Hand written letters, old photographs, tins of trinkets and other items a reminder of a life of the nostalgic man.  Sitting alone in the decaying kitchen with a life time of memories, regrets and pleasures. The nostalgic man contemplates his life and the history he has to tell. Who is this man and where is he? Living next door in rather more suitable surroundings on the adjoining house, this is his former home, a decaying parlous home fit only for contemplation and reflection. The clock frozen at 5.18. A vintage snuff tin. A pile of books now bonded together as one large collection of words by the cobwebs and damp which have taken over this house.

In a quiet Welsh corner, down winding country lanes, the nostalgic man stays alone, away from the business of the outside world with his life next door, scattered and chaotic but his, and only his.

Curious horses greeted me as i parked up outside the house intrigued by this stranger walking on their field. On leaving, they were waiting outside, their eyes fixed on me as I got back into my car. I waved goodbye to them, said goodbye to the house, leaving in peace not only the horses but the man next door to carry on his moments of nostagia.