Clay Tennis Court Restoration
Tucked beyond the treeline and out of view from the house sits one of Grandview’s most improbable features: a full-size clay tennis court. Protected from the wind on all sides and overlooking the White Mountains, it’s both an architectural curiosity and a relic of another era — one we’ve only just begun to reckon with.
The Plan (and The Dream)
The Work (So Far)
I’ll be honest: we don’t want to keep the court forever. The long-term vision for this space is a barn and garden complex — a working outbuilding that ties into the aesthetic and purpose of the property. We picture a post-and-beam structure at the north end, with its south face opening onto an outdoor kitchen, fenced garden beds, and a seating area for long summer evenings. Maybe some small animals on the far side. Maybe a guest suite above. It’s a five-year plan at best, but one that feels like a natural extension of Grandview.
In the meantime, though, we’re going to make the most of what’s here. Which means learning how to restore and maintain a clay court, something I know absolutely nothing about. That’s the joy (and the curse) of this place; every project starts with an admission of ignorance and ends, hopefully, with a little bit of hard-won knowledge.
For now, the goal is simple: stabilize the surface before winter so I can repair and use it next season. Even if we never play a proper match, it’s a rare and beautiful space, and it deserves better than neglect.
So far, “work” might be generous, but progress is progress. I’ve spent a couple of afternoons raking and clearing the court, hauling away pine needles, leaves, and years of accumulated debris. The kids helped pick flowers from the edge gardens, and at some point, the job dissolved into a full-blown ninja performance by both of them. Lily says she collected 800 weeds and demanded a penny a piece for her effort.
The clearing revealed more damage than I expected, but also a surprisingly solid base beneath it all. The clay is gone in sections, but the underlayer is firm and drains well. That’s a good sign. There’s also a small roller in the garage that I assume was used for maintenance, though I’m still learning how these courts are actually built and cared for.
Next, I need to assess the water system — an entire network of buried garden lines runs beneath and around the court. It’s all unwinterized and dormant now, but it was clearly meant for irrigation at some point. I’ve already found the shutoff for the pool house, but not for the gardens. That alone could be its own small project before winter.
Next Steps
The next phase is research. There isn’t exactly a wealth of clay court restoration content online, but I’ll piece it together as I go. From what I’ve found so far, the process involves adding new red clay (which can apparently be ordered by the bucket), spreading it evenly, and rolling it until it compacts into a firm, level surface. Easy to say — probably not so easy to do.
The first priority is to protect what’s left before snow hits. Once I understand how these courts are supposed to overwinter, I can prep it properly and plan for a more focused restoration next spring.
Field Notes
On one of the last days of August, we finally began clearing the old clay tennis court. “Finally” might sound dramatic, but this project has been perhaps the summer’s biggest casualty; the first to get cut when our priorities tightened. It’s not mission-critical. We don’t play tennis. We can’t even see the court from the house. But something about it kept calling for attention, even from the periphery.
Standing on it now, it’s hard to believe the thing exists at all. The court sits like a secret amphitheater; wind-sheltered by trees, flanked on the east by overgrown gardens, and open to the south with a view straight into the jagged spine of the Whites. The surface, though, has seen better days. The red clay is bone dry and powdery, fading to sand in some areas. Where drainage lines have formed, the clay has washed completely away, leaving only hints of what once was. Pine needles and leaves have collected for years, maybe three or more, baking into the surface until they’ve become part of it.
The fence is still standing, though not proudly, and the whole area has that subtle feeling of neglect and decay that belongs to forgotten spaces. We’ve inherited the ghost of a truly majestic feature, and it’s our responsibility to not screw it up.
