13th November 2012

Thanks to a welcome spell of fine weather, work on the pool marched along briskly with dawn-to-dusk shifts. Progress stalled briefly when a shortage of tiles loomed, breakages during the renovation proving far more frequent than anticipated. Salvation arrived when David and Milen unearthed a builder’s merchant, an hour’s drive away, that just happened to manufacture the precise shade of yellow tiles required.

They triumphantly returned with 30 gleaming replacements, only to notice that the red tiles had survived the process with far fewer casualties. Perhaps there’s something in the old saying after all, call something “yellow” and it’s not just about cowardice, but fragility too. Armed with their reinforcements, the pair quickly plugged the remaining gaps, leaving the pool a patchwork masterpiece of endurance and irony.

After five weeks of painstakingly levelling every stage, footings, foundations, coping stones, concrete pan, and each tile, we were positively giddy when the final tiles, laid from opposite ends, met in the middle at the same height. It was a small miracle, and a world away from the handiwork of the original Bulgarian builders, who had solved their “measuring issues” by hacking tiles into random halves and quarters whenever the mood struck.

Milen, our fiercest critic, spent much of the project shaking his head at our obsession with precision, muttering that we should “use our eyes” rather than a spirit level. His disapproval peaked the day I tore up a section of concrete pan he’d proudly laid, declaring it 3 cm too high. He didn’t come back for three days after that, and frankly, I couldn’t blame him.

The breakthrough came courtesy of his wife Maria, whose English is excellent and whose patience with her husband had clearly run out. She reappeared one morning, Milen in tow, and we gathered that she had banished him to their second home in Ritya during his sulk. Milen himself later admitted that Maria had booted him out of bed and frog-marched him back to the site to get on with it.

From that point on, a transformation occurred. Gone was the sceptic who mocked our measuring tape; in his place was a reformed man. He worked straight through lunch, handled the spirit level like a convert, and even declined the daily beer bribe. The pace of work soared, and the results spoke for themselves. He seemed especially delighted when I announced I’d be heading back to the UK next Monday, though whether that was joy at our progress or my impending absence, I couldn’t quite say.

When I finally laid the last tile, I summoned Milen for the grand unveiling. With no small sense of ceremony, I pointed out how every single tile lined up perfectly around the pool. I asked if it was “OK.” He gave the tiniest, most reluctant nod of approval, about as effusive as he gets. Still, I’ll take it. Rule Britannia!

About a week earlier, while digging out the base for the top of the pool, we’d unearthed a mysterious pipe running along one side. It jogged a memory: a couple of weeks before, at the opposite end of the pool, we’d found another pipe. On that occasion, we poured water down and watched it reappear through one of the barn walls. To avoid sealing it permanently in concrete, we had stuck it up above the surface like a sad periscope, then parked the mystery for another day.

This time, curiosity got the better of us. We poured water down the new pipe and, lo and behold, it gurgled through the earlier one. A light dawned; the pool had its own built-in drainage system.

The original builders, in their infinite wisdom, had gone to the trouble of installing it, then rendered it completely useless by concreting and tiling straight over the drains. Naturally, we later found the missing grills neatly stacked in one of the barns, waiting patiently for their moment of glory. We set them in place and tiled around them properly, as should have been done in the first place.

The whole revelation felt like something straight out of a UK TV exposé, Cowboy Builders: The Pool Edition.

With the pool finally finished (cue heavenly choir), we turned our attention to other jobs. We reinforced the barn with new beams and pillars, tidied up the rear panelling, and felled several trees at the back of the house that were either rotting or threatening to crash onto the roof. They’d also been serving as a motorway for squirrels straight into the loft, an invasion force now cut off at the source.

Midway through our lumberjack routine, a local man wandered over. He spoke no English, but with a mixture of mime and deduction, David worked out that he lived in the very house David had first considered buying years ago, then wisely rejected as “too much work.” With a critical eye, he pointed out that our chainsaws needed sharpening. Once we’d finished cutting, he promptly sharpened them for us with the ease of a professional. Then, by way of thanks (or possibly quality control), he invited us to his house for 7 p.m.

The timing wasn’t ideal; it was David’s 44th birthday, and we’d planned to celebrate with a meal in Dryanovo. (He’d already declined my signature chicken-bum curry as a birthday treat.) Still, politeness won out, and armed with a two-litre bottle of beer, we dropped in en route.

We were greeted by our host, Catcha, and his friend Emile. What followed was an ambush of Balkan hospitality: barbecued sausage that put British bangers to shame, and several glasses of homemade rakia, which could probably power a small tractor. Against all expectations, we enjoyed ourselves immensely. Invited to a tour of the property, we obliged. The house had been recently renovated to an impressively high standard, and David, never one to praise lightly, was openly envious.

Back in the lounge, platters of salted meats appeared (not a vegetable in sight, just the way David likes it). By this point, he’d had one rakia too many to consider driving, so we abandoned thoughts of Dryanovo and threw ourselves fully into the evening. Out came the homemade whiskey, surprisingly smooth, dangerously drinkable, and then came the guided tour of the barn. Not a hay bale in sight, but a full-blown distillery: barrels upon barrels of the good stuff. It became clear Catcha wasn’t exactly strapped for cash. He lived in Gabrovo, an hour away, and owned a chain of garages. Emile, one of his mechanics, was staying over to help chop firewood, a curious “weekend away,” but each to their own. We gathered that Catcha was stocking up for a family Christmas on a scale that would make Father Christmas look underprepared.

By the time we staggered home, details sketchy, memory hazy, the evening had blurred into a heady mix of meat, whiskey, and unexpected friendship.

The next morning, both of us were decidedly delicate. David lay comatose on a sun lounger beside the freshly tiled pool, while I took Banjo for a long, unsteady walk through the woods, swearing silently never to touch rakia again. (At least until the next invitation.)

 

 

 

 

When I returned from my walk with Banjo, David suggested another walk to “clear our heads.” His solution was to drive us to the cliffs visible from my bedroom window, landmarks I’d admired for four years without ever actually visiting. The view, when we finally stood there, was nothing short of breathtaking… though it’s possible the thin air or the lingering rakia headache had something to do with that.

No sooner had we returned than our hosts from the previous night appeared, apparently remembering that David had asked them for advice about the windows (a detail lost in the fog of whiskey and salted meats). Catcha did a thorough inspection from outside, while David deftly avoided letting them indoors. His excuse? The house was too untidy, what with ceilings being ripped down. Technically true, though I suspect he just didn’t fancy anyone tripping over piles of plaster or spotting our “unique” approach to DIY. He smoothed things over with a promise: once the place was presentable, or at least less hazardous, he’d invite them next weekend for food and drink.

It’s fair to say Sarah is the least tidy member of our family, but even she looks like Marie Kondo compared to David. We’ve long had an arrangement: I cook, he cleans. The trouble is, while meals arrive with clockwork regularity, the “cleaning” part tends to be filed under tomorrow’s problem. On the day our visitors turned up, David hadn’t washed a dish in over a week and a half.

Usually, anything my step-brother touches (bless him) remains precisely where he last used it. Tools, crockery, and utensils are strewn across the house and garden like modern art installations. The only items ever returned to their proper place are the ones I’ve handled myself. By the time I left for the UK, our everyday crockery set (once a proud eight) had been scattered far and wide, some pieces still decorated with unidentifiable leftovers Banjo had deemed beneath his standards.

Even the “best” set of six plates had been pressed into daily service, with only two side dishes surviving untouched. As for anything left lying around for more than a couple of days, it acquired a solid two-millimetre crust of dust, sawdust, and general detritus. When I departed, not a single pot, pan, or dish in the house was fit for cooking or eating from. The kitchen resembled less a home than an archaeological dig.

Strangely, David insists on using Genya’s purse for his money and cards, which, like the tools, is forever going astray. Each trip to the shops begins with a treasure hunt. I must admit I find it rather amusing, the odd looks he gets when producing a lady’s purse to pay in restaurants or at the builder’s merchants are priceless.

One such episode occurred after we’d been out buying pool tiles. On our return, there was instant panic when the purse failed to appear. Having previously recovered it from such unlikely places as the fridge, food cupboards, among the crockery, in the garden, and under the sink, I wasn’t overly confident it hadn’t been abandoned an hour away at the tile yard.

Thankfully, I was wrong. After ninety minutes of ransacking the house and car, phoning the tile merchant, and finally resigning ourselves to defeat, I suggested going out for dinner, it was already 9 p.m. Just as we were heading out, David absent-mindedly dipped his hand into a large pot I’d used for hotpot the previous evening (still unwashed, of course). To our astonishment, there was the purse, sitting snugly at the bottom. Why it was there, I couldn’t possibly say.

Visibly shaken, David solemnly vowed to keep it in the same drawer from then on. A couple of days later, on his birthday, I bought him a proper wallet to carry in his pocket. He seemed delighted and immediately transferred everything across. Whether the new arrangement lasts, however, remains to be seen.

After returning from the restaurant around 11 p.m., David and I decided to tackle the kitchen ceiling. Once changed into work clothes, we got started, and, to our surprise, everything went remarkably smoothly. By 1 a.m., the entire ceiling was down. The kitchen floor and work surfaces were buried under about 20 cm of debris. Surveying the chaos, we wisely decided to leave the clean-up for the following morning. I left David to lock up and went straight to bed.

Over morning coffee, David asked if I had seen the car keys. He couldn’t find them anywhere. He insisted he hadn’t left them on the work surface, but after half an hour of fruitless searching, we got down on our hands and knees and began sifting through the rubble. Almost an hour later, halfway across the kitchen floor, the keys finally emerged from the debris.

On Sunday, we celebrated David’s birthday at Casa Volley. As I was leaving for the UK the next day, we went early and were back by 7:45 p.m. I was in bed by 8 p.m., ready for a 1 a.m. departure from Ritya.

The journey home went like clockwork. David, my chauffeur, woke up on time, and we made good progress to Sofia. Check-in was a breeze, the flight left promptly, and I even had an empty seat next to me; it may have been my five-week Bulgarian Navvy odour! I managed an hour’s sleep, flicked through the in-flight magazine, and played Sudoku on my phone. On landing, Immigration was smooth, and I caught the bus to the station, waited seven minutes for the train, and indulged in a very expensive breakfast on the way.

Sue was working, so I grabbed a taxi home. It was cold and raining, and I was home before 10 a.m. By 10:30 am, I was luxuriating in a hot bath, ridding myself of every trace of concrete dust.

Suitably cleansed, I opened a tin of Thai chicken and noodle soup, followed it with a cheese and Branston pickle sandwich, and then drove to Nan’s for coffee; she was fine. I sorted through the pile of paperwork that had accumulated, but nothing was urgent. Afterwards, I drove to Charlotte’s, played with the boys, and caught up on their news. I returned home in time to light the fire and greet Sue when she came home from school. Jamie arrived for a tea of steak pie, broad beans, and potatoes, followed by tart and custard. I crashed into bed at 7:30 p.m., completely wiped out.