How much space does one person really need? | Grandma Kouzi
I once wrote ‘How Much Land Does a Man Need?’ and, in practice, I found that a modest plot of land is quite enough to sustain all my life’s needs.
So, for someone like me living on such a plot, how much living space is actually necessary? How large should it be to respect nature, avoid encroaching too much on the land, and yet satisfy my functional needs without being too hard on myself?
I also wrote ‘A Home Perched on Manure Mesh’, which described ‘Villain’s Valley No. 1’—a 32-square-metre prefabricated house built on a raised manure mesh. I must be grateful to that house; it accommodated my lifelong dream of ‘living on the land’. Built and occupied within two months, it fulfilled all my basic needs and provided me with essential companionship and support.
But ‘No. 1’ was too large—so large it made me uneasy. Although it was entirely suspended, leaving the ground largely undisturbed, all growth depends on the sun; where sunlight is blocked, not even grass can grow. I tried growing mushrooms under the manure mesh, purchasing several types of spores over two years, but none of them succeeded. I felt ashamed that, for the sake of one person’s living, I had created such a large dead zone.
For various reasons, I began building ‘Villain’s Valley No. 2’. As it turns out, the space one person needs can be far smaller than 32 square metres.
I. The First Summer: All the Joys
‘Villain’s Valley No. 1’ had no air conditioning or fans, because they weren’t needed. Though it was a makeshift prefab, I added a layer between the OSB boards: 10cm thick fiberglass insulation. The house had an awning, so the sun didn’t hit the roof directly; it was raised off the ground, so it wasn’t damp or humid, and the ventilation kept it from getting stuffy. The room was open on all sides, with three doors and over a dozen windows, wide open to welcome the natural breezes from north and south. Even when the sun outside was scorching, I could hide in my little hut and find a natural, quiet coolness.
II. The First Winter: No ‘Zheng Qi’, No Spirit
I once endured a winter of minus 28 degrees on the Loess Plateau, but the North is a dry cold; no matter how low the temperature drops, one isn’t afraid—you just put on more clothes. There’s heating in the house, so you’re fine once you’re inside. But in Fujian, as soon as the temperature drops to single digits, you enter a realm where ‘no matter how many clothes you wear, it’s useless.’
The Southern cold always arrives hand-in-hand with dampness. The cold is amplified infinitely by the humidity, creating an unparalleled lethality. I went to the town post office, where a post-office beauty in a thin uniform laughed at my exaggerated attire: ‘It’s not even below zero yet. Isn’t it minus ten or twenty in the North?’ I wanted to cry: ‘Minus ten is true, but we have heating in our houses!’ She laughed again: ‘Northerners survive winter thanks to heating; we rely on our *zheng qi*.’
A lack of *zheng qi* can be fatal. Despite wearing every piece of clothing I owned, my useless ears still froze, becoming red, swollen, and thick, resembling braised pig’s ears.
The Southern cold is not only damp and chilly but lasts forever. There is a local proverb: ‘Around the Qingming Festival, tigers freeze to death.’ I’ve learned my lesson now; until Qingming passes, my down jacket remains unwashed and unput-away, always by my side. When I bragged about my foresight, a neighbour laughed: ‘I don’t wash my down jacket until after the May Day holiday.’
The cold of the South is something only those who feel it can truly know. No matter how others laugh, dressing desperately to save one’s life isn’t a lack of *zheng qi*—it’s a lack of pride. Bound in excessively heavy clothes, one feels squeezed, shrinking, and unable to stretch.
By day, there was no *zheng qi*; by night, no spirit. All the advantages ‘Villain’s Valley No. 1’ had in summer became disadvantages in winter—the temperature inside was the same as outside, and the perceived temperature felt even lower.
In the damp-cold South, everything is clammy and ice-cold, including the spare clothes and bedding. Getting into bed isn’t hard, thanks to the electric blanket; but getting out of bed is a struggle, a half-hour battle of will just to go to the toilet.
Now I can confirm that this phrase must have originated in the South. In Northern winters, a drafty house can truly freeze you to death, which is why Northern brick, adobe, or mud houses must have thick walls that say ‘no’ to gaps, remaining completely airtight.
But the wooden houses common in the South are different. The ‘walls’ are just layers of planks. No matter how the joints are cut, there are always gaps; through thermal expansion and contraction and swelling and shrinking due to humidity, these gaps only grow. For every plank in a wall, there is a gap.
With no airtight walls, the damp, cold wind passes through unimpeded. Thus, the Southerners’ resistance to cold is an innate skill, a natural development of *zheng qi*. But I missed the optimal window for such training; the more I tried, the more useless I became, turning into a shivering bird, swearing every day amidst the tremors: I must build a heated *kang*.
III. Wooden Planks Can Also Make Airtight Walls
I decided to use traditional old granaries from local farmhouses. In the past, granaries were essential for local farmers, enclosed on six sides with high-quality cedar planks and constructed entirely with mortise and tenon joints, allowing the whole structure to be built without a single iron nail. Times have changed; new houses no longer have granaries, and the old ones have mostly been dismantled and sold as planks. You can buy one for a thousand yuan or so.
I bought four in one go.
The granaries are square, and the heated *kang* room is a rectangle formed by joining two granaries together. I bought two extra to build airtight walls. The walls are double-layered, with waterproof cloth and fiberglass insulation between the planks. This preserves the authentic look of the granary while ensuring that no wind or drafts can leak through.
When local friends heard I was moving into a granary, they asked me if I knew where thieves used to be locked up back in the day. In the granaries.
Small, cramped, pitch-black, and airtight—granaries were fit for temporary prisons, so how could they be lived in? Yet, I was determined to turn this wooden box—one that no mouse could enter and no thief could escape—into a sanctuary that was both weather-proof and airy.
To dissolve the sense of confinement, only openness would suffice. From a scrap yard, I bought freezer doors for ten yuan each; with double-glazed glass, they were transparent and insulating, so I installed them in the roof of the kang room. As for the kitchen, I wanted it to be not only bright but well-ventilated. In addition to four opposing glass windows, I cut a hole in the roof and installed a large-diameter non-powered turbine vent.
Having solved the issue of openness, I tackled the small size. I had long planned to build a small house using an old granary, but I didn’t want the interior to be excessively compact. A large granary is also known as a ‘six-foot granary’, measuring two metres square; in reality, the internal diameter is 1.95 metres, less than four square metres. I widened it slightly, from 1.95 metres to 2.2 metres. To meet my storage needs, I extended the right side outwards, creating a wardrobe-cum-bookshelf for my seasonal clothes and the books I am currently reading.
The kitchen, connected to the kang room, remained 2.2 metres wide, but I increased the length to 2.7 metres, bringing the area to nearly six square metres. Together, the kang room and the kitchen total just over 10 square metres.
IV. All Essentials Met: From Basic Needs to Reading and Exercise
Regardless of size, if it fulfills your needs, it is a good place.
The 1.2-metre bed in the kang room is enough for one person to sleep soundly, and by offsetting it, there is room for a 1.2-metre yoga mat, providing space for mat-based exercise. The kitchen is centred around a rocket stove, with the 60cm diameter chimney radiator and firewood intake facing south and connecting to the kang room. Around this centre, firewood is stored under the basin on the east wall, and the long windowsill serves as a storage area for kitchenware and water vessels, along with a tiny fast-boil cup.
In the northeast corner by the door, a floor-to-ceiling corner cabinet holds various odds and ends, as well as an electric griddle and a kettle. The open space in the middle of the tiny kitchen is large enough for skipping rope. Clothing, food, shelter, and leisure—all my personal needs are easily met indoors.
Although the house is small, it is not just a place where one can have free rein; it is also a place for gathering around the hearth. Along the north wall, between the east and west doors, I have installed a piece of over two-hundred-year-old timber as a bench. By bringing in another long piece of wood and resting it between the east and west walls, I create a large dining table. With the wide bench, seven or eight people can sit comfortably side by side, and every meal tastes better.
The west wall serves multiple purposes; the original design featured a folding desk. I nailed a barn door to the wall, which could be folded down into a desk or folded up against the window.
This photo was taken in 2022, just after construction was finished and before I moved in. At the time, I was quite proud of the folding desk taking centre stage. I later realised that such a large surface in the tiny kitchen area easily caused both visual and physical clutter; the seat for the desk completely blocked the way to the kang.
So, this “grand” table was folded away. With the high table gone, the windowsill that had been hidden beneath it became a combined “bench and long table”. By placing a soft cushion on the steps leading to the kang, I created a seat.
Keep the flat surfaces clear—this is the hard-won wisdom of a “lazy person” living in a confined space. Miscellany: if it can go on the wall, it does; otherwise, it is hidden away.
This leaves plenty of room for long benches, square stools, or a lounger, allowing me to read or daydream as I please.
Once settled, everything on the walls or tucked away is within arm’s reach and incredibly easy to access. With my kettle, small pot, and electric griddle, preparing food and drink is effortless.
The seat made from the old door is exceptionally wide—large enough even for meditation. It is perfectly fine for eating or reading, provided I sit sideways. Should I wish to sit upright and work on my computer, there is a hidden wooden board below that unfolds into a laptop desk.
V. Reclaiming my vitality through the heated kang
When the body is warm, it naturally relaxes. With this innate warmth protecting me, I don’t even feel the cold when I step outside. People have started wondering why I’m wearing so little: “Aren’t you cold?” — A Northerner, at last, has found their “vitality” in the South!
This year, the rain in Fujian has been exceptionally heavy. In late March, during a damp, cold spell of wind and rain, I retreated into my little nest, lit the fire, and, dressed in thin, dry clothes, began to write about the flame beside me. The spring rains continued until May; on days when I couldn’t work in the fields, I lit the fire to dry my clothes and brought out my manuscripts for editing.
I am grateful for this little nest and the warmth of the fire, which have allowed me to settle in amidst this prolonged rain and mist. When I think of those who have only their own inner grit to shield them from the bitter wind and rain, heaven help me, I must ask for forgiveness for my “schadenfreude”.
VI. How Much Space Does One Person Need?
In truth, on my tiny plot of land, even without chemical fertilisers or pesticides, I could grow more and harvest more—enough for more than just myself. But pursuing maximum output would exhaust both me and the land. I have no desire for the land and farmer to merely exploit one another; instead, I choose to take a step back and allow for some breathing room.
Not too tiring, yet not too idle; not too much harvest, yet not too little. I have slowly discovered a relaxed, go-with-the-flow relationship with the land I inhabit, where we change and adapt to one another.
The space around me is much the same.
Returning to the initial question: “How much space does a person need?” Beyond the kang and kitchen area of just over ten square metres, there is a dry toilet and an open-air shower outside the west window, adding about two square metres of hardened concrete. Thus, the kang area, the kitchen, the external wardrobe, the dry toilet, and the open-air shower, including the paved edges, can all be managed within 15 square metres.
Last year, some friends from Yunnan visited. The couple had once owned several large courtyards, yet they studied this little hut with great interest: “For us, a place like this would be enough.”
The heavens cycle, and the four seasons shift. The fire provides warmth to ward off the frost and cold, and dryness to dispel the dampness of the plum rains. These two small barns—neither too large nor too small—comfortably accommodate every need of life. Within 15 square metres, mind and body find their peace; it is exactly where I belong.
Unless otherwise noted, all illustrations in this article are by the author
Editor: Wang Hao