It seems to have sprouted like a toadstool from the damp earth where granite boulders pile up between the broad trunks of miombo forest trees. On two sides a broad verandah is roofed in corrugated iron dark as mushroom gills. The two houses seem diametrically opposed. Under the huge trees the old house is crammed with elderly furniture of dark wood and sagging cushions. Dim paintings in heavy frames deepen the gloom, and the windows are hung with fragile relics of curtains like military colours laid to rest.
Dust accumulates on little tables, scattered journals and fly-blown books.
Tarnished silver candlesticks gleam dully beneath heavy layers of candle wax. The carpets may have been Persian, but now are uniformly dust-coloured in the gloom. It is utterly empty. It stands in the sun with a view out over the lake, a pale smudge in smoky blue depth below. The wooden floors are swept and clean, the deserted bathroom gleams with white tiles and light-coloured vinyl flooring.