Aisles of Peace: Why Bernard Michael Rochford Loves Hardware Stores

There was a time when the only reason I’d set foot in a hardware store was because something broke.

A leaking tap. A rusted hinge. A bolt I had no name for but absolutely needed.

Now? Now Bernard Michael Rochford goes to the hardware store just because.

No real problem. No real plan. Just a quiet stroll through aisles of screws, sandpaper, and the sweet smell of sawdust. It’s become a bit of a ritual—a midweek meditation among hex keys and hose fittings.

The Slow Burn of Bunnings

It started with Bunnings. Doesn’t it always?

One Saturday morning, with nothing on the calendar and a mug of coffee still in hand, I wandered into the local store. I told myself I just needed a replacement garden nozzle. That was two years ago. I still haven’t bought the nozzle.

But I’ve since left that store with potting mix, picture hooks, wood glue, a folding chair, and enough light bulbs to survive a minor apocalypse.

Hardware stores are like museums for people who think they might be handy.

What’s So Special About a Hardware Store?

Everything.

There’s order. Rows and rows of objects arranged not by aesthetics or emotion, but by function. Tools with names I don't fully understand, and products that suggest I could build something impressive—if I ever decided to.

No pressure. No bright sale signs yelling at me. No one asking, “Are you still working as an osteopath?” Just quiet shelves and the comforting hum of forklift trolleys in the background.

It’s a space where the only conversation I overhear is someone asking for a left-handed drill bit. (They don’t exist. I checked.)

The Garden Section: Where Dreams Take Root

My favorite section? The plants.

There’s something wholesome about walking among seedlings and bagged compost. The garden section offers hope in small plastic pots. I go in looking for mulch and come out believing I might someday grow my own lemon orchard (even though I’m still trying to keep one lemon tree alive).

I talk to the herbs like they’re long-lost mates. I run my hand over the lavender and pretend to evaluate its fragrance like a sommelier.

And don’t get me started on terracotta pots—I own more than any retired man with no landscaping qualifications should.

Tools I’ll Never Use (But Like Owning Anyway)

Some tools I buy just because they look like they know what they’re doing.

Last month, I bought a spirit level. Why? Couldn’t tell you. Nothing in my life needs levelling. But I enjoy the idea that if it did, I’d be ready.

I have a new tape measure. It’s my fourth. One for the shed. One for the kitchen drawer. One for the glovebox. One… just because it was yellow and made a satisfying click when retracted.

Retirement teaches you that joy comes from small, unexpected purchases.
Like a stud finder. (Still unsure what it finds, but I enjoy pretending to check the wall and saying “Yup, found him.”)

A Place to Wander

Sometimes I don’t buy anything. I just walk.

I walk through lighting and test the knobs on display fans. I marvel at how many types of screws exist and wonder who names them. I test the weight of hammers like I’m selecting a weapon for battle—then put them back because, well, I’ve got soft wrists these days.

It’s peaceful. No expectations. No inbox. No awkward small talk. Just Bernard Michael Rochford, wandering in a fluorescent-lit heaven of PVC fittings and pressure washers.

The People You Meet

Hardware stores attract a special kind of person.

The staff are never pushy. They’re knowledgeable, occasionally gruff, but always willing to explain things to confused retirees like myself who approach them holding a small broken object and saying, “Do you have something that can fix this… whatever it is?”

And the other customers? Salt of the earth. Blokes in hi-vis with serious opinions on caulking. Grandmothers buying bird netting like it’s going out of style. Kids riding flat-bed carts like race cars while their parents debate paint samples with military focus.

It’s a strange, beautiful community of people who like the idea of fixing things, even if they don’t always follow through.

Leaving With More Than I Came For

Every trip leaves me a little lighter.

Even if I only buy a roll of twine, I leave with a sense of purpose. A belief that I can build, repair, maintain. That I still know how to work with my hands—even if they now prefer brushing dirt off my knees in the garden rather than tightening bolts under a sink.

I may not be an osteopath anymore, but I still like putting things back into place.

So if you ever see Bernard Michael Rochford lingering near the toolbox aisle, humming quietly and testing the handle grip on a pair of pliers, don’t worry. He’s just where he wants to be.

Not fixing anything urgent.
Just walking the aisles of peace.