Cement covered wellies went on and off and on again as we alternated between checking levels and scores, spirit level in one hand and remote control in the other. I painted, I pointed (that’s a real thing you know, not just standing around giving orders!), I spread cement, swept sand and learned more than I ever wanted to know about grouting.
I love our back step. It’s an old limestone step which I found in a salvage yard. In one of my most canny moments of bargain hunting, I bartered the old roof tiles in exchange for it. This is where I sit to brush Charlie.
I would have loved limestone paving but this grey sandstone was an affordable alternative.
I am bone tired and muscle weary but very pleased.
If I cast my mind back to the last Rugby World Cup in 2011…we had just moved in to the house, half of our boxes were still stacked up in the (now) gorse yellow book room. We were still traumatised by the drama of self-building. Small Girl was three months old and permanently, or so it seemed, attached to my body. We had two deck chairs to sit on in the den and, if we decided to sit outside, we carried the deck chairs out with us. The garden had just been stripped of thirty enormous leylandii trees and we had struggled to set the grass seed before the first frost. There was no fence, no fruit trees, no herb bed, no treehouse, no dog, no washing line, no currant bushes, no strawberries and worst of all, no rhubarb.