An Estonian cabin in NZ

Falling rain, visible in the car headlights. I saw the roof of my wooden cabin lying upside down in one piece on the ground. The wind had taken the gable ends of the timber walls with it, and the steel chimney lay in a mangled heap. Inside, everything was soaked, the bed, the wood stove, the furniture, a couple of books. My fedora hat had vanished, the only hint of it, a wet raincoat that had been hanging beside it, lying on the grass outside. I felt numb.

For a moment I nearly gave up on a project that had taken more than a year of hard work on weekends. My friend Bill and I put out survey pegs and strings in February 2022, and concreted in 16 wooden piles for a foundation that we built of radiata pine timber. On top went a 22mm-thick plywood floor that had to be level and square for kitset construction to work.

I remember a beautiful 4-day weekend in early August of that year, walking 1.7 tonnes of precision-cut spruce, piece by piece, up to the building site; so much rain had fallen, I couldn’t tow the wood. The construction method was that of a log cabin, solid timber, 44mm thick, overlapping at the corners, leaving openings for French doors and 3 windows. Five solid roofing beams weighed down the structure, and we nailed in more than 120 tongue-and-groove roofing boards to complete the whole. An Estonian suvila in New Zealand, neat as a pin and perfectly assembled.

January 2025

Except for not making sure the roof couldn’t blow off. Spring wind gusts didn’t shift it, although the tarpaper on the roof would rip quite often; I’d search around in the grass for the bits, and then staple them back into place, as best I could. We started and completed a second, smaller Palmako shed for a toilet, and an adjoining toolshed and workshop. In the main hut, I eventually nailed in a tongue-and-groove, spruce timber floor over a frame laid over the plywood.

I was thinking of a way to stop roofing leaks by laying corrugated steel sheets. And then the phone call, on a Friday in May 2023 - “Your roof has blown off.” I couldn’t believe it. Closed the laptop, walked to the car, and drove in rush hour traffic over the Remutaka ranges into the Wairarapa, as evening light faded to pitch black.

Driving back home later that night, I made a decision. I stopped the car, and phoned two friends: what are you doing this weekend? Saturday arrived with fine weather; Phillip and I dismantled the fallen timbers plank by plank, saving every nail. We rebuilt the gable ends, hauled the roof beams back into place, and with Bill, nailed back every roofing plank.

One night I went around to the neighbours with two bottles of wine, to thank them for their news. They said the night it happened, a small tornado had come from the northwest, striking the hut bang on.

I value the suvila more now, even though rusted nail heads have stained the floor inside, and some of the spruce wall planks are split. Tying the roof to the foundation are a dozen or more vertical planks, bolted through the timbers. On travelling to Estonia last year, I felt sure my 20m2 refuge would stay put.

Cousin Inga told me the Palmako factory was only 18km from where she and Arvet live. He later took me on a tour of the sawmill where he worked, one of the largest in Estonia – it’s possible Arvet had handled the very timbers that now withstand the wind and weather on the other side of the world.