We’d been saying we’d build it since last year.
What was missing: the moment, the energy, the wood, the decision.
Last weekend, a friend had a fall on it — no injury. There was the decision.
Friday morning, we went to get the wood. Three hours, there and back.
By the afternoon, we were on it.
It wasn’t just a few planks to lay down. It was the piece missing between the cabin and the garden — where you put your feet stepping out, where you sit, where the view opens up.
Measure. Cut. Align. Start over.
Carry the planks one by one, check the levels, redo it anyway — because we’ll see it every day.
By that evening, it was done.
Not perfect. Built by hand, on time, solid. With the smell of fresh wood that changes everything.
The next day at 4pm, our first guests arrived — one night, from Fort-de-France. Deck still pale, still some construction dust in the corners.
They left on Monday and wrote this:
“An unusual place, close to nature, built with a lot of love and you can feel it. Beautiful garden that makes you want to enjoy the spot. Flawless welcome and lovely encounters. We recommend it.”
The week kept the same rhythm.
Thursday: planting, harvesting maracudja and breadfruit. A quiet lunch, just us.
We tried cooking the breadfruit straight in the fire. Epic fail. We’ll try again.
It’s no longer a cabin sitting in the garden. It’s a threshold. A place to arrive and stay.
The deck is there. So is the view.
