I’ve had ivy clinging to my walls longer than some folk have been alive. Not the same leaves, mind you — it comes and goes, sneaks in under the eaves, then takes a cheeky wander up my sides when nobody’s looking. You’d think it was just here for the view, but no… ivy’s a busy little gossip.

She tells me stories. Old ones. The sort people used to share round fires before telly came along.

There’s the Marriage Test — where young women tucked a sprig under their pillow, whispered sweet nothings, and hoped to dream of their true love. I’ve heard tell of plenty of dreams round here, though I’m not saying if they all came true…

Then there’s the Protection Spell. Farmers would nail ivy above the door to keep out witches, bad spirits, and other unwelcome visitors. These days it’s more likely to be Jehovah’s Witnesses or blokes selling driveway tarmac, but still — worth a try.

And don’t get me started on Bacchus — that Roman chap who reckoned ivy could stop you getting drunk. If that were true, the old pub down the lane would have a full hedge of the stuff by the door.

Ivy’s also the clingy friend of the plant world. In the language of flowers, it means fidelity and attachment. Which is all very nice, unless you’ve ever tried pulling it off a wall — then it means you’re stuck with me, mate.

And finally, there’s the Holly vs Ivy rivalry at Christmas. Holly struts in all spiky and showy, ivy just slinks about looking mysterious, and the villagers argue over which should ‘win’. Me? I let ‘em both in. Keeps the peace.

So next time you see ivy creeping across my boards, don’t think of it as a weed. Think of it as my old friend — a storyteller with roots far older than me.