I have returned to the most wonderful artwork in my home, on the ceiling above a recessed window, in the halfwayupthestairs wall, in the bathroom, no longer (and sadly) containing a bath. The colours are eliptic, shaplular, interesting. I know why they are there, and what they would mean to anyone but me, obviously. They show water ingress. But I have lived with water ingress for most of my adult life, all of it, actually, and have become friends with it, interested, even. In a home 117 years older than I, expectations are definitely a mistake, particularly in our current world of covering every damn thing up with paint and walls and pretence. In those old days, sentient folk followed water courses and with respect. They just knew what they were up against. Nature. Now, well, now that intelligence is considered obsolete.

I’m watching the ingress right now. It comes every winter, and every spring when the winter king has finally let go of control, I call a plasterer to cover up what will always be there in this ancient stone build, my home. Through my windows, i am watching big cloud talk and I am not surprised. They know there is a huge gale coming in on Friday, and they are bunching up, holding tight, shouting it out, running for cover, for those who recognise sky conversation. Fishermen may not be out on Friday. Ferry may not appear on Friday. But those of us who live here, who know the gales will come, who know that, accept and batten down. The wood won’t burn. The rain comes in. The wind takes your wheelie. And, and, there is shared laughter in that.

When I come into my ancient home, all tripled glazed and with underfloor heating, I smell wet baskets. I think. Or, is it mice? I think mice smell like wet baskets. I don’t like opening my door to the smell of wet baskets, nor mice. I want to come in to fresh and welcoming. Too many years of this place smelling like an old folks home, and I so wish I didn’t have to say that. Maybe that’s an ingress, maybe from the old bones of the old stories, I don’t know. Perhaps rain ingress smells like wet baskets, or mice?

A lot of thinks. For now, I’ll go with finding supper.