This is a strange place. It’s as if the minimum has not been done to make it right. There is a large double bed with a grey sheet. Who would go to a shop and choose a grey sheet? Who would consider manufacturing a grey sheet, and having considered it actually continue, and make the thing? The duvet is thin, it doesn’t matter, it’s not cold. It’s yellow brown and dirty looking, although it may well be clean, and scrumpled in a struggle in the middle of the bed. The pillows huddle together near the formica covered plywood headboard. One is dull lime green and the other striped. A little of the innards of the green one are poking out.

So that’s the bed. Above the bed there is a shelf with squiggly wrought iron brackets either end above and below, so if the room was turned upside down, although the things on it would all fall off, the shelf itself would be supported. The things are a plastic cactus, two stemmed, in a brown pot, a dead plastic little bush plant that makes the unkempt hair of a china owl, two fir cones, a dried starfish and five beer bottles that all have some sort of owl depicted on their labels. Owls are a theme, weird unnatural ones. There are two pictures to the right of the bed, they actually appear in the brochure, of owls, identical, except cast in different colours; four happy owls sitting on a branch, so eight altogether. They are arranged above each other, artistically off centre, and the top one is crooked. Further down, completing that bit of wall, which ends in a gap where the door might have been, there is the shadow of the plant that sits in the window opposite. A cordyline, I think, and very possibly alive.

On the floor there, by the bed, is a bar stool. It’s silver and has a lever that makes it go up and down, although I bet it doesn’t work. It’s in the bedside table place. I don’t think it’s meant to be a substitute for that, it’s too tall, I think it’s there because it’s a convenient place to keep it. Convenient for whom, I do not know.

I’m making myself depressed. I’m in Tartu, for heaven’s sake, city of  something. City of I don’t know what.

I walked around last night – go back, go back. The wooden houses are wonderful. I took lots of pictures. They were built for the poor a hundred years ago. I was tired, but I liked the place. Like Paris. This road has an avenue of trees that run down the middle, chestnut trees, and a swathe of grass. I met a couple of locals as I walked around, local drunks. She had a plaster across the bridge of her nose, he tried to give me something which I rejected, walking swiftly on, saying English, and pointing to myself. I then realised that my plan to walk down to the end of the street on one side and back up the other would have to change or I would have to confront them again. I turned right at the end and walked a long way round. As I turned on the final leg of my detour they were coming out that way. We all laughed, knowing exactly what had happened. English, he said, pointing, and laughed again.

I left the cabin at twelve, all neat, all tidy, all its oddities loved. I had extra time before getting to this apartment so drove around Lake Vortsjarv just for fun, this apartment with its fully equipped kitchen – a fridge, a washing machine and a sink. Some china, two of most things, six pieces of cutlery including one knife that still has butter on it, four glasses, Earl grey tea, five bags, of course, a cafetiere, fairy liquid. Yes, it’s all here. Beside me there’s another window, dirty, with a wide sill and a rather small ficus, still alive. And opposite, above the sink, there is an enormous clock. The big hand is half a metre long, and the numbers, 12, 3, 6 and 9 at least, the rest are dashes, are fixed to the wall, and the hands sweep past them grandly, or they once did, probably never, actually, now it’s permanently quarter to four, or dash to dash.

Oh, I’ve just noticed the mugs have owls on. The owl theme is definitely a thing. I filled the clean one with water last night, the other one I put to soak. The water’s on the bedside stool, not the bar stool, a shorter one more appropriate to bedside duties, four metal legs and a wooden top. It has a friend, not quite a pair, I’m sitting on it now, typing this, at a little round glass table with a dirty top.

Let’s complete this. There’s a wardrobe. That’s where the china’s kept, and a hanging rail beside it with four coat hangers. Behind the hanging rail is a sort of owl totem, six owls standing on each other’s heads, stuck to the wall.

I’ve opened the window, and a bird call reminds me that while I was out walking yesterday gulls shit bombed my car. It might be because it has Latvian plates – I picked it up in Riga, or it might just be a local custom.

I’ve done the washing up, using the spare towel as a tea towel. I have Laura Marling singing softly to me from the corner of the room, I’ve sorted out my own stuff, and stored it or tidied it. I’ve had a shower, put my teeth in, feel cleaner. The bathroom works. It’s not perfect, but it works. I’m going out in a minute to buy some breakfast provisions, and I must start a list of things to ask my guide.

There’s a mirror in the hall with a naked fat man in it. I guess I’ll have to get used to him. I had another look, and he’s dressed now, quite dapper! The sun is shining. Small city sounds wander in through the open window. I’ll walk out now past all the wooden houses, this is one, and find the supermarket.

Tartu, hello, and sorry I have started with a rant. I’ll walk out along this tree lined street and feel better. I feel better already. Time to go.

Later. I’ve had my guided tour. I’ve come back to the apartment. I’ve made my own mess and it feels more homely. I’m not sure the tour told me things I wanted to know, but it did give me a good sense of the geography. He showed me a couple of cafes that look nice, quiet ones. He showed me a Soviet apartment block, the prizewinning design for housing the masses in Khrushchev’s time, from the outside, and gave me a lot of elaborate and interesting details which I have forgotten. One of the café’s he showed me was really nice, and I think I should go out and find it again before I forget that too. I think I now need to get out there and retrace my steps and take in the same sights and sounds without him talking. It’s not that I have anything against what you said, Karl, and you did give me all the information I asked for, it’s just that I need to go to the places now and breathe in them, or breathe them in. I’m a weird traveller.

I’m starting to like this apartment. It’s looking homely now, and from the window where I’m writing I look down into a garden on the other side of the street. It’s nice. I know that’s not dramatic use of the language, a shortened it is and the word that was banned at school on pain of being beaten, but sometimes it is all that is needed. It’s nice.

And now I must set out again.

I’ve just remembered, last night Tartu reminded me of Paris, a Paris of another era, this bit at least, with all the wooden houses. If I could hear some jazz drifting over the rooftops, that would complete the image.

Cue jazz.

Cue Spotify.

Ben Webster, Night and Day.

Bliss.

But this isn’t time for dreaming.

I must get out there!