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How many men does it take to change a roof? Two, me and Pete (with a bit of help from toothless Ivan, an 83 year old, to pass up a few ridge tiles right at the end – I always knew he was a glory boy).

It’s official, Pete and I have actually done something to be proud of. Our barn, arguably the best building on site, was in a sorry stake after we raided the roof for stone plotches to repair the roof on the house. Worried that it wouldn’t last the winter without a roof, we decided that our challenge, with or without Anika Rice (who I hear still gets excited when the chopper goes up), was to repair and re-tile the roof in 4 weeks. We decided to use 2^nd hand clay tiles, rather than insisting on more huge stone tiles, to take a bit of weight off and to make our life a bit easier. We put our maths and language skills to the test and bartered good prices for 1800 tiles, 75m of replacement timbers and a decent drill. We also visited a couple of quarries to buy sand and aggregate to mix up a bit of concrete which was interesting… there’s nothing quite like thinking you’re arguing over price when in fact we’re talking about volume and ratio calculations… we got there in the end. For those of you who watched The Smell of Reeves and Mortimer, we bought our tiles from Uncle Peter who turned up for work in his xxs green felt blazer and crumpled top hat, on his home made petrol powered pedal bike – smooth.

So between snow storms we got our act together and got out into the cold in our best thermals and thinsulate to show the locals how real building work is done! And this is what we ended up with:

‘Undulating’ might be one way of describing it, ‘wavy’ perhaps? curvaceous even? Kevin McCloud would definitely call it ‘organic’. Straight lines are for architects and traffic wardens. Anyway, I like it and it’s waterproof which is all that counts.

Before I left, it’s fair to say that my accommodation arrangements were less that comprehensive and upon arrival, it quickly became clear that my back up plan (living in the van) was not really going to be an option with the temperature dropping to a “piss in your pants to stay warm” -7 at night. Miraculously though, an English couple in the village took pity on us and offered to put us up in their spare bungalow for a month! I couldn’t and still cant quite believe how lucky I was…not least because not only did they have a hot shower, flushing sit down toilet and heating, but the guy, Peter, an ex pub landlord, also turned out to be a legend in kitchen. I don’t know when you last had toad in the hole or stew and dumplings, but I can say with some certainty, not recently enough… get on with it… they’re amazing. So next time you’re passing through Burya, I can recommend a night at Peter and Sandra’s place (thanks a million).

While I’ve been playing at building, Sam has been doing some real work, training to be an English Language teacher in Sofia. At only 60-80 hours a week and her first teaching lesson on day 2 of the course, it sounded like a piece of piss really! So yet again, Sam has managed to out do me, passing her course and showing off by using apostrophes in all the right place’s. God I’m funny. It also meant we got to spend a bit more time in Sofia, which I like more each time I go.

So all in all, we’ve had a great time and managed to achieve shit loads. Lots of back patting all round: well done us.

Aside from the construction, and the self appreciation I’ve also been back on the trail of Bulgarian culture. Its a tough, salt laiden job but somebody has to do it. The highlight was definitely a 53^rd birthday party at which we were the special guests. A few glasses of home made wine and grape brandy later, it looked like this:

...good shit, chestit rozden den.

I’ve also decided to have a new feature as part of the blog: Myth busters, where I explain the facts behind some of the words most wondrous mysteries. First up, super models.

There is a reason that more supermodels come from eastern Europe than anywhere else, and on my last trip to Veliko Turnovo, I found out what it is: Carrots, shit loads of them. Sat in a pizzeria, chomping my way through a 12” diavolo with extra everything, I heard a girl on the next table order a salad, a carrot salad. It sounded like an uninspiring side dish, at best, but I guessed it might be ok to break up the mass of cheese on the pizzas. Little did I realise that a carrot salad could make up a whole meal, especially when it comprises just a huge pile of grated carrot. For 2 hours the girl sat, picking at her ‘salad’ no doubt enjoying every orange mouthful. She did at least have the dignity to wash it down will a full fat coke. It was obviously not as fulfilling as she hoped, as she only managed half of it – the fat cow.

I’m back in the uk for a while and will hopefully catch up with everyone. Back for more Bulgarian adventures in the spring if Tesco will give me the time off.

Ciao Ciao za sega