17th September 2013

After a blissful night’s sleep, I awoke to a breezy but sunny morning, the kind of day that whispers “get things done” but doesn’t quite shout enough to stop you lingering over coffee first. Banjo and I enjoyed a gentle game of fetch before I wandered around the house and garden, mentally compiling a list of “jobs for the brave (or foolish).”

The barn roof had developed a jaunty bow, demanding four support pillars before it collapsed in on itself. Genya had left a note about “cosmetic improvements” to the garden, including a mysterious “feature” in one corner, ominous in its vagueness. The wood store needed tiling before winter, last year’s pool grouting still glared accusingly at me, and, saving the worst for last, the extension roof needed a full re-fit. Ambitious? Perhaps. Foolhardy? Almost certainly.

After another coffee and a token salad, priorities were reluctantly set. The house roof, naturally, became the grand project. David, my previous partner-in-crime on the barns, swore we could manage it, though whether we’d survive it was another matter. Pen and paper in hand, I scribbled down procedures and shopping lists. Normally, David dismissed this level of planning as “overkill,” but on this occasion, he joined in with a suspiciously eager enthusiasm.

List completed, we set off for Dryanovo’s builder’s merchant, Banjo, perched on my lap like an unlicensed co-pilot. En route, we picked up a Bulgarian handyman who’d worked with David before. At the merchant’s, we inspected materials, debated options, re-inspected, and eventually loaded the van like seasoned professionals (if slightly confused ones).

Back at Ritya, we reviewed the plans and mulled over contingencies for rain. A cunning plan to use the pool cover as a roof tarp was floated but filed firmly under “last resort.” A quick trip next door gleaned some roof wisdom from Mark, followed by a chat with Milen, who was busy harvesting walnuts with his remarkably sprightly father.

Dinner was a tuna and sweetcorn pasta bake large enough to feed the Red Army. Half went down well, the rest into the fridge. Later, fortified with beer and a film, I attempted to reclaim my bed. Banjo, however, had installed himself at the foot and held his ground until 5 a.m., when a comfort break saw him briefly outside before reclaiming his post by 7 am. Bed diplomacy: Banjo 1, Me 0.

The next morning began with coffee under the half-finished wood store roof, followed by a return trip to Dryanovo for 40 perfectly straight joists (a unicorn-like request in Bulgaria). We added lats, sand, cement, a saw, and gloves for good measure.

Lunch was a leftover pasta bake encore, then we tackled the jungle masquerading as next door’s garden, our quickest route to the roof. After two hours of hacking, chopping, and muttered swearing, we’d cleared a respectable path. At 4 p.m., the lorry arrived, and with Milen’s help, we unloaded the tiles and wood. Only six out of 900 tiles broke, an impressive ratio that I considered a smashing success.

To mark the occasion, Milen and his father produced dried meat, David cracked a beer, and we collapsed under the wood store roof like conquering heroes. The day was rounded off with pizza, oven chips, and another film. Banjo, of course, resumed his usual spot at the end of my bed, clearly convinced the double was purchased with him in mind.