22nd September 2013

Saturday dawned indecently early, thanks to Banjo and his unerring 5 a.m. bladder alarm. Ever the gent, he slipped back in afterwards without ceremony, curled into a cosy nest at the foot of the bed, and left me in peace. My next awakening was courtesy of David, bearing coffee in one hand and announcing himself with his signature raspberry fanfare. Nothing says “Good morning” quite like your other half trumpeting triumphantly at dawn.

In reaching for my watch, I discovered it had given up the ghost, presumably felled by our Bulgarian adventures. The poor thing had ticked its last and gone to horological heaven, leaving me free to enjoy a truly timeless day.

With Sevdolin granted two days off (a “management decision” by David, less born of kindness or EU labour law and more of strategic necessity), we had the rare joy of working without Bulgarian scepticism. Our man has never quite grasped our

English fetish for measuring, levelling, and faffing about with squares. His toolkit of choice consists of one chainsaw, a hammer the size of a toddler, and enough nails to sink a ship. Every time we pause to line things up, he regards us with the weary expression of a man watching someone butter toast with a scalpel. Thus, he was dispatched on a reflective mini-break, leaving us to indulge in unmolested precision.

Banjo’s walk was rewarded with postcard-blue skies and a harvest of fallen walnuts, which I triumphantly collected to replenish the stash that Milen had been steadily pilfering by stealth. Coffee, banter, and then onto the rafters: front roof

beams measured, squared, levelled, and set at a fastidious 46cm apart. Exactly. Not “ish.” Exactly.

Lunch was monkish: cheese, bread, pâté, and a resolute absence of beer. The puritans of the roof must not falter mid-task.

The afternoon marched on in a similar fashion: beams aligned, redundant timbers banished, back roof taking shape with military precision. As we reached for the next set of rafters, dusk slipped in uninvited. By 8 p.m., the tools were packed, plastic sheets rolled tight against any nocturnal downpour, and we were officially done in.

Dinner amounted to salty Bulgarian cup-a-soup with bread, surprisingly comforting, if not exactly Michelin-starred. Our final flourish of productivity was an Excel spreadsheet of costs, numbers entered with the dedication of two men who should have been in bed an hour earlier. Eyelids drooping, we conceded defeat and retired, proud owners of straight rafters, a balanced budget, and very sore backs.