I am fascinated by old walls.

I am fascinated by the sense of history of old walls - especially where they are obviously internal walls where houses have been stripped back from the street. I was photographing a particularly beautiful piece of wall with layers of paint and plaster that moved through the curiously Mediterranean colours of ochre, turquoise, cobalt, pale apple green, and had ended its days as white. A friendly young man walked out of a nearby house, and greeted me. I said "hello" and smiled. I could see he was curious about the subject I had chosen to photograph and was trying to explain why I liked it. His English was better than my Arabic. He asked where I came from, and said "wait" and disappeared into the door in the wall that led to his house.

He reappeared with a woman who beckoned me in. I really liked the sensitivity that understood that there is no way in the world that I would have followed a young man into a house.

Inside was a pale painted courtyard, with two levels of rooms all around it. Upstairs had a balcony so people could lean over it to chat to those below. Downstairs had a simple kitchen, and two or three (I didn't want to peer) larger rooms with mattresses and seating. Karen was actually English, married to a Libyan. I was warmly welcomed, introduced to about eight people very rapidly. Her husband walked out of the bathroom wearing a t-shirt on top, but only wrapped in a towel below. He handled the fact that he had just walked into a foreigner while in a state of undress with panache, and stood to chat, gesturing heavily at some stages - enough to make me worry about the security of the tuck in his towel. I had a drink of water - pulled from the tap - Bob may kill me if it doesn't - and headed back into the souq with photos of the children and new friends.