My image of the young Jeremy Corbyn is not a flattering one

I found the stone and the key underneath and let myself into the cottage — brr! I immediately made a fire in the wood-burning stove and put the kettle on. Could I imagine myself living here under this deep thatch, within these Babylonian walls, under these adze-scarred beams, in this 17th-century silence? This is what I had come to find out over two days and nights. The silence was a bit unnerving. I switched on the CD player and let it play whichever CD was loaded. It was Bryan Ferry.

Simple, plain, tasteful furnishings emphasised the cottage’s interior spaciousness. Oh, but cold, colder than outside. I made a pot of tea and had another word with the fire I’d made in the wood burner. Then I drew a low comfortable chair up to the cold metal in anticipation of a bit of warmth eventually. Just off the dining room was a small modernised kitchen. But the dining room itself belonged in the 18th century. I cradled my mug of tea with both hands and contemplated the dining table and four antique chairs.

On a Sunday lunchtime in 1974, four people were seated around this table in this dining room, according to biographer Tom Bower. I screwed up my eyes and tried to conjure them. Over there — I imagined him speaking with his mouth full and with his elbows on the table — sat Jeremy Bernard Corbyn. Then aged 25, young Jeremy was a newly elected councillor for the London borough of Haringey in north London. The impression that abides after reading Mr Bower’s biography of him is of a mendacious, misogynistic, incompetent, financially inept, disorganised, unreliable, hypocritical, boring, racist, skip-rummaging lothario of no charisma and little intellect. (‘These foolish things,’ crooned Bryan Ferry, ‘remind me of you.’)