Tucked away in a quiet Berlin backyard, Peggy’s Tea House is a small wooden garden pavilion that feels like a secret waiting to be found. Built with care and a sense of lightness, it stands beneath a canopy of trees, where daylight filters through leaves before reaching the house, always shifting, always in motion.

One side of the tea house opens through a wooden gate to the courtyard terrace. It’s a quiet threshold to the indoors and a step for sitting.
In the morning, soft eastern light enters through a translucent polycarbonate window. The glow is gentle, almost silken—spilling quietly across the floorboards, tracing the grain of the wood. The pavilion feels still then, held in a kind of suspended calm. Light moves slowly across the space, filtered by branches that sway just outside—or even inside. The structure has gaps between its beams and walls where nearby trees and bushes have found their way in. Some leaves brush the floor. Branches lean in and stay.

As the sun arcs overhead into afternoon, light begins to strike the tilted roof made from pink polycarbonate. It transforms the pavilion. A soft glow intensifies, becoming luminous and warm, casting vivid pink light across everything inside.

Peggy’s Tea House is a space shaped by light—by the quiet silver of morning and the vibrant pink of late afternoon. A gentle refuge where nature is invited in, and where the passage of the sun writes its story across the walls each day.