There was a soft tap at one of our doors that set the dogs barking. The challenge was to find which door.
The layout of our house confuses new visitors as there is no obvious front door. On one occasion Tod was lying in bed when a tap at the bedroom French window revealed a woman who was looking for the chateau her mother worked in during the seventies. Tod assured her there was no chateau round here. This was the early days when we knew no better. In fact the farm along the ridge, perched on the next sandstone outcrop is clearly sitting on huge foundations that show where the chateau was, until the then owner gave up the fight to keep it going and knocked it down.
Those who know us just come along the terrace to the kitchen door. So I headed out that way in search of the tapper, to be confronted in the late afternoon cold mist by an elderly gentleman with a sweet smile wheeling a sensible bike with a panier full of folders, clothed from head to foot in sensible weather-proofed clothing. A childhood poem (song?) immediately sprang to mind, not thought of in nigh on sixty years:
There I met an old man, clothed all in leather,
Clothed all in leather, with a cap up to his chin,
How do you do, how do you do, how do you do again.