I stand in an old wooden shed. My nose is assaulted by the smells I would smell whenever I visited my grandfather’s workshop as a child – engine oil, sawdust, wood, metal and hints of the sea. I’m surrounded by drills, both electric and hand-powered; boxes of tools for boat work, house work and wood work; canisters of oil for engines and unsticking things; wood shavings; two oil lamps; steel boat rigging; old Seagull engine parts; a solitary oar; and drawer upon drawer of nails, screws, fuses, light bulbs, grommets, washers, rope thimbles, nuts and things I can’t even name. There’s even a tiffin-like food container and some fishing hooks, new in their bag This shed personifies my grandfather. Cluttered but tidy, everything where it has to be. Birds sing blithely outside, Spring comes.