Oh, the heights we might attain

When, some few millions of years ago, Morthug (spelling entirely conjectural), gazed disappointed at the tree—now fallen—that he’d often used to reach the top of his favorite sunning rock, it seemed his world would be irrevocably different. When, shortly thereafter, he discovered—much to his glee—that if he stood on the broken stump, he could simply cross to a little outcrop, and then walk onto his rock, it truly was. And so, today, with a glad heart, I write to you of stairs. 

This is a topic—which like so many other things—I am now somewhat surprisingly more of an expert on than I might have ever considered possible. In the beginning, there was a set of truly terrible stairs at La Bu. Jutting in a manner almost obscene into the very middle of the kitchen, these were marked by not only a misguided, if not downright malevolent understanding of how stairs might be used as part of the whole house, but by a set of geometries that were malicious. The treads were too narrow, the risers too high, the width laughable, the angle murderous. They could be no worse.

Then came K2. Installed, presumably as a practical joke, by my make-me-a-new-set-of-stairs-now-so-I-don’t-kill-myself-and-by-the-way-in-a-place-that-actually-makes-sense guy to serve as a temporary fix until his miracle stairs were done, these combined almost everything that was wrong with the original, with the added bonus of a double step height at the top and at the bottom. Imagine a running jump to go up, and a creaking, moaning, hold on to the wall, ease-down at the top to go down. They were, however, in the correct place. For months, these served. For months, we had to wait until other things like flooring on the ground and first floors got done before we had correct measurements, then just-to-be-sure measurements, consultations, final consultations, no-really-final consultations, then a here-we-go measurement, and then sourcing, and building, and then national holidays, etc.

Then, last week, these stairs, these beautiful concoctions of blond wood, of steel, of gentle slopes and broad surfaces, of airy lift, and of luminescent diffusion of skylight, borne of our minds, and our bodies’ sacrifices, were installed in a matter of 12 hours. I get Morthug’s excitement, but I have to think it ain’t got a thing on mine.

My knees have gone from Wagnerian doublecrossing to Verdian copulation. I heard them actually sighing last evening (tequilla had nothing to do with it, I swear). Charlemagne the Cat’s hips seem to be realigning nicely (it really is shit getting old). Artemis the Cat now has a mind-boggling number of perches from which she can leap onto unsuspecting house apes, or brothers (just what we all needed). And the rock wall, the wall that dear K so expertly made look ethereal, just does (no, really, see pictures below).

In other news, the new kitchen, the one that will jut out so deliciously from the side of the soon-to-be kitchen annex, is coming along. Windows almost all in, under-roof installed, floor in during the next week, final wood bits then too, and then the last of the glass. The new 220 kg wood-burning oven has even been ordered. So, that clock is ticking like a mother.

The garden is wet, and green, and is slowly being pushed into new configurations. And more on all of that later.

Welcome to fall, where we’re happily moving on (and up), one step at a time.