It’s quite spartan and the only other furniture is a large armoire, a huge chest of drawers and a chaise longue; the latter being a well-worn and decidedly shabby antique. Either side of the bed are nightstands, on top of which are two very elegant and ornate table lights with cleverly arranged and entwined metal leaves. Graced by a large white globe, one stands a good thirty inches tall and the other is a smaller, almost identical version. I place my phone on one of the tables, then begin carrying the neat piles of clothing across to place them in the drawers.

Stark white walls contrast beautifully with the dark brown of the furniture and floorboards. I like the simplicity of the overall style, it’s restful. But what really stands out, dominating the entire space, is the enormous painting which seems to leap off the wall. The vibrancy of the colours is breathtaking and the riot of different shades of green, which up close are comprised of very crude brushstrokes, form an enchanting forest when viewed from a distance. It’s clearly the Bois-Saint-Vernon, but the signature isn’t Nico’s, it’s by someone named José.

I place a few items on coat hangers, marvelling at the beautiful carving on the front of the armoire. As I close the door, I run my fingertips lightly over the inset panel of little acorns and flower heads, appreciating the detail and the skilled tooling.

Suddenly, a short rap on the door interrupts my reverie and I call out, ‘Come in,’ watching as the door slowly eases open.

A head appears around the side of it. It’s Ceana MacLeay, the woman who oversees the extensive garden and grounds.

‘Am I interrupting?’ The Scottish lilt has a warmth to it that matches her sunny disposition. Ruddy-cheeked, this wiry, energetic woman is deceptively strong. She’s all muscle and I can only look at her enviously. Why do the pounds begin to creep on with every passing year? I wonder. My waistline is a good couple of inches bigger than it was just two or three years ago.

‘No. I’m nearly done, actually. Come in.’

‘I have a big favour to ask.’

I look at her in surprise because I can’t imagine what I can do that Ceana can’t sort for herself.

‘Fire away,’ I reply as I perch on the bed and indicate for her to take a seat on the chaise longue.

‘This is a gorgeous piece of furniture, isn’t it?’ she remarks. ‘Dee-Dee keeps saying she’ll whisk it away and work on it as one of the projects in her textiles workshop. The fabric is too moth-eaten to rescue. When we were all in here painting last week in preparation for your arrival, I nearly pinched it for my room.’ She chuckles.