My father’s mother built this house in the mountains near the small town of São Francisco de Paula in Brazil, in 1954. There was only her house and my mother’s aunt’s house there. My mother was born there and would later go back for holidays, as did my father. They met only because of this house. They could see each other from the windows as the houses were 300m apart. This was before the trees they planted grew: over the years many trees and other houses grew up nearby. Looking at this picture now, it’s hard to recognise the place. We went there on holiday – extreme summers, hard winters – a place for reading, dreaming, eating, playing. The only time I have seen demons, red and hairy, was there.