Hot tea with a splash of milk is so comforting. I hadn’t really touched the stuff since my thesis when, alone in the dark of the night I sort comfort in pots of the stuff accompanied by the soothing murmurings of ABC classical FM. I felt that familiar comfort as we drank mug after mug, we were in England now, a world away from the blue bottled beers that were being passed around on site in New Mexico. And only in England would someone be giving it up for a while to break their addiction, Paul was on herbal teas as the caffeine was starting to become a crutch. Kineseology Chris (not to be confused with rigger Chris) proved the point by getting Paul to hold a tea bag to his chest and pushed on his arm to test for strength, there was a different result for a beer bottle.

We tested our butterpat joints, with a pile of past failures destined for the fire looming nearby. The kind of went together, like a seasaw… Ben taught a neat little trick of putting leaves in the joints and then checking where the green marks were left to see where it rubbed. They needed work.

Then an excursion to see the building Ben did for the national trust, a finely finished home and a school multipurpose room. On the way we scooped up a fallen cyclist who had got himself tangled trying to remove some dangling string from his wheel. The hospital was closed, but he was recovered enough by then to be dropped at the train station. I hoped I would not require similar saving in my biking adventures.

I’ll leave the photos to show you around, but I was particularly charmed by the school building. It was so much fun with a rope ramp entry, green roof and underground secret space. That’s what school buildings should be.

Then it was pizza night, with Dylan head chef (as usual when it comes to doughy matters). What a delight to have Smoky woodpile pizza sitting around the fire with new friends and homemade cider delivered by Ben in a giant glass flagon. Every year they have an cider making day in the village, a real communal event with children running through aprons and the like. Last year someone left a terse note regarding apples rolling onto their driveway and the next day unknown scoundrels lobbed apples at their door, they didn’t have the right village spirit I suppose and promptly move on.

Watching now familiar faces flickering in the fire we Thought, too soon the course would be over and off we’d fly rootless into the breeze. But enough tomorrow, now there is nettle pesto and feta pizza and lots of other creative toppings to be devoured.

In glorious sunshine we laid the frame out on the “should be level, should be straight” framing bed. I was a proud mother when my pole was chosen for its straightness as the first of the two wall poles. Then there were crux poles, butterpat joints and scribers, and for this I’ll refer you to Ben’s book as when I tried to write it all down it was such a confused misery to read I’d fear to turn people off timber framing completely (Ben’s got lovely diagrams you see).

At lunch a cry went out, the cat had sculpted a ridgeline out of chris’ loaf of bread, the day before it had been in the back of his car devouring bagels. When it’s not your bagels, its rather funny. Then after chiselling away at three dimensional curves for a the rest of the day, we just had to pray they would all fit together in the morning.

By the fire we had a pasta night, Dylan and I inspired by the great swathes of nettles made up a nettle pesto, which wasn’t half bad. Ben gave me access to his veggie patch, which he may later have regretted, as I’ve been starved of that luxury for three months!

As we had ridden towards the woodland the first day we had been overwhelmed by the strong aroma of garlic, and Ben pointed me in the direction of its source. He had a patch of wild garlic under a tree and when disturbed it’s glorious scent rose up from the bluebells and bugles flowers.

Then we all bounced off to the brewery through darkened lanes lined with stone walls. There was live music on, but it was so crowded that we could barely squeeze inside. “that’s Ben Law from grand designs” a gent with leather elbow patches whispered to his wife. Ben Law from grand designs sighed world weary when we told him, not his crowd. Then the call went out “hard liquor for the Lady!” Ben could not stand for someone to be drinkless and as beer doesn’t agree with me we were all marching towards the pub where Ben introduced me to a fine tequila. The proprietor was an Algerian, who didn’t like to be called french and was sat beret on head, playing classical Spanish songs on the guitar.

Symbolic shells were cracked as we grew comfortable in each others company. Dylan’s story of how he was refused entry into a scotish fell race because he had no himalyan root finding experience lead to marvellous yarns from Ben about his adventures lost in the himalyas seeking shelter and satiation from buddist monastries. We agreed that the world was not as wild as it use to be over a g&t.

Two enormous hounds sprang down the muddied track paws thudding onto my chest, tongues lolling. The house came into sight and Ben Law’s two apprentices greeted us with the hounds’ glee reflected in their faces, after a long winter alone in the woods, company was craved. Millar and Paul had been coppicing and making charcoal for the last 6 months and the Roundwood Timber Framing Course marked the beginning of a season of building and sunshine.

The man himself was a humble figure, cap on head, no wasted words. Although as the day wore on we spied a man who loved a laugh. Dylan fresh from a land free of sarcasm made the most of the English dry wit and soon there was a mock war of words Aussie vs. Brit.

We wandered the woods, the coppice so strange to Australians use to plantations, old growth, clear felling and slash and burn. Long thin trunks sprouting from a shared stump. Whenever we paused in silence there was such a symphony of birdsong it was almost overwhelming and of course those lerches bounding in and out of sight amongstvthe blue bells.

A team of 8 we began peeling round logs, something that was immensely satisfying, almost a meditation. Off cane the bark to reveal tiger stripes of white and brown, then drawknifing them clean and smooth. It wasn’t until after I finished that I realised I had perhaps taken the smooth too literally as I inspected its rougher and faster companions. There was a bit of needing out over tools lead by the trusty Millar, he perhaps had a “I” drawknife, or was it as “H” or and “S”? The makers mark letting us know exactly who the maker was worn to oblivion.

We left the newly white logs, and lead by Millar, made the trek to the Lodsworth Larder for provisions. Up a bluebell lines stair, lush green fields that cleaned our boots and then muddy trails that dirtied them again. The Larder was a Ben Law, all roundwood and lathe. As provisions were purchased, skies darkened and  we returned to a glowing campfire.

It was Millar who started it all. James and I had been doing some whittling: I made a wobbly stick, he made a spiral and a captive ring. Inspired Millar ran into the woods and came back with a thick bent stick, “I’ve been saving this up, someone put a mushroom on the end and it will look like a cock”. So Sunny (reluctantly at first) took on.the task with Millar urgings “don’t f it up”, then Millar began on his own and as hijinks are catching even when not a drop of alcohol is involved soon Dylan was carving away as well. On seeing the skill of the others Millar admitted defeat and through his in the fire, so there we sat our first night in the woods watching a fallice crackle in the fire. The course was going to be entertaining then.