There is a moment, just before beginning, when the work is still only a feeling. Not an object, not a plan. More like a pressure behind the ribs. A pull toward form. I’ve come to recognise this as the true beginning of making: the quiet insistence that something wants to exist.

The Reflection Room didn’t begin as a garden room.

It began as a feeling. A quiet pull toward creating a place where the landscape could hold us still for a moment. There was no grand plan, no sketch pinned to a wall. Just an instinct that this part of the garden wanted to become something more.