The train stopped on Peter Muller’s farm. No platform, just a track to Glenrock, a Georgian mansion with fluted sandstone Doric columns that Muller started renovating in 1964. I was 14 and carried a roll of drawings to receive a few hours of his tutelage in the conventions of architecture and the complications of materiality, prevailing winds, the inheritance of the landscape and light.
That was 40 years ago. I disturbed Muller at work on an Oberoi hotel for Luxor. He had turned to
