Not Quite Finished, But Finally Home
It’s nearly the end of May now, and I’ve been meaning to write this post since February. However, life had other plans. I travelled back to the US to spend time with my father, and I’m deeply grateful that I had that time with him. February quietly marked one year since we had the chance to begin work after receiving planning permission in November 2023. A first anniversary that slipped past in a blur of a second set of scaffolding, fixing issues, and survival mode.
The entry to the extension was cut at the end of January
This past February, we were waist-deep in the chaos of what still felt like an early restoration, although we finally could see some light at the end of the tunnel. To say we had our share of hurddles from one February to the next would be a huge understatement. To begin we will tell you about our two and a half roofs. Ironically, the roof had been dry and intact when we bought the building, but once our first roofer removed it to replace it in March 2024, the entire structure was left exposed to the elements. The dormers were installed incorrectly, the Velux windows were crooked and the new roof was installed completely wrong. Water didn’t just seep it poured in everywhere it felt. We not only had to find a new roofer to completely replace the roof, but we also had to find new contractors to undo almost every decision made by the previous team. It wasn’t until the Autumn of ’24 that we finally found a group of builders who brought reliability and care.
Our lovely new electrician came and put electrics throughout in mid February
Meanwhile, we were living in a tiny house on site with no electricity or hot water. Although, we bought the property with electicity, the original power line had been stolen sometime after we purchased the property, and reconnecting to the grid took nearly three years. For months, we relied on generators and extension cords, a camping stove for cooking, and ate by candlelight. The Bothy itself had never had plumbing or heating; in fact, we only got hot water in April this year. We showered at our neighbours. It was a matter of survival, doing what we could to keep warm, keep going, and keep believing that this would someday be our home.
We became well-acquainted with the phrase, “It gets worse before it gets better.”
And then, alongside the bricks and beams, came the personal losses. In December, Mark’s mother passed away, and in March, I lost my dad. Two people who had quietly shaped our love of nature, of making something with your hands, of sticking with it when it all feels like too much. Grief has a strange way of reshaping time. Some days were heavy and slow, others passed in a blur of paint and plaster. There were tears in the car and quiet tea breaks in the cold, shell-like structure that would become our kitchen. We kept going, if not always cheerfully, then with care and stubbornness.
And slowly, painfully, beautifully, things began to change.
The roof went back on. The walls were plastered. Electricity came back, with hot water! Real toilets, sinks, showers and a lovely bath arrived (a serious milestone). We started calling it home. Somewhere in between the dust and the grief, this place began holding us up just as we were holding it together.
Now, a year and a bit later, we look around and see not perfection but progress. There’s still work to do, but now the Bothy has life again. The birds have returned to nest in the walls around us. The garden is starting to come alive. And for the first time, it feels like we’re not just restoring a building; we’re building a future together.
