We round a hill and there, hidden by overgrowth; the echo of Navidson's House, the memory of Kafka's Castle, the High House in the Mist, of all houses ever imagined.

Ross-on-wye — We explore. It is ruined, and left for dead on the side of the road. Beams exposed to the sky allow the sun through, casting long, truncating shadows across the foundations. A Belfast sink squats in t...