Another Packet of Crisps for Tea: The Real Story Behind the Build

When people discover Quabbs Cabin, it’s often through a photo.

A candlelit copper bath.
A woodfired hot tub under the stars.
A hand-carved porch glowing in the last light of day.

They see peace. Romance. A cosy little haven tucked into the hills of Wales.

And it is all of that. Now

But it’s not the whole story.

What those dreamy snapshots don’t show is the mud. The cold. The mice. The utter, bone-deep exhaustion.
The fact that for a long stretch of the build, we ran almost entirely on strong tea, stubbornness, and more packets of ready salted crisps than I care to admit.

This is the real story behind Quabbs Cabin.

A Dream, A Hill, and No Time

It started, as many slightly mad ideas do, with a dream:
To build a small, soulful, handmade cabin on our sheep farm. A place for people to pause, reconnect, and breathe.

Paul—being a master craftsman—set to work
I—being an overly optimistic woman fuelled by marking geography papers

What we didn’t have was time.

So, we squeezed the entire build into the blurry edges of our lives:
After teaching. After feeding sheep. After looking after elderly relatives. Before dinner (which often didn’t happen). And definitely before we ever sat down.

Some nights, after a full day of work and farming, we’d grab a hammer, strap on head torches, and head out into the wind with frozen fingers and cheeks.

We built in wellies and woollies.
Painted ceilings by torchlight.
Lost tools in mud so thick it sighed when you stepped in it.

It was chaos. Beautiful, determined, muddy chaos.

The Real Ingredients: Rain, Mice & Slight Madness

The weather? Not helpful.

There were days the rain came in sideways and stung our cheeks.
Snowstorms arrived mid-roof.
Timber warped overnight.
And once, the wind peeled a whole section of wall off like the lid of a sardine tin.

Meanwhile, the mice moved in before we did.
They pinched our digestives, gnawed the plug sockets, and one even made off with a teabag. (Still not sure what his plan was.)

We cooked on a one-ring gas stove in a draughty barn and made tea with hands so cold we could barely hold the mugs.

And on many, many evenings, we had a packet of crisps for tea—because the thought of chopping onions felt like a step too far and it was already 10pm.

Then, mid-build, timber prices soared. Our carefully planned budget laughed in our faces.
We adapted, scrounged, and mixed and matched wood. Which is why some of our timber… aged at different speeds.
We call it rustic charm.

Built With Love (And Grit. And Swear Words.)

Every single piece of Quabbs Cabin has a story.

Paul built each beam, wall, and doorframe with patience and craft.
I spent my evenings sanding, painting, hunting down strange-but-beautiful furniture, and brewing endless cups of tea.

I cried when the roof leaked.
I cried when the insulation collapsed.
I cried when it was finished.

There was swearing.
There were bruises.
And one spectacular row over which way the bed should face. (with a little help from my brother-in-law I got my own way – Thanks, Andy!)

But there was also laughter.
Moments of triumph.
And that quiet, deep joy that comes from building something with your own hands, on your own land, with someone you love beside you.

What You See Now

Now, guests arrive to see the finished cabin.

They light the fire, sink into the copper bath, and let the view work its quiet, grounding magic.

They sip wine on the porch.
Watch stars from the hot tub.
Pad barefoot across the timber floors Paul laid in the dead of winter.

They don’t see the graft.
But that’s okay. They’re not supposed to.

Because all that hard work?
It built something more than a cabin.

It built a place for stillness.
For celebration.
For muddy boots and quiet mornings.
For relaxing in dressing gowns.

Worth Every Crisp

So yes—Quabbs Cabin is peaceful, romantic, and beautiful.

But behind the reclaimed wood and candlelight lies a story of real people, real weather, and real effort.

It’s a love letter to slow living—hand-built with blistered hands and hopeful hearts.

And it all began with many travels, dreams and plans, a vision, and—on more nights than we care to count—another packet of crisps for tea.