This is the classical music equivalent of seeing the teams' changing rooms at Twickenham or Wembley

This strange long room was once the entrance to a builder's yard. It was derelict when I bought it four years ago

For many years, I wrote on our bed in the house. But there were complaints about ink on the sheets and dirty feet on the bed

Apart from its central chimney and platform base, this house is entirely made out of wood. And very sympathetic it is too

Here I sit, dressed as Pozzo in Waiting for Godot, trying to explain what happened to Orson Welles

Most of the day I work standing up, as I once read somewhere that it's the best position for the back

I bought the crocodile desiccated, rolled into a ball, and had to soak him in the bath for a week before he'd uncurl

For 11 months of the year, this is a green field grazed by sheep. Later today it'll hum with the chatter of Nobel prizewinners, controversialists and entertainers

The room was originally designed so that I might retire into it like a Victorian man of letters

If I turn and look out of the window, I can watch birds scooting about on the surface of the lake

I work here for about seven hours a day and I'm now dependent on it as a place to retreat to

I have surrounded myself with bits and pieces of folk-art that I have picked up from around the world

The most important object on my desk is the pipe in the ashtray. I cannot write without smoking.

This is the front room of my terrace house at Glandore Avenue in North Belfast, built in the 1890s

It's the spur of a barn, and only three years ago stars shone between the pantiles while the floor was ankle-deep in guano

Some visitors think it unusual to have a writing room here in one of the main reception rooms

It doesn't look very tidy, but from childhood I have loved provisionality in a room