There's a moment every shed owner has when they look around at their tools, bikes or storage boxes and think, 'Is my shed actually damp... or am I just imagining it?'
Is the inside of my shed damp?
look at some different shed roof designs
I've had that moment many times, usually when I notice a light bloom of corrosion on one of my bikes. I've always accepted that 'a bit of rust in a shed is inevitable,' but recently I started wondering whether that was really true - or whether something in the shed's daily environment was quietly encouraging it.
After years of helping people deal with condensation, rusty tools, swollen MDF, wrinkled paper, and collapsing cardboard boxes, it struck me that I was still relying on instinct in my own shed. For all my experience, I'd never actually measured what was happening inside it.
So, during a cold week in late November, I decided to stop guessing.
I placed a small temperature-and-humidity recorder on the bench which is at the back of my 3 x 4 m shed. Nothing exotic - just a reliable little device that would quietly get on with the job. I set it to take readings every five minutes, day and night, for over a week.
The recorder was placed on a bench at the rear of the shed out of direct sunlight
This simple unit records the temperature and humidity every 5 minutes
My goal was simple: to understand the real, everyday moisture behaviour of a typical UK shed.
The results weren't dramatic, but they were revealing. They showed that even a shed that feels dry can have a hidden moisture rhythm running just beneath the surface.
When the first batch of data came in, I'll admit I was ready for trouble. It had been a cold stretch of weather, the sort of week where you half-expect to find beads of moisture forming on metal surfaces. But the initial readings told a different story.
On several nights, the shed floated just a degree or two above the dew point. That's close. Closer than I ever would have guessed.
Even when the air stays above the dew point, many of the objects inside the shed don't.
Metal cools faster than air. Tools, screws, bike chains, saw blades - all of them can sit colder than the surrounding air, meaning they may dip below dew point even when the air hasn't. So a shed can be 'safe on paper' yet still quietly nibble away at tools and equipment.
Once I had a few days of data, a very clear rhythm began to appear - a kind of breathing pattern the shed repeated every 24 hours.
The graph of temperature (red) and relative humidity (blue) over 8 days
This cycle repeated almost perfectly day after day.
If you looked at any single moment, you'd think the shed was fine. But when you see the full curve across several days, you realise the shed is constantly moving between its driest and dampest states - and its most vulnerable period is always the early hours of the morning.
A few days into the experiment, an unusual lift in humidity jumped off the graph. It was sharp, flat-topped, and didn't match the gentle overnight rise or morning fall. It happened twice: on 23rd November and 25th November, both between 6 and 9 am.
And then I remembered: I was riding my bike in the shed at that exact time.
This wasn't weather. This wasn't a structural quirk. This was human-generated moisture.
A single hour of cycling can release around 100 ml of moisture into the air through increased breathing and perspiration. In a small, relatively airtight shed, the effect is instant.
This matters hugely for:
If one person can push humidity close to 83% in under an hour, imagine two people - or several hours of working, breathing, soldering, sanding or painting.
Once the cycling spike made sense, everything else became clearer: people add more moisture to a shed than nearly all weather conditions do.
Approximate moisture output per hour:
The amount of moisture added to the atmosphere varies with activity
And the reason it shows up so dramatically is simple: a shed has low air volume and minimal ventilation.
In a house, you don't notice this. But in a shed, moisture builds up fast. Door closed + human breathing = rising humidity.
This is why garden offices and hobby sheds often develop mustiness, rusting tools, or damp paperwork even when the building itself is perfectly sound.
One of the most important insights from the experiment was that risk doesn't just come from the air condensing.
It comes from the objects inside the shed hitting dew point before the air does.
Metal cools fast and holds the chill. That means:
This graph shows the dew point in the shed. The air never actually reached the dew point. However material in the shed is at risk when the dew point
is is within 2 degrees of it, as the air changes temperature more quickly than solid materials.
...can all drop below the dew point even when the air is still above it.
And it isn't only metal.
Paper and cardboard are equally vulnerable:
You don't need visible condensation for damage to occur. You just need humidity high enough for long enough.
By the end of the week, one lesson stood above everything else:
You can't manage what you don't measure.
Before this experiment, I would never have known:
A shed can look perfectly dry at noon and still be quietly damaging your belongings at dawn.
Measurement replaces guesswork with reality. And once you see the real pattern, you can make real improvements.
This first week wasn't the end - it was the beginning.
Now that I understand my shed's natural moisture cycle, I want to see what happens when I change things. Over the next phase of the ShedSense project, I'll be testing:
Each test will be monitored the same way: every five minutes, day and night, with graphs to show the results.
This little experiment revealed the hidden rhythms of my shed - and I'm looking forward to sharing the next set of discoveries.
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