From Battlefield to Blueprint: Building Our Dream Edwardian Home & Sailing into Freedom | The Parallel Four

After decades of service, deployments, and life on the move, The Parallel Four finally get the one thing they’d earned — freedom. In this episode, we trade the dust and discipline of Afghanistan for dreams and blueprints back home. Watch as Stephen, Johan, Vinka, and Marlin turn a lottery windfall into a new chapter of adventure — ordering their dream Hallberg-Rassy 43 Mk III yacht in Sweden and designing the ultimate Edwardian home overlooking the Solent.

Expect humour, heart, and a fair bit of mayhem as ex-military precision meets wild creative ambition. From the laughter in Ronnie’s shipyard to architect Charlie’s grand designs (and even grander biscuit tins), this is a story of teamwork, planning, and rediscovering life beyond the uniform.

If you love real-life military stories, Cold War nostalgia, Rugby camaraderie, skiing in Sweden, or the dream of sailing the world, you’ll feel right at home here.

🎥 Subscribe for authentic tales of adventure, service, and family — from the barracks to the boatyard.

Transcript

But the windfall gave us something we’d never had before: choice. The first thing we did was take care of the kids—mortgages gone, futures secured, the works. Watching their relief was worth more than any yacht. After that, yes, we might have indulged in a celebratory shopping spree—Stephen swore blind that buying both a Ducati and a Triumph was “financially strategic.” Once that was out of our system, we sat down, got properly grown-up, and made solid investments. It meant a steady income for the rest of our lives, and, more importantly, freedom. Freedom to pick our path, to say yes or no without fear. Freedom to decide whether today was for teaching PsyOps… or taking the bikes out for a spin in the sun.

With a gleam in our eyes and leave forms stamped, we shot off to Sweden to see Ronnie—the wizard of all things yacht-shaped. Within an hour we were sat in his office, grinning like kids in a sweet shop, and promptly ordered a brand-new Hallberg-Rassy 43 Mk III. Not just any 43—fully loaded, stuffed like a Christmas turkey. Electric winches, hydraulic furling, top-tier nav gear, and even a motorised stay sail—because if you’re going to sail the Atlantic, you might as well do it without breaking a sweat.

Ronnie didn’t flinch—just smiled the way only a shipwright with a fat commission in his pocket can, and said, “She’ll be ready in a year.” That was perfect. We still had eighteen months left on our contracts, which gave us just enough time to see her finished, bring her back to the UK, and get the feel for her in home waters. By the time we hung up our uniforms for good, we’d already be ship-shape and ready for something new—sea spray instead of sand, rigging instead of radios.

Next on our dream checklist was a house by the sea. Not just any house, but our house. In my head, it was all light and windows, the kind of place where you could watch the waves roll in while sipping morning coffee—or a glass of wine, depending on the mood. And of course, a sauna. Always a sauna. I told Stephen no Swedish home was complete without one.

And in mine? Well, I weren’t fussed about the curtains or the bloody sea view—I wanted a proper workshop. Big enough to rebuild a Norton, strip a Triumph, and maybe sneak in a jukebox. Then I said, “Why not chuck in a bar and a dance floor while we’re at it?” If we’re dreaming, might as well dream like rockstars.

It grew from there—guest rooms enough for a NATO summit, a gym so Stephen couldn’t use “no time” as an excuse, and a hot tub that I promised would be more relaxing than a Royal Marines ice bath.

Basically, it ended up sounding like a Bond villain’s lair crossed with a Rolling Stones country pad—minus the piranhas. Even we’re not that daft.

After a bit of coastal scouting, we stumbled across the perfect plot near Gosport. Well—“perfect” if you squinted past the peeling paint, rotten windows, and the fact it looked like it’d collapse in a stiff breeze. Place was clinging to its last breath, perched on just over an acre with a cracking view of the Isle of Wight. Hadn’t seen a good day since about 1974, I reckon.

But oh, the potential! Not the “slap on new wallpaper” kind—no, the sort you flatten with a digger and start again. I could already picture sunlight pouring in, a wide terrace facing the sea, and, of course, the sauna tucked neatly out back.

Didn’t take us long—we made an offer before the kettle had boiled. And just like that, it was ours. Mad, eh?

Step two: architect hunting. Luckily, between Marlin and me, our Intelligence Corps skills came in handy. We didn’t need sources or wiretaps—just good instincts. That’s how we found Charlie, a man with outrageous bow ties and a talent for turning wrecks into wonders.

Bloke looked like he’d stepped out of a circus ringmaster’s wardrobe, but his sketches? Magic.

Charlie listened to us patiently, nodding in all the right places as we reeled off our wishlist. Workshop. Sauna. Hot tub. Dance floor. A house that could survive both storms and Stephen’s DIY. He didn’t laugh—well, not much. Instead, he called it “ambitious,” though in that polite architect way that meant “slightly bonkers, but possible.”

Then he said the killer line: “As long as you’re not trying to launch a space shuttle from the garden.” I nearly told him not to give Vinka ideas—she’d have NASA on speed dial if she thought she could.

We may have looked a little stunned when he shifted gears into planning permissions, heritage assessments, coastal erosion studies, and about forty-seven other hoops to jump through before we could even pick up a sledgehammer. My smile was frozen somewhere between “excited” and “terrified.”

But Charlie just twirled his biro like a magician’s wand and grinned. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll handle the paperwork. You just dream big.”

And so we did. Dreaming of light, space, music, and sea air—our wild blueprint taking on a shape that felt, for the first time, like it might actually happen.

Charlie—our architect-cum-architectural sorcerer—turned out to be a proper legend. Every week we’d get an email stuffed with cheerful updates, flashy Cad drawings, and the odd dad joke that made me groan out loud. Two months in, he called us in for what he called a “proper sit-down.”

His studio was exactly what you’d expect from a man who lived and breathed design: minimalist, neat stacks of blueprints, the smell of strong espresso in the air—and, to my delight, several tins of biscuits stacked as if even they were part of the plan.

And there, on a table that looked like it had wandered in from a Grand Designs spin-off, sat two scale models. Proper works of art, they were. You almost didn’t want to touch them.

Charlie’s eyes shone as he gestured like a magician about to pull a rabbit from a hat. “Two visions,” he announced proudly. One Edwardian, one Georgian. Both grand, both gorgeous.

I could already picture us swanning about in smoking jackets, glass of brandy in hand. Trouble is, I look ridiculous in a smoking jacket.

But it didn’t matter—we were hooked. Both designs felt like possibilities, like futures we could almost reach out and grab.

The Edwardian design was a showstopper. Double-fronted, grand central door, elegant bay windows climbing skyward to the second floor. And above it all, a balcony that wrapped across the front like a crown jewel, complete with ornamental pillars. It looked less like a house and more like a royal residence. I half expected the Dowager Countess to appear in a hat and offer me tea.

It had presence, I’ll give it that. But it also looked like the kind of place you’d need three butlers and a gardener who knows Latin names for weeds. Don’t get me wrong—I liked it. Just wondered how much polish it’d take to keep those pillars gleaming.

The Georgian version had a different sort of charm. Tall sash windows, a projecting central entrance with its own modest portico, and the same regal balcony tying it all together. It was handsome—restrained, elegant.

Yeah, understated wealth. The sort of house that didn’t need to shout about itself. It was Savile Row to the Edwardian’s royal regalia. Made you feel like the bloke inside probably owned cufflinks worth more than my old Norton.

Either way, both made us dream. We weren’t just looking at models on a table—we were peering at the kind of life we’d never quite admitted we wanted, until now.

These weren’t little dollhouse curiosities—no, Charlie had built large, commanding models that demanded attention the moment you walked in. You could lean over and trace the sweep of the entrance hall with your eyes, see the staircases rising in elegant curves, peer through cutaway walls to glimpse the rooms within. The drawing room stretched wide enough that even in model form you felt its grandeur, while the study looked ready for serious thoughts to echo off its miniature walls. And then, gleaming with almost comic precision, was the YouTube studio—tiny soundproof panels, a perfect little green screen, even a mock-up control booth. It was less a model and more a promise, crafted in wood and plastic, that this dream could be real.

Beyond the grand living room—so vast it looked capable of hosting a regimental reunion or even a small marching band—Charlie’s model revealed a dining room fit for royalty. The table stretched magnificently down the centre, space for twenty if everyone behaved, or twelve if elbows got territorial. Just off to one side was the main kitchen, every surface gleaming even in miniature, a true culinary command centre. You could almost picture meals emerging from there with all the polish and theatre of the Savoy, each dish carried out in perfect style. Behind that, a walk-in pantry—stocked, Charlie joked, for a minor siege—flowed neatly into a utility room, where socks would continue their eternal trick of vanishing and returning in mismatched pairs.

Opposite the YouTube studio—because even budding influencers need a breather—Charlie had tucked in a cosy little sitting room. I could already picture us curled up there, a dram in hand, a dog at our feet, or both, depending on the evening’s chaos. Next came what he called a “snug dining room,” though to us it was destined to be a memorabilia lounge: medals on the walls, maps spread proudly, and yes, those mildly embarrassing ski photos from our early Telemark days. And then, running the full width across the back of the house, a glorious conservatory. Its floor-to-ceiling windows opened straight onto the gardens, perfectly placed for sunlit mornings, lazy afternoon teas, or standing dramatically with a coffee while thunderstorms rolled in across the Solent.

From the conservatory, a single door opened straight into what Charlie had christened The Bike Temple. And temple it was—big enough for fifty motorbikes, four full workstations, and, if we were being honest, a small pit crew on standby. The opposite wing of the courtyard balanced things out with a six-car garage, the kind of space that looked suspiciously like it had been designed for a Top Gear challenge. And then, stretching across the far end beneath a sleek glass canopy, sat our private wellness spa. Folding doors revealed the holy trinity of post–track day recovery: a sauna, plunge pool, and hot tub, all lined with sun loungers ready to catch the rarest of phenomena—a British sunbeam.

And then Charlie lifted off the top of the model to show us the cellar—though calling it a cellar felt like an insult. This wasn’t dusty storage; it was a secret lair crossed with a wellness resort. Down there sat a wine cellar—what Stephen immediately labelled “emergency rations”—a multi-gym, and, because subtlety was never our style, a dance floor complete with bar and disco lights. Naturally, it was multi-purpose: salsa by night, aikido dojo by day. With Marlin and me now both black belts and instructors, the boys didn’t stand a chance. One flick of the wrist, one grin, and they’d be flat on their backs. And truthfully? They liked it that way.

Upstairs, the main staircase swept up and then split in two, grand as Downton Abbey on race day. Each branch led to a master suite at the front of the house, mirror images of luxury. They were havens in every sense—double-aspect windows promising dramatic sunrises and, more mischievously, prime views for keeping tabs on the neighbours’ lawn choices. Each king-sized bed was flanked by two doors: one leading into an en suite bathroom with a double-ended bath, a shower cubicle, and fittings so posh they probably needed their own training manual; the other opening into a walk-in dressing room generous enough to demand its own postcode. I was already sketching out a tactical wardrobe system—colour-coded scarves, footwear arranged by mood, the whole operation running with military precision.

Between the two master suites—already nicknamed Command Central, West and East—Charlie had designed a sweeping gallery that overlooked the gardens and offered a panorama of the Solent. It was the sort of view that demanded pause: perfect for sunset watching, a bit of literal naval gazing, or, more mischievously, passing judgment on other people’s boats. In the Edwardian model, a set of doors opened straight onto a grand balcony, a stage made for early morning coffee… or, if Stephen had his way, dramatically reenacting Titanic with nothing more than a tea towel.

Sweeping back from either side of the master suites were four generous double bedrooms, each with its own en suite—because we’d all agreed years ago that anyone over the age of five should never, under any circumstances, be forced to share a loo on holiday. The rear-facing rooms looked out across the courtyard, a perfect perch for keeping watch on mischievous grandchildren plotting late-night raids on the hot tub. Between those back bedrooms, Charlie had tucked in a discreet staircase spiralling up to the attic—already christened, with much affection and dread, the Noisy Goblin Floor.

The Edwardian design came with a little something extra—attic rooms tucked neatly beneath the eaves. The moment we saw them, we knew exactly what they were for: a revival of the Swedish lodge bunk-bed chaos. Sloping ceilings, squeaky floorboards, and the promise of torch-lit ghost stories whispered long after lights-out. The Georgian house, handsome though it was, simply couldn’t match that nostalgic mischief. So, after a family debate that involved hastily drawn charts and a round of impromptu arm-wrestling (Johan, to his eternal shame, lost), we declared the Edwardian the winner. The bay windows clinched it, of course. That, and my unshakable argument: “Bay windows mean bookshelves.”

Out front, the driveway was a marvel in itself—big enough for a tidy fleet of 12 to 14 cars, or, in more realistic terms, six Land Rovers, four sports cars, a horse box, and one suspicious vehicle nobody admitted to owning. A generous turning circle made slipping into the double-wide garage almost effortless—unless, of course, you were Stephen, who’d inevitably get distracted waving at every yacht that drifted past on the Solent. It took just over a year, and a forest’s worth of paperwork, to battle through the council’s planning maze—a process involving more meetings than NATO could ever stomach. And then, by some blend of bureaucracy, builder’s tea, and Charlie’s sorcery, the miracle happened: construction began… and, astonishingly, was finished while we were off gallivanting around the Atlantic Circuit on our brand-new Hallberg-Rassy. But that, dear reader, is a story that deserves its own chapter.