© Marcel Iordan

It’s been a weekend of wind, rain and art. As the gales whipped the deluge into stinging, lashing whips, the artists in my neighbourhood opened their houses up to the public.

Outside each home a pile of sodden brollies lay heaped like broken flowers; an abstract sculpture, while we trod patterns of water into carpets and across bare floorboards.

From the walls hung colourfully painted canvas blocks, or shelves of lovingly stitched and knitted skulls, paper beetles, necklaces strung with buttons, and, in one extraordinary living room, large statues made from carefully selected rocks, pinned together to exude movement in the guise of people dancing, horse-riding, balancing on a single stone hand.

Art trails are among the best treasure hunts of our age, taking us into private homes to catch glimpses of private lives. The artists who sell well are the savvy ones, the friendly ones, who understand the value of a few smaller, cheaper wares and a warm smile. When I find I like the artist as an individual, I find myself yearning to buy their most glorious works, regardless of price.

But the ones who imprinted themselves on my mind are those who embodied their art in some way. I’ll never forget the kitchen and living room transformed into an exuberant 1950’s teashop, selling extravagantly decorated cupcakes and oodles of atmosphere sold by ladies in vintage print dresses and wigs crammed with pink curlers. We bought jam from them and birthday cards, and paused to eat cake in a noisy, cosy corner.

Likewise, I’ll remember the photographer who had managed to capture an underground car park in such a way that each shot transformed it into a scene of serenity, light and beauty.

People who view the world differently should be celebrated, and if they can share that view of the world, so much the better.