Pull in, I directed the driver, my long-suffering yet quasi-adventurous brother-in-law Ken, pull in! And drive around back!
It was a rapidly disintegrating, Spanish stucco affair, with low arched walls and a red-tiled roof. In the weeds, it was. Literally. And, therefore, right up my alley.
We came to a full stop around back of the house, whereupon Kenny, happily game, and I (the others being put off by the potential for rattling vipers, biting mosquitoes, and stultifying humidity) waded through a thick stand of weeds (where, I realized later, there may well have been a rattling viper or two, the island having once been known as “Snake Island” and for very good reason) and made our way into a rear courtyard. What a sight we saw!
But first, an editorial comment: If this is, or was, a “mansion,” my name is Wallace Simpson. Read the rest of this entry »




