Building from afar

Eight months in Crete. Five months back in Switzerland. Somewhere in between: a suitcase full of sun, a mild vitamin D deficiency, and a construction site that seems to operate on its own interpretation of time and space.

Time really does fly — especially when measured in missed deadlines.

When we returned to Switzerland in October 2025 after our sabbatical, reality greeted us with open arms and a slightly frosty handshake. Our dogs and cats settled back in as if nothing had happened (clearly more emotionally stable than us), and we humans followed suit… mostly. But let’s be honest: swapping Cretan sunshine for a Swiss winter is not a fair trade. The Mediterranean had spoiled us. The grey skies felt greyer, the cold colder, and even Christmas time couldn’t fully compensate.

But while we were back, adjusting to structured life and reliable infrastructure (what a concept!), our house project in Crete was… well… continuing. In theory.

Originally, the plan was simple: move in by the end of October 2025. That came and went. Then it became December. Then January 2026. At this point, deadlines have become more of a philosophical concept rather than a concrete commitment.

To be fair, there was a lot of rain this winter in Crete. But there was also something else missing: us. Building a house remotely turns out to be a bit like trying to conduct an orchestra via email—technically possible, but mostly ignored.

Still, progress did happen. We now have tiled floors, windows (more on that in a second), doors (eventually), thermal insulation, a terrace, indoor paint, built-in wardrobes, and ongoing kitchen installations. Toilets too—always a reassuring milestone.

Now, about those windows and doors.

We ordered both in April last year. The windows arrived fashionably late in January 2026. The doors, however, decided to take a more… existential journey. At the beginning of January, our supplier called us to confirm details—color, handles, all very important questions. Slightly less reassuring when you realize these are questions typically asked before ordering.

So we asked the obvious: “You did order them back in April… right?”

“Of course,” they said.

What they meant was: “No.”

The doors finally arrived in March 2026. By then, their absence had already delayed indoor construction, because understandably, workers were not thrilled about installing valuable materials in a house that couldn’t actually be closed.

Then there was the bedroom situation.

We had agreed that by the end of February 2026, at least one bedroom on the ground floor would be fully finished. This was important because Jasmin and her mother needed to move our things from our rental to the house. One week before the deadline, everything was “on track.”

When Jasmin arrived: nothing was done. Not “almost nothing.” Just… nothing.

The explanation? Rain. And doors. Always the doors.

So, improvisation mode was activated. The result: one bedroom now doubles as a storage unit with a very personal obstacle course.

In parallel, the terrace stairs were completed — which sounded like good news until we realized they were built in the wrong place. After a brief discussion, the architects concluded that demolishing and rebuilding the stairs would be easier than adjusting the official plans. A sentence that probably sums up our entire building experience quite well.

And then there was the shower wall. Built three times.

Attempt one: too short.
Attempt two: too long.
Attempt three (after on-site guidance): as planned.

Who would have thought that following the plan could be such an innovative approach?

A slightly less funny chapter was the state of the construction site itself. Somewhere between “ongoing works” and “creative chaos,” our plot had quietly transformed into what looked suspiciously like a small-scale dumping site after we left Crete. Leftover materials, packaging, random debris—apparently, gravity always wins, but tidiness does not. After quite a bit of pushing, reminding, insisting, and (let’s be honest) politely nagging, things finally started to move. The site is now being cleared step by step, and materials are being collected and disposed of. Not exactly glamorous progress — but very satisfying nonetheless.

And then was one of those “you couldn’t make this up” moments: the installation of our electricity pole. When Michel visited the site back in December 2025 to check on progress, it coincided perfectly with the long-awaited delivery. Exciting, right? Well… until we saw it. The pole was not just a pole—it was the pole. Roughly one-third taller than all the other perfectly normal power poles in the village. Why? Excellent question. One that nobody could really answer. So now, in addition to our beautiful sea view, we also enjoy this striking vertical landmark — modern infrastructure meets Mediterranean romance. Let’s just say it adds… character. One day, we might revisit this topic with a “technical adjustment” (chainsaw optional).

Amid all this, one constant source of clarity — and sanity — were our friends Donna and Harvey, who visited the site regularly and sent us photos (most of the pictures posted in this blog post are from them). Without them, we would probably still believe that everything was “on track.”

Despite the chaos, delays, and occasional architectural creativity, we remain optimistic. Because somehow, through all the detours, things are moving forward. Slowly, unpredictably — but forward.

After Greek Easter, we’ll head back to Crete — Jasmin, Michel, and Jane — to see the house in person again. The official expectation is that everything will be ready by then.

Let’s just say: we’ve learned not to get too attached to expectations.

But maybe — just maybe — the ground floor apartment will be ready to move into. And if not, well… we’re getting quite good at improvising.

Until then, we keep our fingers crossed, our sense of humor intact, and our dream very much alive.

To be continued…