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FFurniture with a Soul. Crafted by Hand, For a Lifetime.

Welcome to a place where furniture is more than function.
Where every curve, joint and grain tells a story.
Where machines step aside — and hands take over.

I’m Dimitar Pachev. I build each piece of furniture you see here, alone, by hand. Not because it’s easier. But because it’s better.
Because you deserve something extraordinary.

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In a World of Machines, Choose What’s Human.

Walk into almost any furniture store today — and you’ll be surrounded by products that were pumped out by CNC routers, sprayed in booths, and handled more by conveyor belts than by people.

It all looks nice.

But it feels empty.

That’s because mass production removes what really matters:
Character.
Intention.
Human presence.

When you run your hand across one of my tables, you’re not feeling lacquered MDF — you’re touching months of care, precision, and heritage.
You’re feeling me — my time, my tools, my eyes. You’re holding something made the way furniture used to be made: slowly, deliberately, lovingly.

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Built Slowly, On Purpose.

I don’t rush. I don’t batch. I don’t outsource.

Each piece is:

• Drawn by hand, not template.

• Shaped with traditional tools: planes, chisels, spokeshaves.

• Joined using centuries-old methods: mortise & tenon, dovetail, dowel.

• Finished with oils, waxes, and elbow grease — never shortcuts.

It’s a slower way of working — but it’s the only way to build something that lasts generations.

This isn’t “rustic.”

This is refined craft.

Precision work, from raw timber to final polish.

One Man. One Set of Tools. One client at a Time.

I’m not a brand. I’m not a factory. I’m not a design agency with a workshop downstairs.
I am a furniture maker.

I work from a quiet workshop in Bexhill-on-Sea, surrounded by the smell of walnut, oak, ash and cherry.
I don’t take on 10 clients a month.
Sometimes, I take on two.

Because when you choose me, you’re not just buying a product — you’re entering into a relationship.
We’ll speak. We’ll plan. I’ll sketch.
I’ll understand not just where the furniture is going, but why.

The table where your family will gather.
The cabinet that frames your art collection.
The desk where you’ll sign contracts and letters for years to come.

It’s all built with your name, your space, and your story in mind.

Designed to Live with You - And Long After You.

There’s a quiet luxury in something that doesn’t scream for attention — because it doesn’t need to.

My work is quietly confident. Timeless. Understated. Designed to feel right the day it arrives — and even better after a decade.

This isn’t disposable furniture.

It doesn’t wear out. It wears in.

Like a leather-bound book or a vintage watch, it becomes more beautiful with time.

That’s the power of real materials, real finishes, and honest joinery.

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Why My Clients Choose Me

My clients come from London townhouses, countryside estates, penthouses in Madrid and villas along the coast.

They could afford anything.

And that’s why they don’t want just anything.

They want the opposite of ordinary.

They want:

• A table that doesn’t exist on a warehouse shelf.

• A cabinet that fits the alcove with millimetric precision.

• A sense of story, of soul.

They want to know who made their furniture.

And why he made it that way.

The Tools I Use - And WhyThey Matter to You.

You’ll never see a CNC machine in my workshop.

What you will find are:

Back saws — for their unmatched accuracy.

Wooden mallets — for shaping joints without bruising the wood.

Hand-cut templates — so that every curve has human logic.

Planes passed down from another maker — each with a story of its own.

Why should this matter to you?

Because the tools of the craft shape more than the wood — they shape the result.

A machine doesn’t care if your drawer feels soft as it closes.

But my shoulder does.

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Every Detail Has a Purpose.

• Every board I select is air-dried for years, not kiln-rushed.

• Every joint is tested, dry-fitted, then glued under pressure.

• Every handle, edge, bevel is tuned by hand until it sings.

This isn’t romanticism. It’s engineering — but from an older school.

The kind where if a chair creaked, you didn’t add screws. You started again.