It’s at this time of year that our little farmhouse begins to be love-bombed by butterflies, which flutter into its rooms through open windows to perch on the centuries-old walls and bask on its sunny windowsills. They are small tortoiseshells, a common species easily identified by the tiger-like stripes and series of tiny, pale blue dots stippled along the edges of its dark-orange, paper-thin wings. In early autumn the adults go in search of somewhere safe to overwinter, during which time our house is strangely irresistible to them. Clearly the building has always had this special charm. When we first bought it, its old, sun-filled rooms were filled with their tiny, dusty remains, poignant reminders of summers long gone.