They Turned a Grain Silo Into a Hilltop Hideaway

On a fifth-generation sheep farm, Amber and Nick spent 20 years dreaming—then rebuilt a retired silo into a luxe, off-grid B&B. It’s sustainable, romantic, and quietly saving the family legacy.

The welcome is pure country: big skies, bigger smiles, and a steel drum of a building perched like a spaceship over rolling paddocks.

Nick is the fifth generation here; their son is the sixth. Translation: this hilltop has seen more seasons than a streaming platform.

At 1,600 acres (plus another 1,000 down the road), the farm stretches to the horizon—lambs flicking their tails like tiny metronomes in the grass.

For two decades, the couple shoveled grain into these silos and daydreamed about something better. The daydream finally won.

An architect suggested carving the cylinder, creating a sheltered outdoor nook that turns a farm relic into sculpture. Click—problem solved, drama added.

They reused the old silo slabs as “crazy paving” around the hot tub, cracking history underfoot in the prettiest way.

Guests come “not sure about the hot tub,” then soak under the stars for six hours and write love notes in the morning. That’s a conversion story in itself.

On the roof: 10 kW of solar; in the shed: 32 kWh of batteries; out back: a diesel generator that’s mostly bored. The lights don’t flicker.

They even tucked in an EV charger, because love the planet, charge the car, go back to the fire.

The worm-farm septic is the unsung hero—no whiff, just quiet decomposition and free garden fertilizer. Nature, but make it tidy.

The silo shell you see is cladding. They took the originals down bolt by bolt, started fresh with new foundations and a steel skeleton, and hid the guts underground.

Insulation under the slab, utilities tunnel from a carport, even the A/C lines run stealth. Every curve earned with math and stubbornness.

Outside, warm spotted gum softens the galvanized steel—weather-hardy now, silver later, either way a perfect duet.

Those bricks? Dad hoarded them for 40 years, and finally they got their close-up. Family thrift meets farm chic.

The front window is basically a widescreen for the valley—no bezel, all vista. The room feels like a hug with a view.

Round rooms don’t play nice with flat-pack. Every cut had to curve, every piece bespoke, even the dining table that arcs along the stair.

They tucked the kitchen under the staircase—cozy, clever, and exactly where the square footage says “yes, please.”

Overhead, recycled Oregon beams from a Victorian house bring a weathered swagger, left as-is because character looks best unpolished.

The fireplace has three glass sides, so flames flirt with you whether you’re on the sofa, at the table, or moon-gazing outside.

Speaking of the sofa, it swivels—turn to the view, the cook, the fire. It’s the relationship counselor of furniture.

Underfoot, a burnished concrete slab—finished hot and fast—wears its tiny imperfections like freckles. Warm in winter, cool when summer bites.

Fresh-air exchange upstairs keeps everything crisp, and that chunky under-slab insulation proves climate control isn’t just for the grid.

And yes, the curtain is electric. Tap, whoosh, instant cocoon—privacy from nosy kangaroos and nosier sunsets.

The bathroom is a curvy love letter: a giant soaking tub for two, with more legroom than an exit row and a view that makes steam dramatic.

Tiles run vertically to glide around the curve; the open shower keeps the room airy and easy for every body.

Thanks to the worm-farm septic, there’s a proper flush toilet. Little luxuries matter, especially when they’re quietly clever.

Upstairs, the giprock ceiling folds like origami—what started as a headache became a design flex. Sometimes the fix is the feature.

A single, nearly 3.5-meter pane of glass turns sunrise into theater. There’s a blackout blind for sleep-ins, custom and mighty.

A love seat tucked by the window is Amber’s favorite perch—storage beneath, stars above, time slowing to a soft click.

The bed sits in a bump-out cocoon, king-sized because of course. Wallpaper ripples echo the silo’s ribs—subtle, satisfying.

That chimney popping through the floor? It’s a geometry problem solved with style points. Angles, angles, triumph.

They opened last spring; guests arrive with high hopes and leave with higher ones—sometimes with rings on fingers and new stories to tell.

Farming is tough, costs climb, and three generations rely on the same land. This B&B isn’t a side hustle—it’s a lifeline with linen sheets.

The build ran close to $600,000—circular architecture doesn’t do cheap—but the result feels generational, not just gorgeous.

Future plans: more hideaways across those back hills, spaced so you can’t see your neighbors, plus accessible designs so everyone gets a front-row seat to the sky.

They dreamed for 20 years, then did the hard thing: they built it. Now the farm doesn’t just feed sheep—it feeds wonder.

On this hill, an old grain silo learned a new language. It speaks in sunsets, hot tubs, and quiet sustainability—and somehow, it makes the horizon feel personal.