24th September 2013

We wake up thinking of roofs. We spend all day talking about roofs. We go to bed and, without doubt, dream of roofs. Back in the UK, roofs are refreshingly sensible affairs: standardised timbers, precision machining, and construction methods that might even make an architect smile. Bulgarian roofs? Entirely different animal.

Here, they’re cobbled together with adzes, brute force, and nails that give up halfway through the job. Most bend gallantly under the pressure, sticking out like little white flags of surrender. Yet, somehow, these slapdash structures balance the strength of timber, stubborn geometry, and sheer bloody-mindedness, and last for over a hundred years. A UK building inspector would faint dead away at the first glance, pen poised to condemn it before finishing the word “integrity.”

It’s not uncommon in these parts to wander into the woods, lop down a conveniently bent branch, and wedge it in place to brace a beam. Needs must, and it works, mostly because the timber here is absurdly tough, though still a buffet for rot and woodworm. Our task has been to drag this centuries-old lunacy into something resembling modernity. The trouble is, “modern Bulgarian materials” are a contradiction in terms. A 3×8 timber here? More of a philosophical concept than a physical measurement. Each length of wood brings its own personality, eccentricities included. Keeps life spicy.

Sevdolin reappeared today, mercifully busying himself with the wood store roof. He cast a sceptical eye over our work on the main roof, but wisely kept criticism brief. He’s growing on me, Sevdolin, like lichen. Over lunch (a stew-soup-goulash hybrid that David conjured from random tins and packets), he waxed lyrical about his true passion: motorbikes. I nodded sagely while wondering whether the meat was actually beef or some sort of ambitious bean.

Work plodded on in companionable silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic sound of skulls meeting rafters. After the third clout to my noggin, I lined my bush hat with a tea towel for protection. Ingenious, if not stylish. Proof of its effectiveness came when David and I managed to headbutt one an

other while manoeuvring a beam. He emerged glassy-eyed with a lump rising nicely; I, smug in my towelled armour, remained unscathed.

By sunset, every rafter was fitted bar one stubborn corner piece that demanded further chin-stroking to reconcile old roof with new. Tomorrow it will get our full attention.

Dinner was skipped, too knackered even for eggs and wedges. Instead, we collapsed in front of the video Host for our nightly film, before crawling off to bed. Dreams of rafters, nails, and Bulgarian eccentricities awaited.