The top floor, open to the sky.

At the very top of the house, the staircase opens onto timber and sky. Slate roofs, a church tower, the line of the trees in the distance, and that is all.

The terrace crowns the glass house: you are level with the rooftops, not above a car park. It is a difference you only measure by going up.

The shade sail is coir, stretched between four masts. It filters the sun the way a Balinese beach hut does: the light falls in a mesh across the deck, and the screen stays readable. It sounds trivial, but that is what makes it possible to really work up there, and not just put your cup down.

Beneath it, a corner sofa deep enough to lose track of the time. In the morning you take your laptop up on your knees. At midday you go back up to do nothing at all. The potted olive trees and banana plants cut the wind without cutting the view.

Once night falls, the light strips come on under the seats, the candles come out, the olive trees are lit from below and the town goes dark underneath. The timber holds the warmth of the day.

This is where you have a drink the day a project lands, where you keep people an hour longer than they had planned, and where the yoga classes are held, at first light. Few offices can say they have a roof you climb to catch your breath.