Books. I’m surrounded by bookshelves, floor to ceiling, in a tall, circular tower room. The gleaming oak shelves come together at the top as though archways, and for every arch of books, there is an arched window next to it.
The room is light, spacious; every breath is a refreshing drink. The wooden floorboards echo the shelves.
My desk is near the door, in front of a bookshelf, on a shaggy cream rug that I like to latch my toes onto. My old chair tells a story. It has armrests, but it’s wide enough for me to sit cross legged, or in any other manner I choose, as I disappear into my imagination.
If you take out one of the books behind my desk (I’m not telling you which!) the book arch swings backwards enough for me to pass through to a hidden stone-flagged staircase, which leads to another bookcase in the entrance hall. From here, I can easily access the kitchen to make a quick cuppa tea.
Close to one of the windows lies a low coffee table and two worn, comfy armchairs. There’s also a fireplace instead of a bookcase next to that window. I like to sit here and read, and gaze off into the beautiful countryside.
Another of the windows opens up onto a small balcony, which is perfect for summer evenings.
There is a gentleness to my room. The quiet calm is interrupted every so often with a songbird stopping by to sing hello, or the occasional tractor rumbling along in the distance.