Great design is one of the fundamentals of anything we make, no matter how simple. Yet sometimes a brilliant vision can ultimately triumph despite multiple points of design failure.

It seems fitting that a trip to Australia ends with a visit to a structure that is both one of the most iconic images of the country and yet also cited as a case study in the perils of flawed design. Poor planning, political interference, delays, budget overruns and resignations: the Sydney Opera House is an inspiration, but also a warning to any of us who are motivated by a compelling vision and take shortcuts in the planning stage.

From its earliest manifestation as a sketch, a “magnificent doodle1”, as one of 233 entries for a design competition, to the photographs that we have all seen so often, the wonder of the Sydney Opera House needs no explanation. Today, over 50 years after it was completed, the vision has triumphed and the building has retained its wow factor, inside and out.

I read “How Big Things Get Done” by Bent Flyvbjerg and Dan Gardner last year. Despite the title, it contains excellent advice, and examples (good and bad), for any size of project, on how to deliver on a vision and avoid the common mistakes.

The book also explains how to reduce scope creep and project risk when employing a contractor for renovation or remodelling of our own properties2.

Flyvbjerg has advised on many mega projects. He has also compiled a database of 16,000 projects, in over 20 areas, to examine how major projects perform against expectations. He discovered that barely 8 percent of large projects have delivered on time and on budget. The book contains “compare and contrast” examples to illustrate what worked, and what didn’t. The Sydney Opera House is one of the case studies.

“a project begins with a vision that is at best a vague image of the glorious thing the project will become”

Completion of the Opera House took 14 years, not the five years originally proposed and it cost 14 times the initial, (albeit unrealistic), budget. The original architect, Jørn Utzon, was forced out midway through. In contrast, the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, another innovative and iconic structure, designed by Frank Gehry, came in under budget and on time in 1997, as did the Empire State Building in 1931.

The failures in the building of the Sydney Opera House were not entirely the fault of the architect. In 1959, Joseph Cahill, the Australian state premier, wanted a grand monument as his legacy and, according to Tim Harford,3 he pushed for the project to start too early - and low-balled the budget. The first foundations, which later needed to be removed with dynamite, were laid before Utzon and consulting engineers Ove Arup had figured out how to build the famous sail-like roofs.

As the project stumbled along it risked becoming a white elephant. The public began to question whether the money would have been better spent on schools or hospitals. A new government took over. It brought in new architects, finally resolving the outstanding design challenges and the opera house was opened in 1973.

If you ever visit Australia, I recommend taking the Sydney Opera House tour. This gives a whole new layer of understanding about the building and how it was constructed. Grab a drink on the terrace outside, take one of the commuter ferries that departs from Circular Quay next door - and if, like us, you discover you can attend a performance there as well, then you will have experienced it in every dimension.

The story of the Opera House and the fall from grace of Jørn Utzon also features on an episode of the Cautionary Tales podcast by Financial Times journalist Tim Harford. This excellent podcast series draws on a rich source of material about projects, adventures and initiatives which have failed, often catastrophically.

Flyvbjerg and Gardner suggest an approach of “Think slow, act fast” as a guiding principle for increasing the likelihood that projects succeed. The data on the mega projects he researched showed Flyvbjerg that “the projects that fail tend to drag on, while those that succeed zip along and finish.” His advice for ensuring a project’s success is to speed up the build phase of the project and bring it to conclusion faster.

But to finish fast, means taking more time to design. The authors write: “a project begins with a vision that is at best a vague image of the glorious thing the project will become. Planning is pushing to the point where it is sufficiently researched, analysed, tested and detailed that we can be confident that we have a reliable road map of the way forward.”

Planning is cheap, whereas working on the project is expensive. “Cultivating ideas takes time…spotting implications of different options and approaches takes time... puzzling through complex solutions takes time”.

“Projects”, writes Flyvbjerg, “do not ‘go wrong’ they ‘start wrong’”.

The impact is not limited to the external features, but continues into the public spaces within the building. The unique windows overlooking the harbour were another feature not planned at the start. The glass took two years to source, was shipped in from France and contributed further to the delay. But the 45-degree angle of the windows ensures a crisp view of the harbour. And no problem with seagull poo.

The name “Opera House” is something of a misnomer. There are three main theatres and many other areas where events take place. The two largest indoor spaces are the Joan Sutherland Theatre, where opera and plays are performed and the large concert hall. The smaller theatre serves its purpose but is painted black and a poor cousin to the larger, 2,600-seat concert hall lined in wood with a massive organ rising above the circular stage. Brushbox, a native Australian hardwood, is used for the floor and white birch plywood for the walls, the seats are a glorious crimson.

“How Big Things Get Done” finishes with 11 heuristics for running better projects. Some of these are more appropriate for major projects, but the following are as relevant, in my opinion, whether we are the only builder as they are for a team of thousands of contractors and budgets in the billions.

Ask Why

Andrew Wolstenholme, leader of the Heathrow Terminal 5 delivery team, is quoted in the book: “I check constantly to ask myself if my present actions contribute to the result”. Personally, I find I work a lot more effectively if I check in on what I am doing on my own projects every 40 minutes or so, to ensure I haven’t slipped into some bad habits and I am fully concentrating on the job in hand.

Build with Lego

Flyvbjerg and Gardner make the point that many of the best designs are based on repeating modular units (solar farms, roads, the Empire State Building). These allow the design to be refined, simplified and lead to faster construction. I have now built five variants of a wooden Shaker table, but each variant has the same leg design. With each new build of the table I discover a faster, more accurate way to measure and cut the legs and joints.

Take the outside view

Few projects are completely unique and all projects have themes in common with what has gone before. The authors recommend gathering data and experience from other projects. This should include not just how they were constructed, but also how long they took to build. Spot the risks in advance. YouTube is a great source of learning for the creator, but in my experience, everything takes at least twice as long to build as I expect.

Watch your downside

If we are working on personal projects, the perceived downside may be small, even trivial, but even small mistakes can compound to destroy or degrade a project. Or we get dispirited and give up. Successful cyclists in the Tour de France, explain Flyvbjerg and Gardner, aim not at winning, but at not losing any of the 21 days of the race.

Make friends and keep them friendly. Know that the biggest risk is you

One of the reason for Utzon’s failure in designing the opera house was that he was both an outsider (from Denmark not Australia) and something of a loner. He was courteous but reserved and idealistic. Uncompromising about design quality, he tended to work out solutions in his own time. If we are ambitious in what we create, as we should be, we need to preserve a commitment to our bold vision - yet be aware of our shortcomings and also plan for how we overcome those.

Despite the fact that the opera house was budgeted at A$7 million versus a final cost of circa A$102 million (US$140 million), it has been a massive success. Today over 2,000 events are held there each year. It is a great draw for tourists to the country and, based on an informal audience poll the night we attended opera highlights last week, it has probably introduced many people to their first experience of opera. Today Utzon’s reputation has been restored, and he is credited as the genius that had the vision, even if lacking in the design skills, to build Australia’s greatest monument and a UNESCO world heritage site. He was later invited back as a consultant on the building, including producing a design principles guidelines document for all future work in 2002.

Having read the book, listened to the podcast, visited the building and attended the opera I do support the findings of Flyvbjerg and Gardner. Far too much money is wasted on grand projects. However, perhaps many of the greatest designs only exist because under all rational assessment of time, money, and stress they should never have been build - yet someone did it anyway and the world is a better place for that. And so we shouldn’t lose sight of that in our own projects. If we rationalise too much, plan for too long, think too much about the cost and want to avoid stress we will struggle to create anything memorable.

And finally..

Waiting for our flight out of Sydney this week, I noticed another Australian design feature. What a great way for air traffic controllers to de-stress after a busy day - sliding down their helter-skelter…

Last Sunday, wandering around the gentle beach resort of Huskisson, a couple of hours south of Sydney, I found a second-hand copy of “The Portfolios of Ansel Adams”.

I’ve been familiar with Adams work for many years, but this week I realised that whilst I have seen many of his pictures, I had never properly looked at them nor asked myself “why did he choose to take that photo?”.

One week later and I have a whole new appreciation for Adams and his work.

For most of his life, Adams took photographs for primarily commercial assignments. The seven original “Portfolios”, reproduced in this book, were sold for a different reason. Released between 1948 and 1976, typically with 12-15 images and issued in limited editions of around 75 to 125, the series of Portfolios enabled Adams to give insight into his personal view of the meaning of his work at different stages throughout his life. And to ensure the greatest control over the quality of the prints, the boxed photographs were hand printed under Adam’s direction.

The first edition of the book ‘The portfolios of Ansel Adams” came out in 1977. Mine, the second edition, was published in 1981. Adams writes “the negative is comparable to the composer’s score and the print to its performance. Each performance differs in subtle ways”. Like most photographers, the manner in which his images were printed was very important to Adams. In the introduction to this second, 1981, edition Adams is clearly delighted that the quality of the prints gets closer to his original vision, for this edition benefits, he says “from the most advanced printing technology including laser scanned, duotone separations”.

I took my new book with me to one of the comfortable wooden loungers in the garden of the cottage of our rental property in Huskisson. Shaded from the sun, cooled by a gentle breeze and midway through a four week holiday I had little else to distract me. I started to look at these pictures in a different way.

Adams was, of course, using very different technology to what we use today. He worked in large format. His massive negatives (often 10 x 8 inches) are one the reasons his images are so sharp. He frequently mounted his camera on the roof of his car. Printing the photograph required chemicals, a dark room and the ability to consistently control the light that fell on different parts of the image - burning and dodging - over multiple prints.

Yet the fundamentals of what define a great photo remain the same today. The composition, the use of highlights and shadows, the clarity of the image, the ability to tell a story. The greatest photos often do not reveal everything at first glance. We need to take the time to study the picture and ask “why?”.

I realised that to get to “why” I also had to ask “how”? How would I feel if I had taken this photo myself? How would I have edited it?

Once I started examining Adams photos from this perspective, I started to appreciate what he had done, and why he had chosen these 80 images to represent a lifetime of work. Here are some of those that grabbed my attention this week.

In Dunes, almost half the picture is taken up with the ripples in the foreground. For the other half, Ansel uses a limited pallet of dark and pale greys in over-lapping strokes, all in balance. I’ve spent a lot of time looking out of aeroplane windows and this also calls to mind a jet liner.

With Adams, a tree is never just a piece of wood. There are dancers here, or is that someone sunbathing at the lower edge? And each branch fits neatly into the frame.

I’ve been looking at maps of coasts and estuaries a lot these last few weeks. When I first came across this photo from Portfolio IV, I saw only a tree and a leaf. Then I noticed that these too could be a coastline. And once again, the composition is essential to the picture’s success. Everything is either in the picture or is part of the frame.

The previous week we’d been walking from Bondi Beach to Bronte and looking back at my photos (more of which are in my post from last week) I realised I had foreshadowed one of Adams work’s with my own photo of Ficus Maris from the recently installed Sculpture by the Sea exhibition.

In the introduction to the seventh Portfolio, Adams reflects on the variety of images that have inspired him. In this last of his Portfolios, issued in 1976, Adams presents a much more eclectic mix of images drawn from half a century. Whilst not explicitly stating this departure from his more familiar images of landscapes to include still life, people and close-ups there is a hint that he wants to be remembered not only for the image itself, but for how he has expanded both his technical and his visual capabilities.

He included the close up Boards and Thistles, taken in 1932, in this last Portfolio. This picture, he explains, he now recognises as the beginning of his voyage into the future. He doesn’t elaborate on why, but perhaps it was the start of his commitment to achieving the highest level of detail in his images, from close-ups through to expansive landscapes - and often including both in the same image.

In Touleme Meadows, released in 1963, for example, Adams includes both the close-up detail of the trunk of an ancient tree, and the sharply defined mountains of Yosemite in the background. To the right of the old tree a sapling emerges from its roots. Ancient and modern, massive and miniature, a story within a story.

Adams did occasionally take photographs of real people, at other times we can find echoes of the human form in his work. When I look at Mudhills, Arizona taken in 1947 I see not only a desert landscape, but the folds of a reclining figure, as if shaped by Henry Moore.

Sometimes a picture can show us what we cannot actually see. In Siesta Lake we first notice the dead tree, and a tightly cropped forest background. But look more carefully and we discover that he is also showing us the ridge line and cloud formation, out of sight but reflected in the water.

In the foreword to the seventh and final Portfolio in the book, Adam writes: “I hope that my work will encourage self-expression in others and stimulate the search for beauty and creative excitement in the great world around us.”

When I was seventeen yeas old I read about someone’s experience after visiting the Picasso museum in Antibes in the South of France. For the rest of the day, the author saw the world as though painted by Picasso. Deep blue skies, dark green foliage and turquoise seas make for great photos to share with those still back at home as winter descends on London but I too have seen the world differently, through the eyes of Adams, this week, and been stimulated in my search for beauty in the great world around me here in Australia.

I’ve also dug out a couple of photos I took last year which were Adams inspired. We’ll be sad to leave Australia next week, so having a reminder of what we can look forward to back home helps a bit.

Ansel Adams has not been my only inspiration for this week’s article. I am also grateful to who publishes “Photobook Sunday” here on Substack each week. Soren and his work has also motivated me to look more carefully, write more frequently and from whom I have unashamedly borrowed this idea for a book review.

And finally, now for something completely different…

Monty Python had a sketch based on the number of people called “Bruce” in Australia so I was delighted to over hear this discussion when we were buying coffee in the airport this week:

“Excuse me miss, is my coffee ready”

“What’s your name?”

“Bruce”

“Sorry mate - Bruce has already taken his coffee”

Many years ago in Thailand I asked if the watch with the Gucci logo that I fancied buying was genuine.

“Same, same, but different” was the reply.

The memory of that phrase has lasted a lot longer than the watch.

I’m drawn to odd pairings - images that rhyme, those that contrast. Sometimes one shot tells the whole story, at other times the matching pairs might be taken years apart. Occasionally I find echoes in the work of others.

Here in our second week in Australia, I’m living in a parallel world of contrasts, but at the same time one which seems very familiar. Morning here is late evening back home. It is spring, not autumn. Yet the locals speak English and drive on the same side of the road. The same, but different.

Aldeburgh is a smart seaside resort on the East Coast of England. Martin Parr, of whom I have been a fan for some time, died almost a year ago. I was reminded of my own, Parr inspired photo taken on the beach at Aldeburgh when I came across Ugene Tan. “Uge” as he is known, owns Aquabumps, which sells his work here in Bondi Beach, Sydney. No surprise one of our young Brits has spent three years working out here.

In 2022, we were inVenice. Gondola’s photograph well. Bondi is not all about bodies. They have bicycles here too.

The journey to Australia starts at London’s Heathrow. Parking at the airport is expensive but I’ve discovered a street nearby where it’s free. A few of the cars have clearly been here for a long time. A couple of months later I came across the work of Paul Fuentes at an art fair. California or London? No surprise some people never return.

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You can choose your house, but you can’t choose your neighbours. Rhosneigr in Anglesey, North Wales is a popular holiday destination. Paddington is a smart residential suburb of Sydney. Old and faded can be charming. Sometimes.

The walk from Bondi to Coogee, on the east coast of Sydney, is a delight at any time, but our 25,000 step adventure yesterday coincided with the start of the annual “sculpture by the sea” exhibition. A different kind of echo here. Last week I wrote about identities. How we are both the potter and the clay.

At times the photographer is also the photograph.

Further on I came to a sculpture that, by chance, echoed one of last week’s thoughts about identity - “do we want to be mirror, or is it better to be a diamond with many different facets?”.

It wouldn’t be Australia without a photo of a shark - no matching pair for that one, but it’s made from wood, so that’s good enough for me.

Put two strangers together and it won’t be long before one asks the other “what do you do?” Job titles help us pigeonhole our new acquaintances. Our most basic, rad need for safety runs deep. Does this new person want to help me? Want to kill me? Want to have my babies?

Last week I finished full time employment. This week we’ve travelled half way round the world to Australia. For the next month I’ll be living out of a suitcase. My only tools a camera, a pen and a commitment to continue to write a weekly Substack article. I am no longer employed. Nor have I retired. So who am I now?

Some people choose a working life that is also their vocation, their purpose; doctors, teachers, nurses and fireman for example. There are others who seek a job which they believe confers status, whose primary goal is to acquire wealth and assets. “A man’s car is a reflection of his character” my father once said. “It depends how much personality a man can afford” his brother answered drily.

Thinking out of the box.

But is there not something liberating when we cannot, or do not, allow our day job to define who we are? And those not in regular employment cannot be simply dumped into a box that says “retired, seeking work, homemaker or long term unemployed”.

Our true identity is more complex, more nuanced . To my immediate family I’m variously a father, brother, son and husband. If we persist for long enough (and a bit of talent helps), we also become defined by what we create; writer, photographer, architect, woodworker, cook.

Whoever we are, in my experience, one of the greatest measures of contentment in life is to be known for the identity that we feel truly represents us, that reflects what is most important to us and is a meaningful part of our lives. And those that we share our lives with.

At the same time, most of us seek a balanced life. A single minded dedication to fulfilling one ambition: art, sport, wealth - might lead to “success” in conventional terms but it comes at a high price. We rarely want to look in the mirror and see one single identity; a happy life is more like a well cut diamond. A coherent and balanced set of facets, each one shining brightly.

I create therefore I am. Or am I?

I can now build a wooden table that doesn’t wobble and looks OK. Some family members are requesting that I make more furniture for them. True praise indeed. Yet I’d feel fraudulent to call myself a woodworker just now. I spent less than 200 hours working with wood in the last year. More than 95% of my waking time was taken up doing something else. For a hint of what some of this might have been see my previous post “Could you just…”.

I write a short article each week, take a decent photograph or two once a month. If it takes 10,000 hours to master an activity I’m already doomed in my goal to become a craftsman. But I’m moving beyond mere “hacker”. And increasingly I know who I’m not even if I’m still discovering who I am.

I knew Lee first as a work colleague, later as a client and most recently, in his new life, returning to his early love of making pottery. A few days a week Lee sits at his potter’s wheel, throwing pots.

As we walked along the cliffs, high above the sea in Wales, Lee mentioned that he had been asked to submit some work for a new art exhibition run by a friend. It will be an exploding pot, frozen in time, held together by fine wire. It sounds dramatic. Technically it is quite hard to make. Lee was enjoying the design process, figuring out how to make the parts appear suspended in air, mid explosion. But no matter how good the end result, this is not the style of work he wants to be known for. He is getting pleasure from the craft, but he’s not expressing himself artistically in the way that he feels truly represents him, and in a medium that he has a deep passion for. Torn between the pleasure of crafting this work, the honour of being asked to be part of an exhibition but not wanting to prejudice his future reputation, Lee has figured out a way to identify with his work, but not to be identified by it. He will be exhibiting under a pseudonym.

Diamonds, but not forever?

We may strive to be diamonds, but that metaphor only goes so far. For we are also like the clay that is shaped to make one of Lee’s pots. Many of us have an identity that is still fluid no matter what stage of life we are in. Whether during periods of transition, or when we are balancing different but essential identities (mother, designer, employee, tour organiser, chief worry officer) we do not need to be defined by one dominating role and our identities do evolve over time.

Yet we are both the clay, and the shaper of the clay. The work and roles that have defined us in the past still have meaning. I remain a father, but our young children are now young adults. Where we as parents once led, our lives are now enriched by these co-collaborators and guides who share our love of food, culture and the outdoors. We are increasingly, as we are again this month, the foreigners in lands they know well. What we were we no longer are. But what we were had a lot to do with why they are.

We don’t get everything right first time. And even if we are good at something, we may choose not to be known for it. But we too should celebrate our own exploding pots - the experiments we’ve tried, the paths not taken, the labels we chose and then abandoned. A successful piece of writing is defined as much by the 2,000 words culled through repeated editing as it is by the 600 words that remain. Many wobbly tables preceded the stable one.

And finally, whatever identities we choose, we don’t want to try too hard. As my friend Peter, wise before his years, explained many years ago, it takes a lot of effort to find the clothes to wear so that you look great, whilst appearing as though you are someone who doesn’t really care what they look like.

Now - time to light the Barbie…

I’ve strayed a long way from my woodworking journey in the last few weeks, so I’m returning to my roots today and I’ve been doing a bit of shopping.

One of the secret pleasures of many hobbies is acquiring the kit: walkers and skiers love light waterproof jackets, cooks their knives, golfers balls, clubs and lambswool pull-overs. For cyclists it’s carbon bikes and an obsession with lycra, photographers collect lenses and other “gear”.

Clothing features less prominently on most woodworkers’ shopping lists, although I did receive a splendid heavy leather apron for Christmas last year, and I couldn’t resist the Lidl/Parkside work trousers on my last trip there.

Woodworkers love their tools, but it’s a common theme of those writing about woodwork that we need fewer tools than we think. Writer and publisher Christopher Schwartz - the high priest of traditional woodworking - defined an entire genre with his book “The Anarchist’s Tool Chest” - all we need, Chris preaches, should be able to fit into one large box. Wheels optional.

I agree. At least in principle. I only use about 30 different tools regularly. I do, however, have a soft spot for - and as a result a lighter wallet - old vintage hand tools. (Not old plastic power tools though, I’ve dumped almost every one of those I’ve bought).

Some of these vintage tools perform an essential function - they meet the holy trinity of being better, cheaper and useful. Other tools I buy simply because I feel they capture the spirit of a craft and way of working that has all but disappeared - even among hobby woodworkers.

Up until now I’ve resigned myself to the fact that these tools would be rarely, or more likely never, needed and that they take up space. But this is a harmless addiction and it has added another dimension to my woodworking journey. To handle one of these tools is to have a visceral connection to times past. I may not be a master craftsman, but when I pick up such a tool, my hands form the shape of those that were and inspire me of what I might become.

And I’m beginning to realise that I might have dismissed the limited functionality of these old tools too quickly.

This week I was back in Bristol for a couple of days. Is it a happy coincidence, or is it fate that one of my family now lives only five minutes’ walk from Bristol Design, a rare occurrence these days - a shop selling vintage tools? A return visit was impossible to resist.

Rabbeting on

The simple wooden rabbet plane is a design that endured for centuries as an essential tool for woodworkers. I’ve discussed this before and Rex Kreuger does a great video about how to use one on YouTube.

There is not much to a rabbet plane beyond a steel blade protruding from a slim block of beech, but it’s very versatile and in the right hands, can be used to cut varying depths and widths of rebates in wood. Most of us benefitted from learning the rules of the road by riding a bike before we learnt to drive a car. Likewise, I think every woodworker would benefit from being taught to use a rabbet plane before graduating to more modern tools.

The plane that caught my eye in Bristol Design this week follows the same concept as the rabbet plane but has a more complex arrangement of blades and grooves. Claude AI tells me it’s likely either a multi-stepped reeded or fluted edge plane.

Unlike its simple cousin, the rabbet, this tool was created for cutting just one single design - reeding, or grooves, as detail, probably on a table leg or the edge of a bookshelf. The Stanley planes commonly used by woodworkers today are made of steel with flat soles. But when mouldings were fashionable, beech planes, with shaped blades and soles, were widely used. The bottom of the plane, the sole, being the mirror image of the desired mouldings.

The role of the grooves in the base of the plane I picked up was obvious, but I couldn’t get my head around how the step, a change of height in the sole, would work, nor the fence on the side. Both of these are visible in the photographs. The only way to find out was to take the plane home and try it out on a piece of scrap wood.

But first, there were more tools to buy.

Measure once..

One piece of advice that has served me well in woodworking is to minimise the number of times when a measure or rule is used. Each time we measure we introduce some uncertainty in transferring measurements from the rule to the wood. A sort of “Chinese whispers” (or “playing telephone” if you’re in the US) occurs. Information gets corrupted. Mistakes get made.

I’m finding that the problem is exacerbated with failing eyesight as I get older.

A better solution is to measure off against another piece of the work, standard practice when cutting dovetails. Steel dividers are the best way to ensure consistent dovetail sizes and I’ve begun to use dividers whenever I have to repeat the same measurements multiple times. Carefully set the size once and mark off as needed. With multiple sets of different measurements, it’s useful to have more than one set of dividers, so I was delighted to discover a mixed box of dividers tucked under the counter in Bristol design. They make rather a charming family, don’t you think?

It’s still unusually warm in London for October. Upon returning home yesterday, I rolled out my workbench from the shed. The blade of my new plane has been cut to provide three separate cutting surfaces. It was in good condition and only needed some light sharpening. Getting the blade depth right proved a bit tricky - too little and it wouldn’t cut, too much and it would bite off more than it could chew. Fine-tuning adjustments with a hammer takes a bit of getting used to. With the light fading, I did manage to carve three grooves in a piece of timber and from a distance, and with the help of some 120-grit sandpaper, it's turned out quite well - up to a point. I still can’t figure out how the stepped blade works, nor the fence, but that’s part of the charm. It would be too easy if these old tools gave up all their secrets right away.

And it’s given me an idea. I have the luxury of taking as long as I need to when building furniture. Using hand tools often means taking the long way round. Even longer with these older tools that require patience and care in set-up and use.

Up until now, the furniture I make has tended to be relatively simple. One favourite is a riff on a shaker table design I bought from Rex Kreuger for $9. A design which has subsequently been adapted, expanded and shrunk with inspiration from a John Lewis department store purchase.

Now with my evolving collection of moulding planes and increasing dexterity in using my rabbet plane, I sense a chance to bring some of my collection of tools out of retirement and add some fresh design details to what I build. A few curves, perhaps, or parallel grooves. Not something the Shakers would ever have countenanced and I’ll need to take care not to create a pastiche of reference styles, but as with writing, to copy from one source is plagiarism; to copy from two is research.

Our trip to Bristol also involved dropping into a well-known home furnishing shop. I may now have more time to spend on making things, but having seen the high price charged for new, but relatively simple, furniture these days, perhaps I could also start charging for what I build. Friends and family discount, of course.

And a source of funds to rescue more vintage tools in the future?

Of the thousands of people I’ve known in my life, Peter stands out as one of the most memorable for how he organised his life. He developed a set of heuristics - mental models - that helped him learn quickly, make better decisions and minimise the downside when things go wrong.

I worked with Peter for 10 years. With a degree in engineering from Harvard University, Peter has built a very successful career in risk and finance.

Peter was a brilliant presenter and an entertaining travelling companion. Other than cooking, and more of that in a moment, I don’t think Peter built things that involved cutting wood or metal. He lived in central New York so I doubt fixing tractors and boats took up much of his time. But many of his ideas are applicable to those of us who do wield sharp metal tools, get our fingers dirty or just want a less stressful life.

I’ve not seen Peter for some time, but most weeks I find myself recalling one of his many stories or words of wisdom. I’m off soon to the other side of the world for a month and “panic early” is my mantra this week.

So whether you create professionally as a hobby - or not all - I thought you too might find something of use to you in what follows.

Orange is the new black

The first thing I noticed about Peter when I met him was the large orange Day-Glo sticker on his black plastic BlackBerry (this was 2005, no iPhone for another 2 years).

“Why the sticker?” I asked.

Peter explained that he kept leaving his BlackBerries in taxis. Black BlackBerry, black seat. Hence the bright orange label.

I never went for the Day-Glo label myself. But sitting beside me as I write is my latest small, orange, leather wallet. I’ve been using these ever since I stopped wearing a jacket regularly. Last year someone stopped me after it dropped out of my trouser pocket on the London Underground. Thanks Peter.

Love and learning

One time we were eating in a restaurant in London. Peter spoke confidently to the waiter in Italian. Peter grew up in America. He had no Italian heritage. I complimented him on his fluency.

“I had an Italian girlfriend, the bedroom is the best play to learn a language.”

Did the desire to learn Italian come first, or was it a beneficial side effect of the relationship? I never asked.

Don’t look harder, look smarter

“When you have misplaced something,” Peter explained, “always look again in the last place you remember you had it, or where you’d expect to find it. Don’t give up too quickly even if you think you can’t find it.”

There are many occasions where I’ve remembered Peter’s advice and returned a second time to probe more deeply and discovered what I missed the first time - my keys under a car seat, phone in a desk drawer, wallet in my jacket pocket.

Recipes for life

Peter was an enthusiastic cook and loved regional varieties. The trick to understanding cooking, he explained, was to have a core set of ingredients from which you could build a whole range of dishes that would have the relevant and familiar characteristics. These were his “hacks”. I don’t recall his exact list but you won’t go far wrong with the following.

Italian — garlic, tomatoes, olive oil, basil, parmesan, celery

Chinese — soy sauce, sesame oil, garlic, ginger, spring onions

Indian — cumin, coriander, turmeric, ginger, garlic, garam masala

French — butter, shallot, white wine, thyme, Dijon mustard, cream

Add chicken and mushrooms to any of the above, along with potato, rice and pasta and you’re sorted. Aubergine works well for a vegetarian (or Greek) alternative.

From sampling to selection

The Italian girlfriend didn’t last, but Peter was happily married when I met him. He had, he explained, employed a dating technique that he had derived from “The Secretary Problem”. This is a subset of the “optimal stopping theory”, a concept widely studied in mathematics and behavioural economics. It considers how to choose a time at which to take a particular action, in order to maximise the expected reward and minimise the expected cost or loss.

This is the male version of Peter’s advice on finding the right partner. Adjust the dates by a couple of years and it works well for women too. Peter explained it to me as follows:

“In our earlier lives, say from 16 to 30, we are in our “sampling mode”. We should date and spend time with different partners, for short or long periods. We discover what kind of person we want to spend our lives with - and who is likely to tolerate us.

Then we need to move to “selection mode” - maybe at 25 - 40 years old. In this stage, we are identifying the person we want to marry. And who will want to marry us.

If we stay too long in the “sampling mode”, the choice of people gets smaller and we ourselves may be less appealing. If we “select” too early, we may have made the wrong choice.”

I suspect few people have been as intentional as Peter with their “sampling” versus “selecting” phases, but I’m sure that approach has been responsible for many successful marriages I have known. Including my own.

Panic early, relax at your leisure

Probably the most memorable advice though is “panic early”.

For the major moments in life, take the time to figure out what can go wrong well before it does go wrong and then take measures to make sure that doesn’t happen. Assume the worst.

Behind every successful family, business and completed construction project is someone in the role of “Chief Worry Officer”. If this is not you, or you don’t have someone in that role in your family or project, then stuff will go wrong. Remember Covid? Today the Financial Times reports that the Dutch government, fearing a potential attach from Russia, has advised households to keep 72 hours worth of food supplies, batteries, bottled water and the like - and the EU is recommending “preparedness” for everyone.

Moving on

It’s fitting, and not surprising, that Peter is today the Chief Education Officer for a successful hedge fund.

After many years of working as peers, I was moved to a new box in the organisation chart. Peter would now be reporting into me.

The next day Peter called me to tell me he was resigning.

Had he panicked early? I didn’t take it personally. How could I compete with a new boss who had told him during the interview, “Peter, I am going to teach you how to make money”.

We have a tendency in the UK to treat our builders like traders at a market stall. We push them down on price, ask if they will give a discount for cash, then take the cheapest quote. A few years later, when cracks and damp appear, we are reminded why, when it comes to building work, it’s quality that counts, not cost. But how can we be sure we’re getting that quality?

Carrots not sticks

I worked for Larry for five years. His family business was construction and storage. Larry had grown up on building sites but worked in consulting before joining the fast-growing and slightly chaotic technology company I was part of. Young, energetic, and brilliant with people. I learnt a lot from Larry as he got the company under control. I was young, but he was younger, and he had wisdom beyond his years. “Are we having fun yet?” Larry would ask. Work was hard but never dull.

Larry also knew how to get the best out of builders and contractors.

“First of all,” he explained, “I ask the contractor how he would tackle my project if it was his own home. I get him to quote me a price for that. I ask him how long it will take. I then commit to pay a 10% bonus if he finishes the work in that time.”

It’s an approach that completely changes the dynamic. A decent builder will construct his home to balance quality and cost. It will look good, stand the test of time, and won’t use very expensive materials. That’s what Larry wanted, and it’s worked for me too.

Matt, our neighbour, manages major infrastructure projects. He has had a successful career because he has ensured that what his company builds comes in on time and to specification. Matt had refurbished his house recently. I mentioned our roof to him.

“I always ask my builder for two quotes,” said Matt. “There is the part of any project where the work is clearly defined. The contractor is in control of that work, so he should also carry the risk of that not going to plan. We agree on what needs to be done and I ask for a fixed price. But there will also be the unforeseen work that emerges during the project that is inevitable when working on old houses. As the client, that is my problem. I want my builder to make money. We need to allow for changes in the scope and be able to agree to revised pricing and timescales mid-project. A fixed-price project and inflexible deadlines don’t work for anyone.”

Matt recommended TJ for our roof.

I’m still standing

Christopher Wren, who rebuilt St Paul’s Cathedral after the fire of London in 1666, has a simple plaque in his memory inside the cathedral which states:

Reader, if you seek his monument, look around you

The same could be said of TJ and his roofs. He’s worked for many other neighbours. Every roof he has worked on is still in place.

TJ came round to quote the same day we contacted him. Always a good sign.

“You’re not so much by the sea, as on the sea,” he said.

We had two options for our new roof. Rubber sheeting is the most popular choice for flat roofs today. It looks good, is easy to install, and it’s the cheapest option. Asphalt felt, the more traditional option, is a lot harder to lay, not quite as nice-looking, and expensive. But it’s very tough.

“Which do you want?” asked TJ.

“What would you do?” I replied.

“Rubber is easier for me, but as a roofer I’d use asphalt. It will last longer.”

TJ reckoned the project would take a week.

Two weeks later, he and his team finally left. The project had not been simple. The metaphor “peeling back the onion” has never been quite so apt.

His team stripped off the damaged roof easily, but they discovered an older, original roof below. No mush here. The solid layer of concrete mixed with tar had to be hacked out. That took an extra day.

Rotten beams were exposed that extended beyond the flat roof and onto the main house roof. Some tiles were missing, others were cracked. Years spent trying and struggling to identify leaks in the house were explained by a football-sized hole in a ridge tile. The battens holding the tiles down had turned furry. Nails were rotten. Two more days of extra work.

The pattern continued. Most days TJ would climb down off the roof as another problem emerged.

“Come and take a look at this. What do you want to do about it?”

Each time I replied. “What would you do?” And that was what we did.

The project crept, the final price was double the original quote, but our new kitchen roof is going nowhere and will ride out storms for many years to come. It’s rained a lot recently. Wind has sprayed the house with seawater. So far, the inside has remained dry.

We’ll need to have the main pitched roof replaced next year, but there is no doubt who we’ll turn to for that.

The 7 habits…

I’ve been blessed with many wise people in my life. I’ve learnt a lot from 30 years of renovating houses and advice from the likes of Larry, Matt and of course Jenny, who trained as an architect. But my greatest teachers have been the people I have commissioned to do the work for me. So here are my 7 suggested habits to maximise the chance that your building project is stress-free, no matter how small.

1. Get recommendations for tradespeople from people who have standards the same as you.

2. Understand what you are trying to achieve, but don’t get too attached to the solution. Instead, ask “what would you do?”

3. Define the specification and get a fixed price for what is known. Expect surprises and additional costs. Get additional price estimates for all changes.

4. Adopt a “fix and forget” mindset. All major building work should be done with the expectation that it will last at least twenty years.

5. Inspect your roof regularly. Fix small problems quickly. TJ offers a free annual roof inspection for his customers.

6. Personality matters. Find a builder you like.

7. Pay the bill quickly.

Britain has a fascinating mix of history, culture and geography. There are many ways to experience this regional diversity - the beaches, city centres, museums, music, or art.

But there is one place to go that truly reveals our local character: the council dump.

Making, maintaining and mending are all good for the soul. But it can be hard to create when surrounded by clutter and when the creative juices aren’t flowing so well, clearing out can be a delightful distraction.

Are we the only people who take such great delight in stuffing our car with rubbish and heading off to what are now optimistically described as “recycling centres”?

If not kept under control, I risk an ever-rising tide of cardboard packaging in our garage, which tends to increase at a faster rate than I can squeeze it into the small recycling bin that is collected once a week. The old timber and trees I have been dragging back from the beach for years, in the hope of building something with them, are now too rotten to be useful even for firewood. We have acquired an excess of mirrors which even the local charity shop no longer takes. Time, once again, for a trip to the tip.

Garbage in, treasure out

There are few other household chores that we look forward to with such anticipation. Other couples have a shared interest in spending time at the weekend walking, bird watching, cooking or shopping together. We do all of those, but a visit to the dump, well, that’s a real treat.

And guilt-free. For it’s no longer about transferring our trash; we are now donating our waste to a higher cause. What we are off-loading is not merely “rubbish”. Much of what we bring will be ground up and repurposed for a higher cause. Off goes that cardboard packaging to be pulped and pressed one more time, keeping the wheels of online shopping moving.

Roving with rubbish

Thanks to a series of house moves and house clearances I have dropped off rubbish in dumps across the UK. There is a lot of variety in how local councils - and their staff - treat their customers. In some cases, getting rid of waste now seems like it has risen to the level of a competitive sport.

Some councils have such strict rules, and staff to police them, that each item successfully dropped off feels like a triumph and it’s rare to leave with an empty car. Don’t expect any help either. As my mother was told recently:

“I’m sorry, madam, I can’t help you carry that box up those steep, slippery stairs. I am paid to sit here, wear an orange jacket and drink tea.”

Perhaps those weren’t the exact words, but you get the drift. Not every Scot is friendly.

On the other hand, the Welsh, who can have something of a bad rap when compared to the traditional hospitality of their Gaelic cousins over the sea and north of the border, are in my experience the most welcoming and helpful when dealing with rubbish.

Upon arrival at the Canolfan Ailgyclhu, as they call it in the principality, a swarm of orange-clad men descend on the car and enthusiastically help remove the contents. There is a box, bin, or hole in the wall for everything. Unlike our experience in Scotland, we’ve never had to leave with something we arrived with.

Leave no rubbish behind

On our last visit, that full cleansing also nearly included three bags of TK Maxx returns, intended for our next stop, which were enthusiastically whisked away before we noticed. Fortunately, these were retrieved, and we still had a reason to restock on unwanted items from that discount store later in the morning. But vigilance is a small price to pay, and no other recycling centre staff member anywhere else has ever offered me the loan of a pair of gloves.

Monster munching

Meanwhile, in Wandsworth, there exists the mother of all recycling centres, located on the south side of the Thames. When full, the giant containers get loaded onto barges and sent off downriver to the sea. This means they can be a lot bigger than the standard skips (or “dumpster” in the US).

This is a very well-designed recycling centre. It has a roof; the containers are at a lower level than the car drop-off point so no need for steps and there are lots and lots of parking bays. Like many recycling centres, Wandsworth has retained its Covid-era requirement to pre-book. Arriving there now is rather like picking up a VIP car rental at the airport - you are greeted with the licence plate of your car displayed in red lights on a board above the entrance welcoming you in. Or suffer the humilation of being named and shamed for those that haven’t pre-booked.

Wandsworth believes in minimal staffing - there is a reason it has one of the lowest council taxes in the county. I have rarely seen more than two people here and unlike their cousins up north, this lot don’t seem to be really too bothered about what gets dropped off.

I once tipped a large armchair into one of the containers and it disappeared without a trace. I reckon the contents of a small house would fit in here and there would still be room for a wardrobe full of unwanted TK Maxx clothes. And I’ve always wondered about those trips down the river - do the contents just get emptied into the North Sea somewhere?

We returned home after our trip this week reinvigorated and ready to create. More space in the garage for me and, having cleared out a few cupboards, surely a chance for a quick look to see what’s on sale this week at someone’s favourite discount store?

Join me for a weekly update, or at least as long as I have friends and family to inspire me, on a journey of creation and exploring life analogue and digital.

Including, occasionally, some wood work.

“Stand-by Red Member’s Boat...”, came the command over the radio.

We’d been out on the water in the rain for three hours. “Does that mean we can stand-down and go in now?” asked Carly.

“Not quite the same thing,” I replied.

The request that we “stand-by” was from the officer of the day, asking that I wait for further instructions. “Stand-down” would be what he would say when it was time, as Carly was hoping for, for us to finish our duties as a rescue boat and return to shore.

Last Saturday, Carly joined me on our six metre boat to be on hand for the final race of the TBSC sailing calendar. The engine is still working; the simple fix of tightening up the connections on the battery terminal that I wrote about two weeks1 ago really was the only fault. So this weekend I was fulfilling my obligations to the club to accompany the sailors in case any got into trouble. Finally, after a dry summer, it was raining again, but the wind was light, so not much to do on a rescue boat but drink coffee and chat.

In her spare time - which often means late into the evening or early hours of the morning - Carly makes bespoke hats. These are high-end hats, one-off designs that get worn at places like Ascot races. Carly’s hats are expensive to buy, but each one takes so many hours to make that her hourly rate is measured in pence, not pounds. It’s a labour of love and she is not relying on it for her only source of income.

Carly had kindly offered to step in as my crew that day, despite another late night the evening before (with friends, not hats on this occasion).

For the last three weeks, I’ve been writing about overcoming the mental challenges that we can face as creators, builders and fixers. Now Carly reminded me of another challenge we can face: at what point in our work should we “stand-down” and declare that we are finished?

When good is good enough

In “Good to Great”, published in 2001, Jim Collins describes his research into a selection of multinational companies that succeeded where their peers had failed. The core theme of the book is that the CEOs of companies that settle for “good”, those who are not willing to make tough choices, are ultimately doomed to failure because they are outclassed by competitors who relentlessly pursue greatness. “Good,” he writes, “is the enemy of great”.

Two sides to the coin

But there is another side to this coin. Great can also be the enemy of good enough. Striving for excellence is, of course, a worthy ambition, but the question is “excellence at what price”? Carly’s hats hold their own in design and quality alongside professional, full-time hatters, but this is not a full-time role. Her effective hourly rate - and her working habits - would be a career-limiting move if Carly chose to do this as a job, rather than as a hobby with benefits.

Any professional who is paid to make things has to get very good at optimising around what they do. They need to charge the correct price and be able to limit their hours to what they have committed to deliver. But when we make things for pleasure, when we get into the “zone” and time takes on a new dimension - or even no dimension- when we are not charging our time, how do we know when to stop?

Don’t stand too close to me

Part of the problem is that we can get so close to our work, so involved, that we lose perspective of what is good and what should be discarded. The more abstract or digital, the more choices we have to fiddle with what we are doing - the harder it can then be to separate the quality of the output from the quantity of time invested in the work.

When our creations are solid - working in wood or felt - our mistakes are more obvious and harder to ignore, but even then the temptation to keep tweaking can, as Carly and I agreed, be hard to resist.

Assuming we avoid, or successfully hide, our worst mistakes, the quality of what we create is often subjective. When the impact of a creation - art, hats, writing - depends upon someone’s own interpretation of what they are viewing, then how do we, as both the creator and the observer, know what is good, great, good enough - or is just rubbish?

I experience this challenge all the time when I write and look at photographs I have taken. I might like it, but is what I have done really any good? Am I kidding myself and falling victim to the “sunk cost fallacy” that I wrote about last week?2 The quantity of time invested in doing work does not always mean that the work is of high quality.

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Creating fire-breaks

When I write and when I edit one of my photographs, there is now one self-imposed rule that I have found that helps me know when it is time to stop fiddling, when I am seeing a diminishing rate of return - or quite possibly making things worse. Or even when it’s time to hit the delete button. I create a “fire-break”.

With writing, I have a tendency to want to cram in too much context, too many quotes, too many stories. With photographs, I can fall down a rabbit hole during the editing process of endlessly adjusting exposures, crop, masking and saturation.

Whether it is staying up too late to make micro adjustments to the decoration on a hat, never quite finishing an article, or reaching a point of being happy with a photograph - there are times when we just need to take a break and decide whether we should “Stand-by” and return later, or whether we should allow ourselves to “Stand-down”.

In “Stand-by” mode, we give ourselves a break. We put the work to one side for a day or so. We return to the real world. Hence the fire break. When I think I am finished or realise I need a break, I’ll pause for at least 24 hours. If I do this, I almost always return to what I was working on refreshed and with fresh eyes. I start to detach myself from my work and see it as another might. For better or worse. Edits become easier. Superfluous text gets deleted.

With a firebreak like this, we often discover we are our own best critics and editors. Whenever I do this, my creative decisions are a lot clearer. I have less ownership and less risk of sunk cost fallacy in what I have done. I find that my own work is either good (enough), needs some more refinement, or is just fundamentally flawed and should be abandoned. Maybe even occasionally I’ll allow myself the view that something is, at least by my own prior standards, “great”.

If we can have the discipline to consciously “stand by” from time to time, we don’t then need permission or another person’s request to “stand-down”. We make the tough choices ourselves and we decide that we are done. No more tweaks. No more hanging around on the water when it’s time to go home.

Back to the boat

As it turns out, we didn’t have to wait much longer on Saturday either.

“Thank you, members’ boats for your support. You can stand down now. "

I motored into shore and dropped my relieved crew member back on the beach. I was very grateful for Carly’s support. Friendship is built on the exchange of favours, but it’s never a good idea to keep one’s sister-in-law out in a choppy sea for too long. Particularly after a late night.

Thanks to you too, dear reader, for staying with me to the end. Please feel free to share this if you think anyone else might find it interesting….

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Rod was visiting this week and mentioned he’d read my last Substack post1. I had written that one of the characteristics of great engineers is a “growth mindset”.

“You could write about Scottie Scheffler,” said Rod, “he has another kind of mindset”. Aware that my knowledge of golfing people is as limited as my skills on the golf course, Rod later emailed me a link to the Texas Golf Facebook page. Scottie Scheffler is, I discovered, the “most dangerous man in professional golf”.

That got me interested - could he be a fellow hacker? Despite my father-in-law’s efforts over the years, I too am considered rather dangerous on a golf course. But Scottie, I learnt, is no hacker, for “dangerous” is one of those words that mean the complete opposite in the US than what we mean here in the UK. Another reminder that we are indeed two countries divided by a common language.

I am dangerous when I play golf because I struggle to hit the ball straight and therefore I have the potential to damage things - cars, windows (fortunately not yet any people). Scottie is “dangerous” for other players for different reasons - because he is very good and, as one of the world’s top golfers, he tends to win a lot.

But even Scottie gets it wrong sometimes. He had qualified for 78 PGA golf tournaments in a row over the last few years, something only four other golfers have achieved. That streak ended last month when Scottie failed to “make the cut” for the Scottish Open. He was playing erratically, didn’t qualify for the final round and so was eliminated early.

Golf is as much a mental game as it is physical. Performance anxiety can affect everyone who plays sport, but golfers can suffer from their own debilitating version of stage fright - the “yips”. When under pressure, they twitch or freeze when trying to play a shot, often during putting or the short game. In professional golf one bad shot can ruin the game.

Intentional amnesia…

But not for Scottie. He believes that one of his superpowers is his ability to forget. He has developed “intentional amnesia”. Whether he hits an imperfect shot, or has a bad round and falls behind in a tournament, Scottie quickly moves on - physically and mentally. Next time he picks up his club, he is no longer thinking about his last mistake. He is free to concentrate on the game ahead of him.

Ruminating on past errors is not limited to golfers. An ability to forget is useful in many other areas of life too. If my experience is anything to go by, woodworkers, photographers and writers get their own version of the yips too. There are times when I have become so disillusioned by my own inability to create something that I have abandoned projects for months, sometimes forever. I only recently returned to writing on Substack after a six-month2 absence - I had been overthinking what to write about and so wrote nothing. Then I realised that what I write about doesn’t really matter. What is important is that I write something.

.. and beware the sunk cost fallacy

Successfully deploying intentional amnesia can often be just about mentally letting go of our frustration for some recent failure. But when we build things, or spend time creating, we often need to overcome the “sunk cost fallacy” too. The sunk cost fallacy is a behavioural bias that keeps us working on a project because there is already time or money invested in it, even though we would be a lot better off stopping and trying something different. Or just starting again.

The sunk cost fallacy can be a major problem in billion-dollar government-funded infrastructure projects. Many of these would never have been commissioned if the final true cost had been correctly estimated in advance, but terminating mid-project means a public admission of failure. When we spend time creating as a hobby, we are rarely too concerned about going over budget, but we can suffer from another kind of sunk cost fallacy that does impact the quality of what we build.

In my case, it is the emotional investment in the time and energy in what I have already started creating that blurs my thinking and puts me at risk of suffering a sunk cost fallacy. When I make a mistake, usually due to bad measurement, cutting or drilling in the wrong place, I can fall into the trap of either spending too much time trying to rectify the error, or accept something of lesser quality than I aspire to. The perceived pain of abandoning the damaged piece of work can triumph over the correct course of action - which is to stop and start again with fresh material. As Aldo Gucci said,

"Quality is remembered long after the price is forgotten”

and our mistakes tend to come back to haunt us too, or as Mark Antony remarked in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar,

“the evil that men do lives after them, the good is oft interred with their bones”

Give it up and start again

On the occasions when I do have the mental discipline to pause, realise that it’s better to scrap what I am doing, select a fresh piece of wood and try again, I am always happier with the results. A day later I have forgotten my error and have a piece of work that I can be proud of.

Was this link from golf to woodworking why Rod suggested that I write about Scottie? Possibly, but I have another theory. I think Rod was preparing me to absorb some robust feedback. For having told me that he enjoyed reading my articles, Rod then added, “but they are quite long; perhaps make them a bit shorter”.

If my most loyal reader is advising me to sharpen the focus on my literary short game, then I need to listen.

So how do I feel about that criticism? Having arrived here at the end, I have been back and cut out the dead wood from this article and then let it stew for 24 hours. I’m now ready to push the “publish” button. Forgiven Rod? Of course, but not quite forgotten…

I spent four years studying engineering but it’s only in the last year or so that I have properly understood what it means to be a great engineer.

I was thinking of someone with calloused hands and oil beneath their fingernails when I wrote that opening line, but the characteristics of greatness are not limited to metal bashers. In the US, “engineer” is often used as shorthand for “software engineer” and indeed, the skills and attitudes that define great engineers are also seen in designers and fixers of all types. Even architects. And whilst writing computer code might be a career-limiting move these days, the world will need people with an engineering mindset for many years.

Beyond our wildest dreams

Engineers, designers or architects such as Brunel, Jobs, and Gehry are remembered because they pushed the boundaries to achieve something radically different beyond what had been achieved before. They succeeded with what others thought was impossible or had never even contemplated. But not all engineering is about making something new, and not all engineers need to be rock stars. A lot of the time what is required is to figure out how to fix something, how to get it running again

I have a lot of respect for one class of engineer in particular - a certain kind of mechanic who has the magic touch to fix my car, tractor, or most recently, boat, when my own, and others’ efforts, have failed.

The secret to a happy life

This week I was reviewing my notes from the book “Decisive” by Chip and Dan Heath. The book is a guide on how to make better decisions - in work and in our personal lives. What struck me on returning to it was the emphasis that the authors place on good problem-solving as a key skill we need to develop to know what to do when faced with different and difficult choices.

There is a message in this book which is now blindingly obvious, but which I’d never properly considered before. For most of us, the quality of our lives is defined to a large extent by our ability to solve the problems that assail us each day. Or find others to fix those problems for us.

And this also is what defines a great engineer. The ability to successfully solve problems. And the humble mechanic needs to solve a lot of problems, every day. But how are they solving the problems that others cannot?

The Heath brothers explain in Decisive that the best decisions are made by those people who have the ability to discover the most options, those who realise they have more choices to choose from than might at first appear. Making successful decisions, being decisive, isn’t only about considering option A or B. It’s figuring out what other options - C, D, or E might exist that have been overlooked. And then assessing each option rigorously to identify the best.

It is this relentless search for new options that helps the best engineers find creative solutions to tough problems. Experience helps for sure, but there is also a mindset that inspires some people to believe a solution must be possible even if they can’t, at first, see it. In contrast, others tend to be constrained by their own self-imposed limitations.

The growth mindset

Carol Dweck called this a “growth mindset”. She showed that children who believe they can learn and achieve through hard work and determination usually grow up to have successful and fulfilling lives. On the other hand, children with a “fixed mindset” believe that they are born with defined abilities and that they are bound by their life circumstances which limits what they they can do. They tend to have less satisfying lives.

Good engineers need a growth mindset. If you enjoy puzzles, such as sudoku, crosswords, or jigsaws; if you like quizzes, or play games such as bridge or chess you probably have a growth mindset too. You get such satisfaction from solving problems that you seek stimulation outside of handling life's daily challenges. Problem solving taxes our brains, but we seek out the dopamine hit we get when we realise we have found an answer (or won). That’s true for engineers too.

Lessons from a journey in wood

In this erratic woodworking journey I’ve been writing about, progressing slowly from hacker to craftsman, I have discovered that I get some of my greatest pleasures when solving new problems in the design and build stages. We learn by copying from others whilst we learn, but I am starting to sense what it is to be a master of a craft when I figure out a solution all on my own. I’m no craftsman yet for sure, but I got a great buzz recently, building a bench with splayed legs. It required calculating, marking and then cutting out some mortices with tricky angles to ensure that the tapered legs ended exactly where I wanted them. And it didn’t collapse under my weight.

There is, however, an important difference between those problems that we choose to solve for pleasure and the problem-solving that a professional engineer, woodworker and indeed any designer must do. Unlike the games we play, there is often no “right answer”, no clear winner. If we fail to finish a project when it’s just a hobby, that doesn’t usually matter. In the real, messy world, there is often no guarantee that a solution exists, but there are just two end states: either something works, or it doesn’t. Only one of those pays the bills and we are not very tolerant of those who fail.

The University of YouTube

Despite my degree, I never practised as an engineer, although as a label it definitely helped me find a job. I can’t recall much from my studies, but the spirit lives on and my own struggles and failures only give me a greater appreciation for the skills of others. In truth, I’ve probably learnt more from YouTube. I can now bleed and restart a diesel tractor that has run out of fuel, replace the seal in a Bosch washing machine and make wooden boxes with respectable-looking dovetail joints.

I’ve also discovered that “great engineering” can be addictive as a spectator sport. From Marty T bringing abandoned tractors and other heavy agricultural machinery back to life in New Zealand to“Not Economically Viable” demonstrating that a humble, ignorant, sometimes seemingly bumbling amateur can fix cars the mainstream motor trade has given up on (how very British).

Meanwhile, the fresh-faced Mr Hewes and his mates have taken the “will it start?” video genre to a whole new level, working on large and complicated military vehicles including a chieftain tank.

A fresh battery, a can of WD40, a thump with a hammer, generous squirts of “Quick Start” and a lot of determination get even the most hopeless-looking machines splurting back to life all across YouTube.

Mr Hewes tells a story that originally got me thinking about how perseverance is often the most important tool in the engineer’s kit. His father was a farmer and his inspiration. If a piece of equipment breaks, it’s better and cheaper for most farmers to figure out how to fix it and get back on with the work of ploughing or harvesting rather than wait for someone else to turn up. If something broke on his farm, the older Mr Hewes always believed he could fix it, it was just a question of spending enough time thinking about the problem and working his way to a solution. Or as Mark Watney, played by Matt Damon, says in the excellent film The Martian, when he is left stranded on Mars:

"In the face of overwhelming odds, I'm left with only one option. I'm gonna have to science the shit out of this"

One of my earliest cars was a Citroën 2CV and Emile Leray is another of my engineering heroes. Leray was driving a Citroën 2CV through a remote part of the Sahara Desert in 1993. He hit a rock and broke the axle. With only a hacksaw and some basic tools, Leray converted his car into a motorcycle and 12 days later drove his new contraption back to safety.

Keeping it simple

I’m frequently reminded that the solution to many problems is often simpler than I at first feared. And a lot cheaper. I’ve taken the credit for being a clever husband, brother-in-law, father and son more than once, when all that was required was turning the power on, filling with fuel or the somewhat unsatisfying but often successful technique of wiggling a wire on a terminal.

Which gets me back to my praise for the humble mechanic. I have been struggling this summer with a boat engine that was cutting out intermittently, having not been properly “winterized” last year. I’ve lost a couple of months’ use, and spent money on trying to fix what was assumed to be caused by dirty fuel. When my usual mechanic was unable to fix it after a couple of hours work and suggested, as the next step, stripping down some parts in the engine in a “few weeks time,” I knew it was time for a second opinion. Howard, recommended by a neighbour, came round that Sunday afternoon. “That’s not a fuel problem,” he said, “that’s electrical. Where is your battery?” Five minutes later he had tightened up my two loose battery terminals. “I 100% guarantee that will have fixed it”. It did.

At the end of The Martian. Mark Watney is talking to a group of students:

“you solve one problem... and you solve the next one... and then the next. And if you solve enough problems, you get to come home”

Fortunately, most of us are rarely in a life-or-death situation, either on Mars or in the Sahara, and problem-solving is more about convenience and the speed with which we can get back on the road, water or online. So to all the engineers I have known who have succeeded where I have failed, you have my respect.

We can’t all be great engineers, but a few final thoughts from my recent experiences on cultivating an engineering mindset:

1. When making a decision, or looking for answers, don’t be constrained by the limited options that appear initially; there is often a better way.

2. Don’t skimp on maintenance.

3. Perseverance is good, but know when to call in the expert. Or a second opinion.

As someone who has read - or is now reading - something I wrote, you are a very special person. I don’t want to waste your time with random thoughts or ill considered content. And certainly not to insult you with anything spat out by Chat GPT or other AI engines.

It’s been six months now since I last wrote anything I considered worthy of sharing here, and I’ve missed you all.

John Masefield’s poem “Sea Fever” is never far from my mind - particularly the start of the second verse:

“I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied”

I sit here, looking out at sailing boats and I too will soon be following the tide, in my case for a swim, not a boat. But even more than a refreshing plunge, it is the desire to write that calls to me so strongly. So I write daily, and yet I have failed to post anything to Substack for half a year.

Clearly I have been overthinking this. It’s certainly not the case that I have nothing worth writing about. I am, for example, thrilled by the results now that I have finally painted my garage workshop floor. More of that to follow.

But thank you, Stephen Sheehan, one of my podcast guests this week, for recommending the book “Don’t believe everything you think” by Joseph Nguyen. You’ve got me back on track.

This book has shifted how I think about writing and posting. It is a very quick read. I got through it in two days. One of the strongest take-ways, and demonstrably effective because here I am posting to Substack, can be summed up by the phrase “don’t think, just do”.

Nguyen observes that some of us tend to over-analyse what we should do, or how to do it, and therefore we often do nothing. Whereas others follow their instincts and just get on with life. I also need to thank Walter Egon for nudging me back into writing again. Walter is a professional woodworker from Norway. He writes regularly about woodworking, but Walter is now taking and posting a new photograph every day. This is a great idea if you want to improve your skills as a photographer. Committing to this daily habit will drive creativity, momentum and discipline. I tried that last year but gave up after a week, not being happy with my results. Starting in the UK in grey January was probably a bad idea. And I was definitely over thinking the results.

So what has this all got to do with woodworking? And should that even matter when considering what to write? This is one of the wormholes that has been distracting me. I started writing here on Substack over two years ago to document and inspire a woodworking journey as I honed my skills in an attempt to progress from hacker to craftsman. I’ve published 18 articles since then and I have been delighted when anyone subscribes or adds a comment.

But I’ve calculated that my interest in woodworking will probably only ever fill, at most, about 5% of my life. Many months it is far less. If I focus what I write only on wood-related topics, then I’m losing the opportunity of the 95% of the rest of a life that offers challenges, stories and things worth sharing. But if you came here because you want to read about woodworking-related topics, will I lose you when I digress?

Of course, if I continue not to write anything here, then I’m losing both ways. So please excuse me as “This Would Work” goes through a slight pivot, maybe even a permanent deviation from the craftsman journey. Less “wood” in the “would”.

But what of the garage floor? Well, what a revelation. And a lesson. Our double garage was rebuilt 11 years ago, and finished, rather badly with a light plaster float skim floor. The surface had cracked and even collapsed in some places, and the soft plaster threw off dust. Because we enter and leave the garage with a connecting door to the house, ghostly footprints regularly appeared on the kitchen floor. For reasons so inane and irrelevant that it seems embarrassing to mention them (the choice of colour, the need to empty the garage), the floor had never been painted. Until now. After only a couple of days’ work in July, having discovered Floorsavers pourable concrete and two-pack resin dove grey paint, the garage has been transformed. It’s dust-free, shiny and a lot more appealing for its other role as an occasional gym.

And this new look has in turn inspired me to organise the garage workshop better and get rid of old stuff I realise I will never use. Another cathartic visit to the council recycling centre. I have also become more mindful in how I approach what I am making. It’s notable how a clean and freshly painted floor creates a foundation for better work in so many ways.

I painted that floor six weeks ago. It’s not perfect but I still smile each time I walk in. It’s no longer just a garage. It’s earned its place as a room in the house.

Another reminder that there are times when “great” is the enemy of “good enough”. Just do it.

This article may be truncated or lose some of the images if you are reading this in an email. You can read more in your email by clicking on"View entire message" or read it directly on Substack.

I’m still recovering from minor surgery, so another week away from the workbench. On the positive side, that leaves me with more time to write, browse my collection of old photographs and continue my exploration of how wood has shaped the history of Britain. I’m taking you to the beach this week.

Once we start making things, it’s not long before we begin to think about the design of what we are going to make. But in the world around us, many familiar objects exist not because of a single coherent design, but as the result of an organic evolution over many years. “How Buildings Learn” by Stewart Brand had a major impact on me when I first came across it twenty years ago. Published in 1994, it’s still in print. The book touches on two related concepts that I believe are fundamental to the good design of almost anything we make: resilience and flexibility.

As Brand explains and illustrates, the buildings that tend to be the most successful over time are those that have evolved organically. They shed unneeded ornamentation, comfortably absorb reconfiguration and allow the repurposing of rooms, walls and structural elements. These buildings shrink or expand to fit the needs of their inhabitants. Or, if no longer fit for purpose, they are pulled down.

The book’s primary focus is on residential and commercial buildings. The humble wooden beach hut is a common sight today around the coast of the UK. It too has an intriguing history of adaptability and survival. Brand didn’t cover beach huts in his book, so here is my attempt to fill that gap.

On the beach

Here in the UK, we are rarely far from the coast, but sunny days are less frequent and unpredictable. If we fancy a day beside the seaside, we have to take our chances with the weather, which often means embracing the wind, clouds and rain. Like earlier generations, we can wear warm clothes and rent a deckchair (jackets and ties no longer required). Or we can try to find a beach hut to brew up some tea and find shelter.

I collect old photographs. Most of what I am showing here is from my own collection. Where possible, I buy original vintage prints. I also buy period postcards when I am focussing on one specific topic as I am here. I am particularly attracted to pictures that show a way of life, or scenes, that have either disappeared or changed dramatically.

Most commonly, I am drawn to bridges, steam engines, ancient ruins, ships, farming and military. I prefer pictures with people, or at least some sign of life. Some of my favourite pictures are of beach scenes.

One of the delights of “How Buildings Learn” is the photographs which show how individual buildings have evolved over many years. Looking at my own collection recently, I realised that I’d been staring at something obvious for many years without realising it. The story of the evolution of the bathing machine to the beach hut.

Wet, wet, wet

Despite the cold water and sometimes biting wind, swimming in the sea has long been popular in Britain. Before we had swimming costumes, people swam naked. That’s not a problem once you are in the water, but for the royal family, or those who care about what other people think, it would have been awkward getting in and out of the sea. So around 1750, the bathing engine was invented.

A bathing engine, as you can see is a hut on wheels. They were usually pulled by a horse down the beach and into the water. You enter fully clothed from the beach side, get changed in private, then drop into the water discreetly on the seaward side.

By the 19th century, swimming costumes were available, but bathing engines still remained popular all around the coast of the UK and in Europe too. Popular resorts such as Brighton on the English south coast had a hundred or more.

We may complain about too many people on the beach today, but at least our views are not blocked by ranks of bathing machines as they would have been in the past at places like Ostend in Belgium.

Bathing engines remained popular for a surprisingly long time, well after their original purpose of preserving modesty had become irrelevant. This other postcard of bathers from Ostend in Belgium was posted in 1903 - similarly painted machines can be seen in the distance in the previous picture. People clearly knew how to have fun in those pre-war days, and not much risk of sunburn in those outfits. We British seem to have been a lot more restrained.

Further along the coast from Ostend, we come to Calais in France. Curiously, these bathing machines seem to be aligned along the waves, not facing out to sea. Note also the smaller wheels at the front in these continental machines, rather than the 4 large wheels in the British ones. Much more manoeuvrable.

Old habits may have died hard, but with the start of the First World War in 1914, many beaches were closed to the public, the horses and men went off to war and trips to the sea came to an end. The bathing engines, drawn up to the edge of the beach at the start of the war, were destined never again to return to the water’s edge.

Travelling through time

I started investing more time (and money) in collecting old photographs 5 years ago and I’ve been inspired by the idea of a time series. Typically, I’ll start with one photo that I am drawn to for its merits alone. Then I keep an eye out for other images, of the same location and similar views to what I already have, but which have been taken at a different time. I prefer original photographs, those that were printed at the same time as they were taken, and in the largest format, similar to A4 or US letter size. Finding good quality photographs over one hundred years old at an affordable price is a rare treat, so I’ll also buy postcards and smaller photos1 if printed close to the date when originally taken.

Appley Beach in Shanklin is on the Isle of Wight, off the south coast of Britain. I’ve never been there, but I’ve got to know it quite well. This large-format, original vintage photograph below was the first one I bought of Shanklin. You can see the bathing engines in action. This has been a popular view for photographers over the years, and it’s become one of the time series I collect. Through the photographs and postcards, we see the bathing engines move up from the beach, slowly evolving into the wooden huts that replaced them2.

Woodworkers know how easily metal tools corrode, often just from moisture in the air. Bathing engines were usually owned by local businesses that would rent them out by the day. With their iron fittings, timber construction and regular immersion in salt water, maintenance must have been a full-time job. Slacken off on that, and bits would start to drop off.

So what happened to these bathing engines - and why do we care?

Stuck in the middle with you

Once the First World War ended, swimsuits were available to all. No one needed to swim naked. The bathing machines still provided shelter and a place to change, but there was neither the enthusiasm nor the financial return of towing them down the water, and moving them every couple of hours to match the rising or falling tide.

Over time, the now redundant wheels would have rotted away or been sold for scrap. The original bathing machines took on a new, simpler life, not much more than huts, as shown below. Then, as the wood rotted, they would have been rebuilt entirely.

As we can see from this beach level view of Shanklin, a postcard sent in July 1931, the huts, still with wheels intact, are parked up on the beach. Further along in the distance is a row of new huts, catering for the growing demand for static changing rooms. And a place to make tea.

At some time later, those bathing machines have fully metaphorised into just huts. The wheels seem to have gone, but I suspect these are the same machines we saw at Shanklin in the previous photos. The roof and windows look identical. This is an original photograph, so no postage stamp and no date on the label, but those shirt collars suggest this is late 1930s or maybe early post Second World War.

Over in Germany, pre-war, it’s all huts now and a touch of glamour too. Someone has had the foresight to annotate this photo so we know the date and location.

Back to the UK and moving around the coast, we are heading north and east and going further in time. First stop is Southwold, in Suffolk. The earliest of these two photos was the very first vintage photo I bought. An original Francis Frith from around 1880. The bathing machines are still in active use, with some nice details too. Notice those cables? This beach was too steep for horses.

Thirty years later, around 1920, quite a lot has changed. The bathing huts are now drawn up at the top of the beach. The clothing is more comfortable.

Moving slightly further up Britain’s east coast, we then come to Aldeburgh. Since I had the idea to write this article, I’ve been pleasantly distracted looking for pictures on Ebay over the last few weeks, and a couple of late arrivals here that are worth sharing. Like Southwold, Aldeburgh has a steep, shingle beach3. Winches were used to pull fishing boats out of the water, and it appears they were also used to raise and lower the bathing machines too, removing the need for horses.

We can see the bathing machines in more detail below, and the chains to pull them up the beach. I suspect those poles were used to push the huts further out into the water.

Farewell but not forgotten

I am not aware of any original bathing machines that survive today outside of museums, however as we can see, the shape and spirit of those early bathing machines live on in the dimensions and style of the huts we see today.

Once their story is known, it doesn’t take too much imagination to see these now nondescript rows of huts as a cluster of parked up bathing machines, jolly chariots waiting to be taken down to the beach. The wheels are long gone, but the steps up to the hut are an echo of an early mobile life.

This is a charming bit of history, but it is also more than that. Whilst I take delight in looking at photographs, buildings, furniture and other items from our past, I have no desire to turn the clock back. Yet looking carefully at what has gone before does inspire and teach me. I leave you with three thoughts:

1. These bathing machines were designed and built to survive harsh conditions. The quality of wood and the construction had to be excellent. Regular maintenance was required. It would have been hard work dragging these heavy objects over sand and gravel. Yet they survived and evolved over many decades.

2. These were built entirely for the purposes of giving people pleasure. There is very little true “utility value” in a hut that gets rolled into the sea. Whilst we strive to make something “useful” when we work in wood, the true purpose of the hobby woodworker is simply the pleasure of doing it. As it often is for writing. Some of the best moments in life are when the pursuit of pleasure is the purpose.

3. Looking more closely at what is around us reveals puzzles and stories. When we look for the answers to the question “why is that there?”, “why is this that shape?” or “what happened next?”, we might discover something that surprises and delights us. We may even decide to write an article about it…

The daylight hours are increasing, it must stop raining soon, and my own joints are getting stronger each day. I will be returning to my woodworking journey before too long.

In the meantime, let me know what echoes from the past and stories you are learning from.

This article is one in a series that is part of a rather random walk as I seek to improve my woodworking skills from hacker to craftsman. Along the way, I’m exploring the motivations, lessons and pleasures from a world of creating, looking, reading, taking photographs and whatever else catches my fancy. Take a look at my prior articles or posts if you want to know how I got here. If you are not already on board, I’d be thrilled if you chose to join me along the way by subscribing below - no ticket (or fees) required.

Subscribe now

Over 8 million people tuned in to watch the final of “The Traitors” reality TV show on the BBC on 23 January. That’s 1 in every 8 people in the UK. You have a US version too, although I believe it’s not as popular.

The ending got me thinking about what it means “to win”. If you are not familiar with The Traitors, or your wondering what this has to do with woodworking or creating anything, bear with me. All will become clear soon.

But if you haven’t seen the ending and plan to, stop reading now.

This was the fourth year of “The Traitors” and the first time that two people designated as “traitors” independently chose to share the prize of £95,750 ($130,000) when either could have taken it all for themselves. The winners, Stephen and Rachel, voted in a way that meant they had a chance to win £47,875 ($65,000) but they also accepted the risk that they could win nothing. This was an economically irrational decision. Had either of them voted differently, they would have been more likely to win all the prize money.

Stephen and Rachel didn’t know each other before filming started. The interactions between contestants are tightly controlled and they only meet when the cameras are rolling. We can assume there was no off-camera explicit agreement.

So why did neither of them choose to maximise their return, walk off with the full £95,750 and leave their traitor partner empty-handed?

I’ll explain why in a moment, but watching that result left me feeling very uplifted. In a world that seems to have gone mad, it was a joyful moment.

Creativity as a team sport

Creation tends to come in two forms.

As a team: bridges, cars, films, most buildings and everything at scale requires a team. A leader relies on others to deliver the finished item.

As a solo creator: the woodworkers, painters, photographers and writers who are predominantly acting alone. That describes many of us. We are the designer, builder and head of customer service.

But just because we create alone, doesn’t mean that we don’t need other people. We rely on others to provide materials. We want customers, or at least happy recipients of what we’ve made. Occasionally, we need an extra pair of hands. And above all, most of us benefit from sharing ideas and thoughts, the highs and the lows, with a much larger, extended network.

Have you ever had a time when you realised that you had still “won” even if you didn’t come first?

Daniel Kahneman is known for introducing the idea of “behavioural economics”. He explains in his book Thinking, Fast and Slow that in real life, we rarely make decisions that are influenced by financial return alone.

New year, new resolutions

January is the time when many of us set our goals for the year. Reflecting this weekend on the outcome of The Traitors, I realised that two of my goals for the year align very well with the mindset that determined the choices that Stephen and Rachel made.

Goal 1 - Write more frequently on Substack

I am increasing the quantity and, I hope to continue to improve the quality, of what I write on Substack. I am following the writers whose work I enjoy, who inspire and who teach me. I’m expressing thanks to those writers when something resonates with me.

Already, after only a few weeks, I’ve exchanged ideas with a number of you. More people are reading what I write. Yet many of you live thousands of miles away. We are unlikely ever to meet.

But I’m now part of an active community of people who, like me, love creating and reading about creativity. You’ve read this far, so that likely includes you. We are woodworkers, writers, or we take photographs. Some of us do all three. A few of you are old friends and family members who I suspect may be here to find out what lights my fire these days. You are my support team. I am part of yours.

Goal 2 - Reconnect and spend more time with friends and family

I’ve spent less time than I would have liked to with the friends I have met over the years and with my extended family. Fortunately, connections may have been weakened but not severed. It’s time now to reinvest in the people that have been responsible for many of the happiest moments in my life and remind myself why I treasure them so much.

The number

Let’s get back to those traitors. Perhaps you get a sense of where I am going with this?
The prize money awarded on The Traitors, the £95,750, could for some people be “life-changing”. But how material is the difference for our two traitor winners between getting the full amount compared to getting just half of that?

However good we are at making things, the most satisfying elements of our lives and our hobbies will, for most of us, be the power of the community around us. In this community are the people we know today, and the people who we haven’t met yet but may be an important part of our lives in the future. The people who care about us.

For “ordinary folk”, this will rarely exceed a hundred or so other people. The winners of popular reality TV shows will be known to millions, although for Stephen and Rachel the number of people who properly know them in “real life” is likely also to be around 100.

And this is where ABBA got it wrong: the winner doesn’t take it all.

The cost of winning

Whether consciously or subconsciously, the two traitors were optimising their outcome not solely on short-term financial success, but by a more sophisticated assessment of the longer-term benefits of a different winning strategy.

Either of them could have played to get the whole £95,750 and be declared the absolute winner of the show. But that would have been only a short-term dopamine hit and almost certainly in conflict with their true values. They both realised that they could win what is a useful amount of money that they could share with their family, and stay true to their values. And above all, people would celebrate their success, not resent it.

This is why that moment on TV was, for me, so uplifting. Collaboration and generosity triumphed over greed. It was about the community, not the individual. These are two people who care what others think.

Two is one and one is none

The title, “two is one and one is none” comes from the US special forces. In playing The Traitors, two people who stick together are, I believe, more likely to get closer to winning than those who go it alone. We can also take a lesson from another way the US special forces interpret this phrase. If you have a tool or piece of equipment that is essential to your success, make sure that you are not totally dependent on that one item. For if that fails, you may be doomed. Have a backup. Surely as good an excuse as any for us woodworkers to buy more tools.

Compare and contrast

The ethos of Substack is, in some sense, the opposite of the intent of “The Traitors”. We come here to write, to collaborate and to share. There is no endgame. We don’t get voted out. Only a very few write to make money here.

Yet both Substack and The Traitors demonstrate the power of community and reinforce that what matters are the outcomes for those we care about, not just ourselves individually. Whether we work on our own or manage a team of people, have large or small families, a wide social group or a few close friends, the outcome is the same. It is those that we stay connected to and who we support, who inspire us, teach us, and energise us. Ultimately, these are the people who will help us understand what we really care about and what really matters.

That’s my community. What’s yours?

I’m on a journey to become more craftsman-like. I started by returning to the pleasure of working with wood. Along the way, I’ve been exploring the how and the why of other forms of creation through writing, photography, art and more. I try not to take this all too seriously.

Writing helps me organise my thoughts. Friends or family appear occasionally. I’m discovering other inspiring people who enrich and amplify my own view of the world. Thanks for reading - it helps to have an audience. You may even find yourself here too

Health warning: one of my regular readers tells me he had to go and lie down after reading my last article. Not sure what got him so excited, but you have been warned…

A rainy day in London…

One drawback of living in London, with only an outdoor “pop-up” workshop [1], is that not much woodworking gets done in these cold and wet winter months. On the other hand, London has some of the best galleries and museums in the world, and we are living amongst history. Some days, inspiration is better than perspiration.

So when rain stopped play last Sunday, I popped into the Tate Britain art gallery to look at an exhibition of paintings by John Constable and J. M. W. Turner. Even if you are not an enthusiast of old British art, you will probably recognise their work from cards, jigsaws and books.

I too was familiar with many of the paintings, but it was the first time I had seen so many in one place. Quite impressive. Then halfway through the exhibition, I realised that I had been looking at these paintings the wrong way. I had, literally, been missing the wood for the trees.

Some quick history

Born a year apart (Turner in 1775 and Constable in 1776), these are two of Britain’s greatest landscape artists. They competed for attention, exhibiting large paintings (up to 6 feet wide). The film Mr Turner was released in 2014.

So what does this have to do with woodworking?

Turner gives us raging storms and plunging ravines. Constable offers tranquil meadows and leafy trees. But the landscapes only tell half the story. Both artists reveal the relationship that man had with the land and his impact on it. And Constable was an enthusiastic painter of wooden things.

It’s a great show. If you are in London before 12th April 2026, you too can see it [2].

Joining the dots…

One of the delights of going to any exhibition or show that focuses on a narrow topic or a small number of artists is the unfolding of a story, often played out over many years. Themes, ideas and the evolution of the work are revealed in a way that is rarely possible when looking at one item alone. This is true not just for public exhibitions - I’ve found it helpful when looking back at my own work too [3].

You don’t need me to remind you that wood has been the dominant construction material for thousands of years. This was still true when Turner and Constable were painting, but the role of wood was about to change.

Trees appear in most of Constable’s paintings, yet it is the canals and canal locks, the hay cart, the barges and the bridges that illustrate how essential and versatile wood was at the time. Wood still has a significant role in house construction and furniture manufacture today, but we usually hide it from view. From a functional and engineering perspective, we are a lot less demanding of modern wood than the oak, elm and ash that we see in Constable’s paintings.

The shift away from wood as the material of choice was driven by the Industrial Revolution, which started in the UK around 1760. Constable likes canals. Before the arrival of the railways in 1825, these man-made rivers were the super-highways of this revolution. Ironically, the canals also hastened their own demise. They reduced the cost and increased the speed of the transport of the coal and ore to fuel the furnaces that produced the iron that was needed to build the railways.

Hiding in plain sight

There were five paintings, each showing some different use of wood, that I came across that day in the Tate that, now that I was seeing them together, triggered something I had intuitively always known but not thought about: just how important wood was, how widely it was used and why, ultimately, the old ways of using this material would barely survive.

Boats and barges

John Constable’s Boat-Building near Flatford Mill (at the top of this article) was painted on the River Stour near Flatford Mill in Suffolk in 1815. It shows a barge under construction that would most likely have been built from oak. Oak is one of Britain’s indigenous hardwoods. It doesn’t rot in water and resists abrasion and pressure from repeated use. Before the introduction of iron, oak was used wherever strength was required.

Canals and canal locks

Canals need flat ground. Canal locks were built to help barges navigate the changes in level of the canals as they crossed the country. With moving parts such as gates and sluices, oak canal locks such as these would have lasted 30 years or more. Canals found a new life supporting leisure activities, and the lock gates in use today are one of the few objects that feature in Constable’s pictures that are still made of oak.

Bridges

I have a soft spot for old bridges and in particular, timber-built ones. We are looking here at Fen Bridge, a pedestrian bridge. Wooden bridges like this and larger were common for hundreds of years across the UK. Oak provided the structure and elm, pine or other cheaper softwoods were used for deck boards and handrails. This version of Fen Bridge did well. It lasted until it collapsed in 1930. It wasn’t replaced until 1985, but the new bridge had rotted in 2021. It’s back up again now, a simpler construction, but still timber.

Carts

By the time of Constable and Turner, farm carts had evolved into a sophisticated design with different woods used in a way that made the most of their specific properties. Ash was the only sensible choice for cartwheels. Ash is tough, flexible and able to absorb impact over rough ground. As Robert Penn explains in his excellent book The Man Who Made Things Out of Trees, ash was used extensively for axe handles, arrows, longbows, paddles and a lot more.

Elm, tough in compression and happy when damp, was used for the hub of the cartwheels and more widely throughout the construction of a cart. A well-maintained cart could last 40 years or more.

Despite the abundance of wood and its many uses as a construction material, it had a relatively short working life, and it required specialist skills to work with it. Once the industrial production of iron ramped up, iron began to replace oak. The wooden boats and carts we see in Constable’s paintings would no longer be replaced by similar designs in wood but instead by new designs that were lighter and longer-lasting.

But what of Mr Turner?

Turner is probably best known for his dramatic pictures of railway engines and steamships, often depicted fighting against the natural elements, belching out fumes, sparks, steam and flames. Turner may have favoured drama over detail, but his work does also help understand this period of transition from wood to iron.

Whilst Constable only barely hints at changing times, Turner thrusts that in our face with his painting The Fighting Temeraire. This 99-gun warship was in Nelson’s fleet when he won the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805. A ship of this size required 6,000 trees, the majority of which were, yes, oak. An iron-built, steam-powered paddle ship tows Temeraire to the breakers’ yard. The end of the age of wood had arrived.

Or perhaps not. Temeraire’s timbers were auctioned off. The oak was of high-quality and well seasoned. The ship may have come to the end of its life, but her bones lived on in everything from industrial warehouses to fine furniture across London.

But before we leave this exhibition, a final word on Constable. Amongst the paintings in the Tate is displayed a small wooden chair. This is what Constable used when painting outside. He needed something light but strong, hence that unusual strut that can be seen under the seat.

This was designed to be a working chair, carried to where needed, placed on uneven and often damp ground. Almost certainly made of elm, it was as much a working tool as his easel, brushes and paints.

We live in a very different world today. Wood may have a lesser role in modern living, but for many of us, it is an essential part of one of our greatest luxuries - a chance to take time off and create, not because we have to but because we want to.

Let me know what you think - inspiration comes from unusual places. Where do you find yours?

Notes

1. I’ve written more about my workshop choices here if you are interested.

2. Details of the exhibition and tickets are here. It’s popular, so book in advance. If you miss this, there is still a chance to see many of the more popular paintings, which belong to many of London’s other galleries and will return there after this exhibition. You’ll just need to walk a bit further.

3. I’ll expand on this in a future article. I’ve learnt a lot by staring at my own work.

I’m on a journey to become more craftsman-like. I started by returning to the pleasure of working with wood. Along the way, I’ve been exploring the how and the why of other forms of creation through writing, photography, art and more. I try not to take this all too seriously.

Writing helps me organise my thoughts. Friends or family appear occasionally. I’m discovering other inspiring people who enrich and amplify my own view of the world. Thanks for reading - it helps to have an audience. You may even find yourself here too.

I’m still hacking my way through the journey to sharpen my woodworking skills, seeking to move from ham-fisted wood-basher to someone with a modicum of skill. Along the way, I’ve been thinking a lot about the tools I use and the tools I need.

As I wrote recently, I’m not averse to buying cheap tools, and it’s not just a question of what I can afford - cheap tools are often quite good enough for the job in hand so why spend more? And if not good enough, then upgrade to a better tool. But which tools to buy?

I may still be a novice woodworker, but it’s notable how many times I’ve discovered that the “best” solution isn’t always the “Best Solution”.

There is, of course, a distinction between cheap old tools and cheap new tools. The right kind of cheap old tools are those made of quality components and which are still serviceable, even if needing a bit of love and attention. These can provide pleasure in the restoring process, and a chance to learn a new skill. I work mostly with hand-tools but I’m no purist, and sometimes great is the enemy of good. When a project involves many repetitive tasks, and success means “getting the job done”, power tools are just a better way to go. And they don’t need to be expensive.

Cheap new tools are available everywhere, but quality is often lacking. There is, however, one brand that I have found stands in a class of its own when it comes to offering a wide range of budget, but quite acceptable, tools. Albeit, this is also a brand that has a unique and rather bizarre way in which it is sold. You got it. Parkside tools from Lidl.

Nuts, bolts, vegetables and wine…

If you live in the UK or Europe, you will almost certainly be familiar with Lidl. The chances are there is a Lidl supermarket near you (there are over 1,000 in the UK alone). And keep reading if you’re on the other side of the Atlantic. The company is expanding in the US, too. Possibly, you, like I once was, are familiar with Lidl only as the place that others in your family shop to buy discounted vegetables, nuts or red wine.

But, if you haven’t yet discovered it, the centre aisle, the “Middle at Lidl”, is home to a small and revolving selection of Lidl’s Parkside tools and accessories. And to my surprise, it turns out they are not nearly as bad as I had originally expected.

It’s a few years now since I was asked to stop by Lidl to pick up some groceries and stumbled across that middle aisle. I left that day with an armful of green tools. I’m fairly sure I did also manage to buy most of the kitchen supplies I’d been asked to pick up too.

Since then, I have developed something of a love/hate relationship with the shop, but I’m still buying tools there. Despite the pain, the payoff can be great.

Why? In a world of almost unlimited digital choice and 24-hour delivery to our home, Lidl’s “Middle Aisle” strategy is the complete opposite of the “buy now” one-click offering of Amazon and others. Where these online retailers focus on making it easy to buy what we need, Lidl makes it hard.

Is it worth it?

So why bother? Well, to start with, the range of Parkside tools and accessories is large. I’m finding that the range includes many items I need, and many others I didn’t know I needed until I found them for sale. If Lidl were to choose to sell all its tools at once, it could fill a main street hardware store. But it doesn’t, and this is where it gets a bit weird….

The company is known for its weekly (or monthly?) releases of a very limited selection of tools and accessories, selected from its large catalogue. Usually, around 20 items are stocked at one time, the same items in every store. And, as Lidl warns us, when they're gone, they are gone. Or at least until some point in the future when the item may be released again, or you can find it on eBay.

Lidl’s gamification of buying tools is annoying for us serious woodworkers, but it’s clearly working for them. This could be a case study on the use of “scarcity bias” as a marketing tactic. Lidl has ignored many “benefits” of the digital retail revolution of the last 30 years since it first adopted this strategy, but as much as we may find it frustrating, we are still buying. And if I’m honest, I do like the anticipation of what treat I may find when I stop by.

This wouldn’t have worked for so long if the power tools, hand tools and accessories were cheap, but not good. The quality is never going to be high-end, but it is usually adequate for most jobs. Don’t expect these tools to last as long as more expensive tools, and they occasionally lack the punch needed for any heavy-duty work, but we can make our choice and pay the price. And we come back.

An addiction to love..

So that’s why I still drop into Lidl every month and why I rarely leave empty-handed. It’s a cheap and relatively harmless addiction. Maybe it even makes me a better woodworker. I do, however, have three rules to keep things under control:

• If I like what I see and it’s less than £15 ($20), then I’ll buy it immediately.

• If it’s more expensive, I’ll wait and check the reviews on YouTube, give myself 24 hours to pause and reflect on whether I still want it. If I do, I’ll pop back into Lidl the next day and hope they’ve not sold out.

• Generally, I’ll avoid cordless tools that need special batteries.

Why not cordless tools? This, for me, is the one big flaw in Lidl’s business model. Batteries and chargers are not included with power tools, and like every other company, Parkside has its own design of batteries and chargers that are not compatible with other brands. They are often not even compatible across different tools in the range. Buying a new cordless tool may also mean having to buy a new battery. And a battery charger. Now the total cost of ownership doesn’t look quite so good. And that all assumes you can actually get the battery and charger. You won’t find Parkside batteries or chargers in the Middle Aisle. Lidl stores them in a back office. Have people been charging in and stealing armfuls of batteries off the shelves in past? Whatever the reason, Parkside batteries are only available upon request from the till operator. At least that’s what’s meant to happen. But I’ve been told too often; “I’m too busy to get a battery for you just now” or “I’m sorry we don’t have that in stock”. Really, Lidl, what’s this all about? You’re messing with my head now. So no more cordless tools unless I already have the right battery.

But I’m still buying….

One criterion I do not have when making my buying decision is: “do I need this now?” Some of the tools I’ve bought opportunistically have helped me re-assess my approach to making furniture, discovering solutions to problems I didn’t know I had.

For example, there is the biscuit jointer I bought last year. Admittedly, I haven’t actually used that yet, but I know I will, soon, and I know where. Since starting on this woodworking journey, I’ve been making side tables. This started with a simple Shaker style originally inspired by a Rex Krueger design that has now morphed into variants in height, width and length. Up until now, each table I have made has been unique. I’ve made them ‘properly” with traditional mortise and tenon joints. It takes around 25 hours to make one table, but I’ve had a lot of pleasure in revising the design and making them. This is a hobby, not a profession. Time is not money. But now I am being asked for more tables by my extended family. This surely is a significant milestone on the woodworker’s journey - when people start to ask you to make things for them, particularly those who are often our strongest critics, our own immediate family.

But as delightful as it is to be asked, I don’t have the patience or inclination to spend 25 hours making more and more of the same design of table. That’s not who I am or why I am here. The pleasure for me is in figuring out the design the first time, and learning and improving my skills along the way. This is true particularly when most of the work is done with hand tools and simple power tools. I am very happy to make more tables for my lovely family, but I do not relish cutting all those mortise and tenon joints for the legs by hand. Most of these tables will be painted, and all those well-fitting, carefully crafted joints would be lost from view. So I was thrilled to find a biscuit jointer waiting for me in Lidl last summer, with a power cord too. It may still be in its box, but making more tables is a lot more likely now that I have the ability to reduce the manufacturing time with biscuit joints. As I said, I’m no purist.

Handsaw bandsaw

Another “one day it will be useful ” purchase that I’m relishing using is the Parkside portable bandsaw. Think of it as an electric hacksaw - intended to cut everything from wood to plastic to steel. That was another summer 2025 buy, but frustratingly, I was unable to use it until I finally found a battery to fit it earlier this month.

As I’ve explained elsewhere, I’m a sucker for collecting material to upcycle and reuse. Mostly I’ve been collecting old wood, but along the way I’ve acquired a number metal tubes, often masts from old boats. Now I have a way to cut these tubes, I just need to find something to make with them…

Getting hotter…

But the best find of the year came in Lidl’s Christmas 2025 release. An infrared thermometer for £15 ($20). Point the laser at an item and it reads the temperature. “Why do you need that?” asked Jenny. Well, here is what I’ve been up to recently…

• Finding gaps in the house where cold air is coming in.

• Measuring the outdoor temperature before going for a walk.

• Check the temperature of the inside of the oven when baking sourdough.

• Taking the temperature of the sea to remind myself why I don’t go swimming at this time of year.

And apparently, some people even use the laser to scare their neighbours by pointing red dots on their wall…

So, if you haven’t discovered your local Lidl, or up until now perhaps you have felt it was not your thing, maybe give it a go. Not everything it sells is up to the job, there are a few duds. If something looks too cheap then it probably is. But I’d be surprised if you don’t find something you like.

If you are in the UK you can check out Weekend Shed Head’s regular video on YouTube with reviews on the latest Lidl Parkside releases. And even if you don’t find a tool you like on your next visit to Lidl, you can probably pick up something for lunch instead. Lidl - a great tool shop with a supermarket attached.

Finally, I’d welcome any recommendations for your favourite budget tool. I’ve still got some room on my shelves…..

In 1981 Bill Gates bought the rights to the software Q-DOS. He needed something as the basis for his new Microsoft operating system. Gates chose Q-DOS not because it was the best, but because it was cheap. Cheap, but good enough for the job it had to do. And good enough it proved to be. Parts of Q-DOS, the “Quick and Dirty Operating System”, were still in use 20 years later.

One of the pleasures of woodworking with hand tools is using precision-engineered equipment made with high-quality steel and robust metal components. It’s hard to go wrong buying top-of-the-range tools if price is not an issue.

There may not appear to be much in common between hand tool woodworking and computer programming* but “quick and dirty” and“good enough” is a concept that has, in my experience, proved very helpful. And saved me some money*.

Cheap tools lack the refinement of their superior cousins, but are often perfectly capable of tackling the job in hand. Once the tool’s limitations are understood, I find that at my level of skill (or more correctly, my lack of skill), these bargain buys can often achieve as good a job as equipment that costs 10 times as much.

Paul Sellers was the first person I came across three years ago when looking for help in building my woodworking skills. He is still, in my opinion, one of the best teachers on YouTube in that area - 76 years old and still going strong. If you only know him for his videos, I recommend his blog as well. He covers similar ground but in more detail. Coincidentally, I was delighted recently to discover Paul’s video praising the cheap but reliable Stanley chisels he, and I, use.

Today’s professional woodworker, using equipment every day, needs reliable, efficient tools that cut accurately and rarely or never need sharpening. The cost of the tool can be spread over multiple years and set against income for tax purposes. The expense is costed into the job.

But as hobby woodworkers, we are neither dependent upon making an income from our woodwork, nor are we likely to be picking up our tools each day. We have the flexibility, and often the need, to think differently about how much we spend.

Go low or go high?

There are two main schools of thought about how to buy tools. The first is “buy the best tools you can afford”. The other is to “buy the cheapest tool you can get away with to get the job done”.

And I rather like this variant I came across - buy a cheap tool first - if that tool is not up to the job, or it doesn’t get used, sell it, buy something better or buy something else.

Take chisels for example. Most of today’s chisels, as Paul Sellers explains, can perform well enough no matter how cheap they are. It’s true that the poorer quality steel in cheap chisels doesn’t hold its sharp edge for long and budget chrome plating may not offer protection against rust, but they can get the job done surprisingly well. With the exception of a box of new Narex mortise chisels I bought when learning how to cut mortises by hand, all my chisels have been free or picked up for pennies. Some are old and likely all the better for that, despite worn or chipped wooden handles. Others have plastic handles - less aesthetically pleasing but more robust than wood. I sharpen the chisels when needed, and buff the edge on a leather strop with green paste at least once every day and before I use them. If my dovetails are not yet perfect, that’s a shortfall in my skill, not the fault of the chisel.

I’ve written in the past about my early experiences of buying power tools. Since then I’ve continued to acquire a few more second-hand power tools. None have been economically viable. Parts are missing, or something breaks soon after being used. Maybe one day I’ll buy and restore an old classic Myford lathe or Meddings pillar drill, and justify the time and cost as a restoration project, a cheaper and more reliable substitute for a classic car. But no more old plastic tat thanks.

New power tools are so cheap now that I’ve been testing out buying for budget, not for brand. For the most part, I’ve been happy with the result. One slightly troubling side-effect, though, is that over the last few years I’ve developed a slight addiction to the middle aisle at Lidl, details on that coming soon.

Along the way, I’ve also become rather too fond of buying vintage tools.

This is often driven more by the pleasure in finding something that takes my fancy, enjoying it merely for the pleasure of owning and admiring it. A tool which I am unlikely to use regularly, but which carries memories of craftsmen past. A beech jointer plane? Lovely but very tricky to set up accurately. Better for the shelf than the shed.

There are still times, though, when I find that a hand tool is the “right choice” even though a power tool is the “sensible” choice. I see others using a table saw or router to cut rebates quickly and accurately. On larger projects, I get that this makes complete sense.

But I get a disproportionate amount of pleasure from cutting a rebate with an old hand tool. Rex Krueger opened my eyes to the magic that can be achieved with perhaps the most basic and simple wooden rebate plane. (Video link here). Clearly, I am not alone - Rex’s video has over half a million downloads and 322 comments.

As well as this simple wooden plane, I have acquired or bought a range of metal plough planes and rebate planes that are often as quick to use as a power tool, produce no dust and carry very little risk of serious injury.

As most experienced woodworkers will be aware, there are not that many tools needed to get the job done properly. William Morris summed this up well when he wrote in 1880 (the capitals are mine…):

“Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful OR believe to be beautiful.”

Marie Kondo, author of The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up” is a bit tougher with her readers, but has a similar philosophy:

“Keep only those things that speak to your heart. Then take the plunge and discard all the rest.”

I’ve promised myself that in a couple of years, I’ll have a cull of the tools that I have acquired, but rarely or never use.

Or perhaps I’ll build a cabinet to display them in?

*In reality, there is quite a lot in common between the mindset needed for woodworking and that for computer programming. I’ll come back to this in a future article, reflecting on some of the lessons from my experience of learning Python in the last year.

Jenny and I were visiting Granada in Spain last week. We popped into the cathedral in the centre of town to have a look and cool down from the heat. As I cast my eyes up the stone columns toward the vaulted ceilings, taking in the figures and cornices carved centuries ago, I was reminded how much I take for granted the ease with which I can cut and shape the things I’m making in wood. With a firm nudge and a sharp chisel it’s not too hard to make small, controlled cuts. Whereas stone resists all but the most determined blows.

Breaking bad

I’ve only once attempted to shape stone—or rather, concrete, which must be similar. A few years ago, I tried to split a large concrete block into smaller pieces in order to remove it from the garden. After a couple of hours with a heavy hammer and chisel, I’d only managed to knock off a few small flakes. More by luck than design, I ended up with an approximate ball shape, not what I intended, but surprisingly satisfying. For a while, I even thought I had a chance of creating a proper ornament, a sphere worthy of display. But despite my efforts, the concrete lump remained lumpy and was still too heavy to lift. I rolled it under a nearby bush where it remains today.

But sculpture seems to have re-entered my life recently, and some echoes from the past have got me thinking.

On message

It’s a bit strange. In the last few weeks Substack has been feeding me photos and notes about sculptures, particularly marble. Squishy flesh, wafer-thin lace, folds of cloth. Extraordinary things can be achieved in marble for sure, but why is the Substack algorithm showing me sculptures now when almost all my subscriptions are for people writing about wood or photography?

Thirty years ago we didn’t have AI to suggest what we might be interested in, but my recent exposure to sculpture has got me thinking about a meeting with a random stranger. Peter and I stopped off in London at the start of our travels, a few months before going to university. Peter was off to Japan, I to Africa and then Europe. We were drinking coffee outside a café in Mayfair. Our neighbour at the next table, an American, , quite a few years older, overheard us talking and leaned over to ask what we were doing with our lives. I told him I’d be studying engineering soon.

“Engineer?” he said. “No, I think you look more like you should be a sculptor.”

Writing and royalty

A few months later, working as a volunteer in the Middle East, I was lent Hermann Hesse’s book Narcissus and Goldmund. Goldmund leaves the monastery where he has been studying as a young man and sets off to travel, also through Europe, albeit a few centuries earlier than I. Goldmund carves religious wooden figures while enjoying a most un-monk-like life. I was a similar age to Goldmund when I read Hesse’s book, but my own modest adventures in foreign towns seemed very mundane by comparison. Returning to the book now, I’m reminded that Goldmund becomes close friends with Narcissus, who was older, wiser and committed to a life teaching at the monastery. Despite his central role, I’d forgotten all about Narcissus, but Goldmund’s ability to create outstanding wooden carvings that were an embodiment of the people he met and the life he was living had, I now realise, remained in my subconscious.

If Goldmund is the master carver of fiction, he stands beside the real-world figure of Grinling Gibbons, the English carver born in 1648 who later became “Master Carver to the Crown.” His work can be found in buildings throughout the UK, including St. Paul’s Cathedral and Windsor Castle. Gibbons carvings in limewood of leaves, fruit, flowers, lace—fluid and lifelike—have arguably never been surpassed. A few months ago, I found a book on Grinling Gibbon’s work in a local charity shop.

Home, but not quite alone

Until recently, I would not have given much thought to how references to sculpture, in wood or stone, seem to be popping up in my life, but now I am reaching a point in my life where I may soon have the option to pivot away from a conventional career. My children are now adults with their own lives. I have more time to explore activities for the simple pleasure of doing them, rather than needing to be paid for my services.

I’ve been preparing for this moment for a while. It’s no coincidence that I’m two years into my journey to discover whether I can become more masterful in woodworking—maybe even a craftsman. In 2022, I remember lying in bed thinking, “What's next?”. A few months later I had built my first workbench.

Since then, building furniture, shelves, and workbenches at weekends has shown me how deeply satisfying it can be to enter into the “flow state” of creating. I’ve tried a bit of woodcarving—house signs and nameplates for the family. It’s not easy, but nor is it as hard as I expected to create acceptable-looking letters.

But I’m in the very low foothills of experience with carving. There are many, many hours of practice between carving a letter and carving a figure. Maybe cutting letters in wood will be as far as I go.

Chance is a fine thing

But maybe not. As much as I like to think that I have designed my own life, following a well-thought-out plan, in reality, serendipity - being in the right place at the right time - has been a lot more influential in defining the greatest successes of my life, including meeting Jenny.

I suspect that the nameless American’s declaration of what he thought my true vocation should be may have had a different motive than just casual career advice. Peter and I finished our coffees and moved on, but as chat-up lines go, that one struck deep and stayed long. Occasionally, over the years, I have returned to his comment and wondered: “Maybe I am a sculptor?” And then more recently, “If not now, then when?”

Progress on my woodworking journey is slow, but that’s OK. This journey really is the destination, and there is no map I have to follow. Unlike furniture-making, carving in wood requires little space and creates minimal dust. A means of securing the work, a few good chisels (and the discipline to keep them sharp) and a source of limewood are all that is required. When I don’t have access to my workshop and it’s raining or dark outside, I could maybe even work in the kitchen.

Michelangelo described his work in carving his most famous sculpture as though he was releasing David from Il Gigante (“The Giant”), the name of the block of marble he began shaping at age 26. In my case, perhaps there is a sculptor (rather than a sculpture) lurking within me? I did indeed study engineering, but the first part of our café friend’s observation was correct - I wasn’t cut out for a career as an engineer. Had he genuinely seen something else inside me? I’ve read—and forgotten—hundreds, probably thousands of books, but I can recall only a handful of characters, real or fictional, as clearly as Goldmund’s. So now I am thinking, “Why is that and what's next?”

Stepping stones

As this creative journey I am on is progressing one step at a time, there is no pressure to think too far ahead. The acanthus leaf—first carved by the Romans—is one of the most iconic motifs in the carver’s repertoire, both in stone and wood. Attempting to carve one seems a natural next step from letters and help is at hand. I may have no need for a map, but a guidebook would be handy. Carving the Acanthus Leaf by Mary May is what I need. Expensive, even second-hand, but a bargain ticket for a detour into a sculptor’s journey. I bought it today.

In the meantime, I haven’t given up on creating something in stone. I’ve found a small chisel in my toolbox, designed for hitting metal or stone. It has been sharpened at some time in the recent past (the edge is still shiny, no sign of rust. Where did that come from?) I’m going to retrieve that concrete ball from under the hedge and see if I can make it a little more ball-like. Maybe then I can find a better place for it in the garden.

Thank you again for listening as I unravel my thoughts and dreams about the way ahead. I’ll leave you with some words from Elton John’s, “Your Song” that popped into my head as I was writing this. Seems like he also had some choices to make…

“It’s a little bit funny this feeling inside

I’m not one of those who can easily hide..

If I was a sculptor but then again no…

I know it’s not much but its the best I can do

My gift is my song and this one’s for you

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Ah, my loyal followers, how badly I have been treating you. In this world of endless competing demands on your digital time, you have, at some point, generously hit the “subscribe” button to sign up for “This Would Work”. The statistics on Substack suggest that when I publish many of you read what I write. Some of you comment, others of you even share my collected thoughts. And how have I rewarded you this year? With silence since January.

This woodworking journey is a path with many distractions. I do confess that part of the problem is that I have been neglecting you to broaden my creative “education” with YouTube videos that may not always be directly related to woodworking. I’ve started abandoned tractors in New Zealand with Marty T, built a house on the Island of Raasay in Scotland with Calum, created a vintage racing car with a massive World War One engine alongside the “Repair Shop’s” Dominic Chinea and created a life off-grid with a water turbine, self-built log-cutting band-saw and barn with Kris Harbour.

But this wasn’t all escapism, not entirely fantasy. I’ve learnt a few things. Over the last few months I’ve solved most of the problems that my 1963 David Brown tractor has presented me with, set off on a nautical adventure with a refurbished outboard motor and built a few useful wooden things.

However, there have been quite a few times over those last few months, when I have had the urge to cut wood, to build something that I needed, but the desire to achieve quality has been defeated by the urge to just get something done. The result has not always been pretty. I have neglected my writing not because I haven’t been creating, but rather because I’ve not been convinced that what I have been creating was worth writing about. And, OK, maybe I’ve developed a bit of a distracting YouTube habit.

But when a close family member said that they had noticed I hadn’t published for a while, I realised that maybe it’s time to get back to the keyboard. On reflection, I realise that Rod didn’t explicitly say whether the lack of “This Would Work” posts was a good or bad thing, but one rule that I have learnt to a successful married life is when your father-in-law makes a comment, take note. So thanks Rod, ready or not, you’ve got me typing again.

Does quality matter?

I suspect that if you are reading this, then you too value the act of creating and believe that the pursuit of quality when creating anything is a worthwhile activity. When we “super-creators” are in a flow state, doing the deep work when quality seems to come naturally, it is surely as intellectually stimulating and emotionally satisfying as any other activity?

But this is not just about pleasure in the moment. Quality has a long tail. Its impact lasts many years. I wrote about the pursuit of quality as an end in itself back in December.

But “to know” is not always “to do”. And to complicate things still further, quality is subjective. There is no absolute. The goal posts continue to shift. If we pursue excellence, the better we get, the more we push the threshold of what we think defines acceptable quality. It’s the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. As you move towards it, it moves further away. Sometimes, it’s easier just to reach for the hammer. Or do nothing.

“The Craftsman” by Richard Sennett is not an easy read, but it contains some useful insights for those of us on this creative journey. Sennett helps explain the tension that we may feel in aspiring to be a craftsman. True craftsmanship, he explains, comes from doing actions repeatedly:

“When we speak of doing something “instinctively,” we are often referring to behaviour we have so routinized that we don’t have to think about it. In learning a skill, we develop a complicated repertoire of such procedures.”

A craftsman needs to build these instinctive skills, it can take years, maybe decades. As we start to master one set of skills, we are faced with new problems, we get stuck, mess something up and look like an amateur again. For centuries, this was just part of the long route an apprentice needed to take to achieve the higher levels in his craft, progressing upwards to journeyman and then master craftsman. Practice, repeat, year after year. Today, thanks to YouTube, more precise tools and - two things often forgotten, better light and glasses for those with less than perfect eyesight - we can improve faster, but we still make mistakes.

This tension between learning and failure is, according to Sennett, a necessary part of creating:

“To do good work means to be curious about, to investigate, and to learn from ambiguity.”

So the craftsman must be able to both apply learnt skills to familiar challenges as well as being able to tackle new problems, problems for which he has no prior experience, and complete the work without compromising quality.

It’s not only about raw skill. An optimistic view to problem solving is as essential to the craftsman as is a sharp chisel. Thinking about how to solve a problem, is for me, one of the greatest satisfactions that comes from creating of any kind. Woodworking, writing, photography, fixing the tractor. When I compromise quality for speed I’ve often simply failed to take enough time, or not had the persistence and patience, to problem solve. Instead I’ve tried to smash my way forward. Or called in the tractor mechanic. The end justifies the means - sometimes messy, sometimes expensive.

Except it doesn’t. There are times and places to make things quickly, to get the job done. The journey to being a craftsman is neither that time nor that place.

Well that was quite cathartic. Thank you again for being there. It’s not much fun writing for an audience of none. You’ve waited patiently. It’s taken me a few months to get back and join you here, and I’ve certainly travelled the long way round, but my exploration into the side alleys and delightful distractions of creating have refreshed and inspired me.

I’ve filled up my tank with creative juices, ready to embrace quality again, and it’s showing in what I am making. Here’s a hint of what is to come. Some blind dovetails for a drawer in a side table I cut last weekend. Something I would not thought possible 12 months ago.

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Normal service will be resumed soon, now that I’ve sorted out the problem of not having something useful to write about. And I suspect once again I’ll be creating some more things worth writing about. Some might even be in wood.

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In his 1974 book, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert Pirsig gets annoyed when he finds that the mechanics servicing his motorbike are listening to loud music while they work. This casual approach, he complains, implies a lack of focus and dedication, which affects the quality of the work.

But is that really true? Do distractions, such as music, listening to the radio - or more likely these days - a podcast, ruin the concentration needed to achieve excellence in complex technical work like motorcycle maintenance? Or woodwork?

There are certainly times when music or other background sounds help keep our minds on track. Driving long distances when traffic is light doesn’t need the full attention of the brain and music helps reduce the risk of getting lost in our thoughts. Music makes exercise fun, or at least bearable.

Some types of music may improve concentration. The "Mozart effect," theory suggests that listening to the composer’s music enhances cognitive abilities such as spatial-temporal reasoning. What is that all about? Well, it’s the ability to recognise relationships between objects, how these objects move or change over time and predict future outcomes. People with strong spatial-temporal skills are good at mathematics, parking cars and - making things.

But there is no evidence yet to validate the Mozart effect. Conversely, studies have shown that when it comes to listening to music whilst we work, we can have too much of a good thing. Research on the impact of music in the workplace has shown that music can increase alertness and improve energy levels, but not if the music is playing throughout the whole day. In that case, as Pirsig notes, music does have a negative impact on quality. Short, occasional bursts of 10-15 minutes with an upbeat tempo, provide the most effective way to enhance performance.

Did Robert Prisig just happen to walk into that workshop when they were resetting their concentration with a short blast of refreshing music? I suspect not.

Sounds of silence

There are certainly times when I need complete silence. Driving through London traffic - dodging bicycles and scooters - demands full attention. Writing with music on is impossible. Music is a great accompaniment for food preparation, but meal times in our house are for conversation, best enjoyed with no background tracks.

And until recently, I’ve been doing my woodworking in silence too.

As I have progressed on my journey to upgrade my woodworking skills, from hacker to craftsman, everything I have been doing in the workshop has been a learning opportunity. And a chance to make mistakes.

When I was learning to ski I used to console myself with the idea that if I wasn’t falling down, then I wasn’t learning. When I take a photograph I embrace variety and some of my favourite pictures are creative accidents. The greatest skill of a photographer is being in the right place, at the right time, with a camera pointed in the right direction. Penicillin was discovered by mistake, a silver compound in a jar that darkened when exposed to sunlight led to the creation of the photographic image.

But luck has no role to play when making things in wood. Once the design has been decided upon, the measurement must be correct and the cuts must be accurate. Mistakes are inevitable, but unlike photography or skiing, mistakes rarely improve the quality of what we are making.

One of the phrases that pops up frequently when reading about woodworking is “measure twice, cut once”. That really struck a chord with me when I first heard it. It’s possibly the best advice for making anything, from tables to skyscrapers. And I frequently ignore it.

Too often I’m not fully engaged mentally in what I am doing. My mind wanders. For me it’s more likely to be “measure once, oh sh**t I got it wrong, I need to cut that piece again”. When I am marking up wood and cutting it, I need every help I can to be 100% focused. I’ve also discovered that I need to stop thinking about when I will finish what I am making. Software developers talk about having either a “date-driven” release or a “feature-driven” release. You can’t have both. For the amateur woodworker that’s another important rule to be aware of.

To get the best results in what I am making, I need to care only about the very specific activity I am working on in that moment. If I am cutting a mortise and tenon joint, then everything else has to be irrelevant at that time. All that matters is tight joints and no gaps. And that needs accurate measurements and precise cuts. And sharp tools.

So for the last couple of years, I’ve been working in silence in order to try to focus deeply on what I am doing. I take regular breaks and generally my work is better for it.

But as with driving, I’m realising there are times when a bit of company would be welcome. From time to time listening to some music, or even a podcast, might improve some of my woodworking activities.

Sanding is one example. I am not one of those skilled woodworkers who never needs to sand down their work. Their joints are perfect. They get smooth, mirror finishes with a sharp plane and a set of well-honed scrapers. That is not me. Not yet. I need to spend time sanding down my work at the end of each project. I’m hiding dents and scratches, smoothing down wood filler and trying to disguise tear-out. Currently I don’t have an electric sander. Sanding can be dull and there is the temptation to give up too soon.

I cook better with music on in the background. It elevates my mood, enhances concentration and, with the right music, I even feel like a better cook than when there is silence. Editing photographs can take a long time and music helps get me through the night.

So music has now entered the workshop too. But very selectively. Just now it’s only as an accompaniment to sanding. Maybe as I improve, and I can rely on my muscle memory to safely guide me through other mundane activities such as sharpening chisels I’ll allow more music, maybe even podcasts, to join me in my journey as I do with driving.

But for now, most of the time, the silence is golden.

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