25th September 2013

We indulged in a rare lie-in until 9 a.m., only to emerge into a day that was already blustery enough to keep things “interesting.” By the time we’d made it up to the roof at 11 am, the wind was whistling through every gap it could find and treating us like reluctant kite-flyers.

My morning was spent wrangling the gable end bricks into line with the beams, preparing a proper bed for the lats. This involved that most loathed of chores: mixing mortar and then lugging a tub up the ladder that seemed to gain weight with every step. First, though, I scavenged old bricks from wherever they lurked, which delighted Banjo; an unexpected extra walk is always a win in his book.

Once armed, I chiselled and trimmed bricks into shape before inching along the apex to mortar them into place. The wind kept things lively, threatening to turn the whole business into an aerial act. By mid-afternoon, the gable was finally done, and I moved to the opposite side to patch a few missing bricks.

Meanwhile, David was busy cutting wood to wedge between rafters, ensuring the gaps were “sossal-proof,” while also bracing a couple of beams we’d neglected earlier.

We finished up together and paused for lunch. I buttered an entire loaf, layered in half a kilo of cheese, and added cucumber, while David contributed freshly picked tomatoes from the garden. The result: proper English-style doorstep sandwiches, washed down with a cold Bulgarian beer. Perfection.

The afternoon was all about cleaning and prepping the roof space for tiling. We shifted tools to ground level, David swept away the small debris, and I lobbed the larger chunks over the wall into the garden. Then came the ferrying: rolls of insulation, a coil of chicken wire, and six lats. David cut and slotted the insulation between rafters; I wired it in place. Together, we nailed the six lats across, creating a makeshift walkway. Just as we drove in the final nail, Milen’s head appeared over the ridge, long enough to express his customary disapproval of our method before disappearing again like a judgemental cuckoo clock.

After a fortifying coffee, we hauled up more lats and began laying tiles in the bottom right corner. A bit of shuffling and nudging later, they aligned nicely, giving us a glimpse of the future roof line. Standing back on the barn steps, we surveyed our work and muttered in unison: “That’ll do, donkey, that’ll do.”

Evening duties included another Banjo walk, during which I gathered a bucketful of walnuts shaken down by the wind. I sat shelling them on the wall, watching the sun dip low across the valley. Dinner was gloriously simple: a pizza each with a bottle of beer, capped off by The Revenge of Wyatt Earp. Then, finally, bed, our heads as heavy as the day’s mortar tub.