‘Oh good,’ I said brightly. It was well after five; someone had had a nap and lost track of time.

‘Well, don’t stand on ceremony, come in.’ She turned away and marched off through an open door, trailing her hand along the wall as she did so.

I stepped into a hall with wood-panelled walls and a lovely worn herringbone wood floor. Overhead was a huge Tiffany chandelier which even when it was not lit from within created rainbow patterns on the walls where the light hit it. The house smelled of vanilla, lemons and furniture polish and a faint hint of wood smoke; it was a welcoming home and I had the strange sense of being wrapped in a warm embrace. I smiled at my sentimental thoughts, shut the door and followed Betsy into a large old-fashioned kitchen. It was exactly how I imagined it would be: from the original deep butler sink with its lovely copper taps to the oiled oak worktops atop cream cupboards with worn metal handles. A family-sized table and chairs stood beneath a large picture window that had views out across the patio and the vineyard beyond. Bunches of dried herbs, a garland of garlic and a string of onions hung from a wooden drying rack which had a pulley system. But perhaps, unsurprisingly, the most dominant feature was the huge floor-to-ceiling wine rack which, next to a sturdy oak dresser, took up most of one wall.

‘You have a beautiful home, Betsy.’

‘Hmm, you should have seen it when we moved in. A pigsty, in more ways than one. Sit down, I’ll make you a cup of tea; it’s just straightforward English – I don’t hold with that herbal stuff.’

‘Thank you. No milk for me, please.’

I took a seat at the table and inhaled the scent from a jug of sweet peas which sat in the centre on a small lace mat. Starsky trotted in, eyed me warily and then flipped over on to his back presenting me with a pink tummy to stroke. I obliged and he squirmed happily.

Betsy shook the kettle and topped it up at the sink. ‘The kitchen was the first room I did up when we moved in. Needs redoing now, but I shan’t bother.’

‘I think it’s lovely,’ I said, meaning it, taking in the row of knives on a magnetic strip fixed to the wall and an earthenware pot with at least fifteen wooden spoons and spatulas of varying sizes and the orangey-red cast-iron pots stacked in the corner. ‘It feels lived in and loved, like the heart of the home should be.’

Starsky rolled on to his tummy, curled into a ball and closed his eyes as if to prove just how much he loved this room.