Block house

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At first, I thought blockhouse was some kind of lazy construction kit: a board on one side, a half-log on the other, as if someone had combined a wooden frame with a puzzle. But when I first held a thirty-millimeter-thick, three-meter-long board in my hands, I realized it was simply a way to deceive the eye and save my back. It fits the wall like armor, only instead of iron, there's the smell of fresh wood shavings.

My neighbor's dacha has this kind of spruce siding. He installed it about five years ago, when it was still snow-white. Now the wood has dried out and darkened, the knots like moles on an old friend's face—live, not black. It looks as if the house itself came down from the mountains, without an axe. But in reality, it's just a simple timber frame covered with these boards. My wife initially said it was expensive, but then she agreed: "At least you don't have to paint it every five years."

Laying it is no more difficult than laying a floor. You use a level, mix some glue, or use screws—whatever works best for you. I used joists: I nailed horizontal rails every forty centimeters, then pressed one board against another into the groove. In a day, the living room transformed into a hut, seemingly perfect for a table with an armchair and a cup of aromatic coffee. I covered the corners with decorative strips, then applied two coats of matte oil. Now even the kids don't mind touching the wall with dirty hands: just wipe it with a damp cloth, and it's as good as new again.

It's perfect for anywhere you want warmth without the extra weight: saunas, gazebos, balconies, and living rooms. It holds up well in the kitchen because spruce isn't particularly sensitive to moisture, and in the bedroom, it's silent, doesn't creak, and only smells of resin when you open the window. And best of all, if you want a different color years later, it's easy to sand and paint. The log structure can be altered, but the blockhouse remains the same.