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The smell is still the same. I can't quite decide what it is. But the stairwell has the smell of soup, cleaning products and the smell of local soil and snow and old radiators heated under a layer of new paint. The manor at Harlaxton. It is amazing how the smell brings back so many memories. The snowflakes dance outside the window, intermittently chased by sunbeams. It is true: if you do not like the weather, wait a few minutes and it will change. Inside, there are some familiar friendly faces. And the refectory (a more elevated name than the place bore when we were here 7 years ago) is frightfully chilly; the windows fog and frost up. The coffee is better. Our flat is a snug little alcove alongside the back of the attic railway which once delivered coal and groceries to the manor below. We have a peaceful day or two before the students descend in which to settle in and rediscover our way back around. We are only four here this time rather than five. But we are glad to be here.