In a television landscape defined by blown deadlines and ballooning budgets, Pete and Aey Aspdin achieved something almost mythical: a Grand Designs project that finished exactly when it was supposed to, for precisely what it was meant to cost. When Kevin McCloud stepped into the completed home, his verdict was unequivocal. The schedule had held, the numbers had stayed intact, and the craftsmanship exceeded expectations. To a presenter seasoned by decades of construction chaos, it felt like building utopia.
The Aspdins’ journey began more than a decade earlier, when they left Hackney for the quieter rhythms of West Sussex. With two young children and a centuries-old cottage that no longer fit their lives, space became a growing concern. By 2020, the search for a larger home had turned into a search for land—but every promising plot with planning permission was quickly claimed by developers.
Their solution arrived in 2022 in the form of a tired three-bedroom bungalow in a nearby village. Replacing an existing structure, they reasoned, would be far more likely to secure approval than starting from untouched land. They purchased the property for £650,000 and moved into the building they affectionately—and increasingly accurately—nicknamed the “fungalow.” What initially felt like an adventure soon became a lesson in damp winters, mould, and the realities of living in a building at the end of its life.
For Pete, whose professional background lies in global supply chain strategy, the goal was clear: eliminate as much uncertainty as possible. With demanding jobs and young children, the couple had little appetite for a high-stress, open-ended build. That mindset led them toward factory-built construction. If manufacturing processes could deliver predictability in healthcare logistics, why not apply the same thinking to a home?
Choosing modular construction, however, came at a time when much of the UK’s modular housing sector was faltering. High-profile factories were closing, losses were mounting, and critics questioned whether transporting volumetric homes made economic sense. Against this backdrop, the Aspdins found Koto, a studio focused not on mass-market housing but on bespoke, architect-designed modular homes. Rather than chasing scale, Koto emphasized craft, control, and a calmer experience for self-builders.
The design that emerged was a departure from the couple’s initial expectations. Instead of a two-storey structure, Koto proposed a single-storey home gently lifted three feet above ground level to capture views over surrounding hedges. The raised form allowed every room to share the landscape, rather than reserving long vistas for just a few spaces. A subtle Z-shaped plan organized the house around a central living and kitchen area, with children’s rooms at one end and a quieter parental wing—complete with office and guest room—at the other.
The house would be fabricated as five distinct pods in Wales, transported by lorry, and assembled on site in a matter of hours. Planning permission came through on the first attempt in February 2024, and factory production began in early 2025. Timber frames made from locally sourced Douglas fir were insulated with recycled newspaper, underscoring the project’s environmental ambitions.
Even this carefully managed process faced moments of tension. Before groundworks could begin, the project stalled while awaiting a bat licence—a requirement that could not be resolved until warmer weather arrived. The delay created complications with the couple’s stage-release mortgage, as factory work progressed faster than on-site approvals. It was a reminder that even the most controlled builds remain entangled with regulatory realities.
When the pods were finally craned into place, the operation took less than five hours. A single audible knock—one pod brushing against the transport lorry—caused a flicker of concern, later exaggerated by tabloid headlines. In reality, nothing was damaged. The modules settled precisely onto ground screws designed to minimize concrete use and environmental impact.
Five weeks later, the family moved in—one day ahead of schedule. Today, there is no visible trace of the modular seams. The five pods read as a single, cohesive home clad in scorched Scottish larch, its angular metal roof accentuating the zigzag footprint that subtly separates public and private outdoor spaces.
Inside, the house balances performance and warmth. Triple-glazed sliding doors open the interiors to the garden, while a mechanical ventilation system ensures fresh air and prevents damp. An air source heat pump provides heating and hot water, and rainwater harvesting supplies the toilets. At the far end of the plot, nestled between a pergola and a vegetable garden, sits Aey’s pottery studio—a place where her handmade ceramics now shape the home’s daily rituals.
The total cost, including planning, professional fees, and a complete interior fit-out, came in at just over £800,000. More striking than the figure itself was the absence of drama in reaching it. For all its architectural ambition, the build unfolded with a rare sense of calm.
That serenity, ironically, proved to be its only drawback for television. With no spiraling crises or last-minute rescues, the Grand Designs episode lacked the usual narrative tension. As one industry insider wryly observed, it was a brilliant project—but terrible television.
In reality, the Aspdins’ home stands as quiet proof that with the right process, partners, and expectations, residential construction does not have to be an endurance test. Sometimes, a grand design can simply work.