One of the reasons I enjoy living in old houses is the sense of continuity and fellow-feeling I get when I redecorate them.
The house I live in was built in the 1860s or so. A lot of people have lived here, though the traces of most of them have been erased in the last 30 years by the modernisation and refurbishment which made the house purchasable. Even so, there are things to uncover: I enjoyed peeling the wallpaper off the wall by the stairs and discovering hardboard instead of plasterboard underneath, an odd choice but rather an endearing one, and I enjoy the sense of a handshake across the years which I got when I discovered it. The wallpaper also covered up the change in texture where damp-damaged plaster had been cut back and replaced, while some eye-wateringly botched drill-holes were hidden by the coat rack. So there are at least two people whose work on the house I uncovered last weekend, and very probably three or four.
I try not to make any work that I do in a house harder to unpick than necessary: I prefer screws to glue, I prefer wallpaper paste to PVA adhesive, I prefer paint to wallpaper. After all, every piece of work that I do in a house is likely to be undone or at the very least uncovered by someone at some time and if I live in a house long enough, that someone is all too likely to be me.