is the same: build with care. Renovate with conscience. And supervise like your dignity depends on it.
Because sometimes, it does.
written by Helen M. Krauss