Day 8: We waited for cooler hours before loading up the van, intent on finishing the shed build.
The Shed Saga finale!
We were optimistically wrong, of course, though the roof felt was tacked down, and both the fascia and the perched diamond of finial were drilled in.
The field grass was looking parched, it was the colour of wheat biscuits. Crickets chirped- they always sound merry. We were hot and sticky like two marinated chunks.
‘It looks like a shed,’ we observed, surprised. ‘We should get the doors hinged!’
But our stomachs were growling and we were clumsy-tired.
The doors would have to be another adventure.
Meanwhile, it was time for cooking burgers in the van, for getting our stable sofa bed ready for a well-earned sleep, for setting up one table and two chairs under the sweep of the ash tree, looking down across the lower field as the sun dipped behind us and the nearly-full pink-faced moon rose up from the tree line on the opposite hill.
We fetched out our reclining chairs, improvised a wine table, kicked back and stargazed.
Somehow, after all the heat of the day, the stable managed to get cold overnight.
The Shed Saga finale!
We were optimistically wrong, of course, though the roof felt was tacked down, and both the fascia and the perched diamond of finial were drilled in.
The field grass was looking parched, it was the colour of wheat biscuits. Crickets chirped- they always sound merry. We were hot and sticky like two marinated chunks.
‘It looks like a shed,’ we observed, surprised. ‘We should get the doors hinged!’
But our stomachs were growling and we were clumsy-tired.
The doors would have to be another adventure.
Meanwhile, it was time for cooking burgers in the van, for getting our stable sofa bed ready for a well-earned sleep, for setting up one table and two chairs under the sweep of the ash tree, looking down across the lower field as the sun dipped behind us and the nearly-full pink-faced moon rose up from the tree line on the opposite hill.
We fetched out our reclining chairs, improvised a wine table, kicked back and stargazed.
Somehow, after all the heat of the day, the stable managed to get cold overnight.
Day 9: We awoke creaky from cold - Mr brewed coffee and by the time that was ready we were hot again. We sat out in the shade of our favourite ash tree, sipping coffee, breakfasting on leftover burgers, while a robin warbled overhead. Ash tree leaves make beautiful shadows.
Then: once more, unto the shed, dear friends!
The doors do not fit. We were not surprised.
We puzzled it through and decided there must be amendments that must be done at home, so the project is on hold again- but we lay a length of weed suppressant membrane on the last camping bay before we go home.
It’s health-warning hot.
Day 10: After coffee rituals and one load of laundry, we left Old Dog home (too hot for dogs, even hosed down ones with cool-mats) and ventured to the land to jiggle about with our shed doors and effervescent expectations.
While we attempted to think, we also secured another length of weed suppressant membrane. We were slathered in sweat- if we were candles we would have melted to stubs by now.
Mr slid away to measure the door struts.
I went on a tour, across the road, down a rope, and into the River Deer where the water is muddy with an oily sheen but still beautiful with the sun streaming through the tree cover and the damselflies sparkling; and cool. Climbed back up the rope, dripped all the way back to the shed.
Heat was throbbing, like the earth was having a heart attack. My river-wet shoes dried so fast I would not be surprised if they’d shrunk.
We had the measurements we needed now, probably, so we drove home to nap. Old Dog was upside down sleeping on the sofa, she only moved for food.
This evening the moon was so red it looked sunburned.
Day 11: Mr braved the heat in his shed to continue creating workarounds for our nemesis shed-in-progress. A lively hot breeze was blowing. If it rubbed two sticks together it could start a fire.
In the evening we set up a bed outside. The moon was so bright it disturbed my sleep, but also so magical I couldn’t go indoors and miss this. Dog wandered out, up and down the garden in the cool air. She walked over our bed but it was not to her taste so she slept on the grass.
Starlog Date 2052: Just before 6am: sky bright with moon and rising sun, clouds bobbled and pink. Clutching coffee mugs, we sat in our outdoor bed with hedge-birds flitting over our covers as though we had always been there. Afterwards we hung the dew-damp blankets up to dry and blearily began our day. Dog pestered for breakfast - she’d been hopeful since 2am - then retired to the sofa.
This afternoon, when tree shade covered the shed site, we ACTUALLY HUNG THE DOORS. We fitted the hasp and staple lock but didn't lock it, because we’d rather a nefarious visitor could see there’s nothing inside worth stealing, only a stepladder and the echoes of our building frustrations. We high-fived and went home- and did not yet open any celebratory bottles.
The veranda, guttering, ramp, rain butt, and solar lighting attempts hover in our future.
Dare we say it can’t be as bad?
Er, no.
But we did say, again, just as surprised: ‘It looks like a shed!’
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