Planken

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Larch is a tree grown not in a greenhouse, but on windswept slopes, so it's incredibly durable. Larch planks look simple: smooth boards, but when you pick them up, you feel they're heavier than they look. The resin inside is like a natural varnish, so rain doesn't bother them, and mosquitoes won't land on them.

The first time I saw this kind of siding was on an old house by the lake. The walls were a blackish-gray, as if they hadn't been painted in ages. The owner said, "I put it up twenty years ago, never repainted it." He just hosed it down once a year—that's all. Now his son has pulled out a couple of planks, flipped them over, and they're like new again, only the patina is deeper.

They fasten it without any tricks. They take a 40x50 batten, make a batten, spaced 40-45 apart. They press the batten into place, then add two screws on the side, and continue. A two-millimeter gap is left between the boards to allow water to drain rather than hold it in. Those who want it straighter use clamps, those in a hurry screw them in at an angle. The main thing is that it's stainless steel, because larch is prone to rust.

Where is it supposed to be? Anywhere but in the shower. Facades, balcony ends, fences, gazebo walls. In the city, on a new building, it looks like unnecessary luxury, but in the village, it's a natural extension of the yard. The color starts out honey-colored, then ash-gray, and years later, silver. People ask what kind of paint. I tell them, none of them, just the sun and rain.

The price isn't cheap, but people think otherwise: for twenty years, not a single paint job, not a single replacement, not a single headache. And when, in fifty years, your grandson removes a single board and makes a shelf out of it, he, too, will smell the same scent he remembers from childhood.