The work, and only the work.

The house had been divided and re-divided for a century. We took it back to one family home and gave it a spine: a cantilevered Portland stone stair, top-lit, turning slowly through four floors.

Everything else is quiet. Lime plaster, wide oak boards, and a restrained palette that lets the light do the work. The stair is the only gesture, and it only needed to be made once.

A Grade II listed barn, structurally tired and long unused. The brief was to make it warm and liveable without pretending it had ever been anything but a barn.

We repaired the oak frame where we could and spliced in new green oak where we could not, then slid a wall of steel glazing behind it. The frame stays the hero. The comfort is hidden in the floor and the walls.

A tight river plot with a flood constraint and a beautiful, difficult view. We lifted the living floor and let the house cantilever out over the bank, so the water reads as part of the room.

Board-marked concrete carries the grain of the shuttering. Bronze frames will dull to a soft brown over the years. Both were chosen because they get better wet.

Mews houses are small by nature. Rather than fight it, we dug. A new lower ground gave us the height for a double-height library, lined floor to ceiling in oak, with a slim steel mezzanine threaded across it.

Underpinning a party wall in Chelsea is slow, careful work. The room it made feels like it was always there, which is the whole point.

A new house that had to look as though it had earned its place. Solid Portland stone, laid in deep ashlar courses, with steel doors that open the ground floor to a walled garden.

We spent as long on the garden wall as on the house. It is the first thing you meet and the thing that will age first, so it had to be right.