Hanging Up My Hammer

A meditation on trust, balance, and knowing when enough is enough

A silver line of lead crowns the chestnut roof — the meeting of patience and precision.

I step backwards gingerly, feeling for the step I know is there but can’t quite reach. It’s not so much a leap of faith as a lowering of it — a steady, deliberate act of trust. The step is there, though awkwardly higher than the others, two steps where all the rest are one.

My hammer hangs head-down, an extension of my arm, its weight connecting me to the solid world. I use it as a kind of percussive walking stick — testing each descent like a mountaineer of timber and shingles.

Why am I retreating backwards down a homemade staircase, hammer first? Well, because today I’ve been working on the north-east verge of the Long House roof — and this is no ordinary day.

Today, I’m finishing my part of the mammoth shingle roof project. Seven steps up on my makeshift stairs, perched above the top level of the scaffolding, I am technically above the safety rails. Below me: a 30-foot drop towards the moat-pond-thing. To my right: open air and the possibility of a very soggy landing. To my left: a shorter drop that would still rearrange my afternoon plans.

So no — heights are not my thing. But focus is. I’ve learned to stop my mind wandering sideways will stop my knees shaking.

I set up my miniature workstation — ten shingles (chosen blindly, no cherry-picking), one pot of mixed-length nails in an old ice-cream tub, and a 30-inch square of platform space for my feet. Order in miniature, peace through preparation.

I kneel into the roof — reassuringly firm beneath me — and place the first shingle. I trust the way I’ve picked it up, the angle, the grain, the rhythm. When I doubt myself and try other positions, I always circle back to the first one. The roof, it turns out, prefers instinct over indecision.

I work four rows at a time — a delicate dance of dependency. Each layer leans on the one before, a kind of wooden trust exercise. Maybe it’s not a house of cards, after all, but a house of patience.

Before each climb, I brace myself. Ear defenders on, Radio 4 murmuring reassurance. My little “stairway to heaven” awaits — seven steps up, the last being a double. Every ascent begins with a quiet “mind over matter” pep talk.

Today is a special shingle day. Thirty-five to fit, all lined up like soldiers in sweet chestnut armour. I manage the bottom three verge rows, and by the time I reach the final one, I discover it needs shaping — a kind of improvised triangle. Twice I descend and ascend to axe it to perfection (best done at ground level, where gravity is less opinionated).

I get the nail started safely on the scaffolding — a small act of prudence masquerading as precision — and climb once more to fit it. When I reach for the spot, I realise I can’t quite do it. The shingle and I both know our limits. I slide it gently into a cavity between battens for JP to nail on. He’s doing the final four rows anyway. Let the brave have their glory.

Am I content to stop here? Yes. The courage it’s taken to get this far feels more than enough. My body agrees — it’s quietly voting for solid ground and horizontal rest.

I descend carefully, hammer and nail pot in hand, repeating my mantra: don’t get complacent. The job may be done, but the gravity remains.

Back in the yard, I walk the familiar path to the tool shed — the cathedral of completed effort. I take my hammer from the calico bag and hang it on its hook among the others.

Work done, hammers resting — each one holding the echo of a thousand strikes.

“Thank you,” I tell it aloud.
You’ve been my companion, my counterbalance, my third leg and steady hand. You’ve driven thousands of nails into that roof — one for every act of patience this place has demanded.

And now, we rest.

From tree to tool to rest — sweet chestnut teaching us all when to stop.

This is my third and final shingle roof. The view from the top will fade soon enough, but the work will hold. The Long House will breathe through its chestnut skin, the roof will weather into silver, and I’ll remember the feeling — not of height, but of completion.

A hammer hung up, but not retired. Just… pausing between projects, waiting for whatever the next leap — or steady backward step — might be.

Where the roof began — sweet chestnuts standing tall beneath a blue November sky

If you’d like to learn more about the Orchard Barn project and the story behind the Long House roof, you can visit our website: www.orchardbarn.org.uk