Hello,
My friend.
Welcome to your sleep story.
My name is Stephen Dalton.
I'm an Irish storyteller,
And it's my great privilege to be the voice that you listen to.
As you go to sleep tonight.
I don't know about you.
But I've always loved Downton Abbey.
There's just something about being transported back to another time.
It's an escape,
If you will.
And I've always enjoyed watching it.
I recently re-watched all of the series,
And so I was inspired to revisit a tribute,
If you like,
To Downton Abbey that I started some time ago.
This place is known as Sleepy Abbey.
The last time we were here,
It was raining.
Today,
It is snowing,
And the family known as the Duvets are all inside and surrounded by warmth and crackling fires.
Okay,
Let's do the relaxation session now.
Before tonight's sleep story,
I'm going to count down from 10 to 1.
And as I do,
Allow yourself to let go.
More and more.
Feel the support of the bed beneath you.
With a floor.
Or whatever you lie upon tonight.
Really feel that support.
And beneath all of that.
There is the support of the Earth.
Our home.
Our constant support.
And notice that the more you become aware of that support.
The more you can let go.
The more you can.
Sink into this moment.
Nein.
You.
Are.
Safe.
Know that tonight My voice is nothing but a friend.
A guide of kindness.
That will only ever take you to safe places.
Allow my voice.
Be an anchor of peace.
Guiding you.
To beautiful.
Wondrous places.
Become aware of your body now.
And as you do.
Just become aware of your breath for a moment.
Perhaps take a deep breath in through your nose when you're ready.
And breathe out when you're ready.
And maybe another deep breath.
And up.
And as you Become aware of that breath.
The breathing out.
With each out-breath.
Let go.
A little more.
Maybe.
Through your body.
Check where you're holding tension.
Or pain.
Maybe it's in your feet.
Your lower legs.
Your size.
Belly.
Your chest.
Your butt.
Our shoulders.
Your hands.
Your arms.
Your neck.
Or maybe you like me.
Do you hold the tension in your face?
Just let it all go now.
Seven.
The day is done.
Whatever has been.
Has been.
Whatever will be.
Will be.
Whatever thoughts you may be having.
Don't fight them.
She's them for what they are.
Thoughts.
A symptom of being human.
And as they arrive.
.
.
Welcome them.
And then just let them go.
Watch them float away.
Like leaves on a moonlit river.
More clouds passing.
Through a starlit sky.
Six.
This is your moment.
This is your time.
You.
Deserve for us.
You deserve peace.
There is nowhere to be now.
Nowhere to go.
No obligations.
Absolutely nothing to do.
But settle into this moment.
Five.
Peace.
Lives within you.
It is always there.
It's just waiting to be found.
Waiting to be felt.
Maybe you can find it tonight.
Maybe you can.
Journey to that peace.
With your mind's eye now.
Maybe you find it in your chest.
Or in your head.
Wherever you might find it.
Know that it's a constant friend.
For her.
Perhaps.
.
.
Feel a little gratitude now.
Gratitude for the simple things.
For the shelter you have tonight.
Whatever it may be.
The use of your body.
With the ability to just.
Lie here.
And listen to a sleep story.
For those you love.
And who love you.
Know that you are loved.
Whoever you are.
Wherever you are tonight.
Three.
Begin to engage with your imagination now.
Begin to see Sleepy Abby.
It's a bit like Downton Abbey.
Well,
Maybe a lot like it.
It's a beautiful big old house in a time long gone.
A place for you to escape to now,
With not a care in the world,
Far away from all that you know.
Check in with your body one more time now.
Releasing anywhere that you're still holding on to.
And one.
Completely letting go now.
As I tell you.
Tonight's sleep story.
It's another cozy winter's day in Sleepy Abbey.
And the duvet family are gently rising.
Outside.
A soft layer of snow.
As tucked itself over the lawns and hedges,
Like a white woolen blanket.
And the air.
As that curious kind of stillness that only happens on cold mornings.
One.
By one.
The fireplaces in each bedroom.
Are being coaxed into life by the servants.
Who know precisely how to hold a match to kindling without making a single unnecessary sound.
The crackle of flames travels along the corridors.
Announcing the start of the day.
More gently than any bell ever could.
From the great clock in the hallway.
Comes a deep,
Sleepy chime.
Do not hurry.
Not sharp.
But slow.
And slightly lazy.
In Lady Mildred Duvet's room.
A small fire has already taken hold.
Warming her toes before she's even wriggled them.
She lies beneath an unreasonable number of quilts,
Blinking at the frost on the corners of the window.
Which looks like someone's been drawing delicate patterns overnight.
Her maid.
Beatrice.
Moves like a mouse in slippers.
Laying out her morning shawl.
And pouring hot water into the washbasin.
Lady Mildred has perfected the art of pretending to be asleep for as long as possible before she has to make any decisions whatsoever.
Down the corridor,
Lord Horace Duvet is being woken in a slightly more dramatic fashion.
Is valid.
Mr.
Krimps has just pulled back the curtains to reveal a flash of dazzling white from the gardens.
Lord Horace makes a sound,
Somewhere between a snort and a sigh.
Rolls over.
And then complains that winter has arrived too early.
Too noisily.
And too much.
Mr.
Krimps,
Who has heard this every day for 23 years,
Merely nods and hands over the morning newspaper,
As if nothing at all has happened.
Meanwhile.
.
.
The younger duvets are already wide awake.
Jasper and Clementine,
Who are twins and take great pride in doing everything,
Either together or at precisely the same time,
Have leapt from their beds and pressed their faces against the cold windowpanes.
There's talk of snowball fights and sledging before breakfast,
Which their governess,
Miss Plumpley,
Is already trying to gently squash with a firm but kind tone.
The children,
Of course,
Ignore her completely.
And downstairs.
In the servant tool.
The staff have already been up for hours.
Mrs.
Pottle,
The cook.
Is grumbling fondly at the stove,
Stirring porridge with the determination of a woman who refuses to be rushed.
Mr.
Bisley the butler.
As polished every bit of silver,
Until it could blind someone if it caught the morning light just right.
Even the scullery maid.
As a pink glow in her cheeks from running up and down the stairs with coal buckets.
Sleepy Abby may wake slowly,
But below the grand ceilings,
It's already buzzing like a quiet little engine.
Up in the grand breakfast room,
The long table is dressed in its usual winter uniform.
Thick linen cloth,
Silver pots of steaming tea,
And enough toast to feed an army.
Lord Horace arrives with the heavy-footed dignity of a man who has decided to tolerate winter rather than enjoy it.
Lady Mildred floats in moments later.
Wrapped in a shawl that looks suspiciously like it used to belong to someone else.
The children follow,
Half-buttoned coats,
Scarves tangled around their necks.
Each.
Dragging a pair of boots they have no intention of wearing properly.
Mr.
Bisley stuns by the door.
With the calm face of a man who has seen this exact breakfast for the last three decades.
The first crack in the Abbey's well-oiled routine comes in the form of Mrs.
Pottle.
She bursts through the door with a face redder than the jam tarts she's carrying.
And announces that the delivery cart from the village hasn't arrived.
No eggs.
No sausages.
No rushers.
Just porridge.
Lord Horace lowers his newspaper.
Lady Mildred raises one eyebrow.
And Lord Horus says,
Porridge it is then,
In a tone that suggests this may be the end of civilization.
Down below,
The servants mutter in corners.
Snow has blocked the lane from the village,
Meaning the cart is stuck somewhere between the post office and Mr.
Wicket's pig farm.
Mr.
Bisley.
Who has never let a snowstorm get the better of him,
Begins to coordinate a quiet rescue operation.
Stable boys are sent out with shovels.
Kitchen maids tie scarves around their heads and fetch extra firewood.
The housekeeper begins a careful count of how many eggs remain hidden in the larder.
It's not a grand crisis,
But in Sleepy Abbey,
Even small problems are treated with great,
Dignified seriousness.
Meanwhile… in the nursery.
Jasper and Clementine.
Have decided against going out.
They now stand at the frosted windows,
Watching the snow pile quietly against the sills.
Their nanny won out in the end,
And the snow is just getting heavier.
So they decide to have an adventure inside.
They've dragged the footstools together to build what they're insisting.
Is a Winter Command Center.
A sort of lopsided fort covered in blankets,
A tea tray balanced perilously on top of it.
The governess,
Miss Plumpley,
Sits nearby with the sort of resigned expression that only years of childcare can produce.
She knows very well that trying to stop them would only make things louder.
Downstairs,
The so-called crisis continues to unfold on its own,
The sleepy way.
Mrs.
Pottle stands at the stove,
Stirring the porridge with a wooden spoon that has outlived three kitchen maids.
No eggs,
She mutters.
No sausages,
Just oats.
Yet the kitchen is warm,
The fires are blazing.
And the smell of baked bread is already sneaking up the staircases.
The house hums with a kind of quiet determination.
The way old houses do when they know they've survived far worse than a missing breakfast cart.
Lord Horace has retreated to the library,
His preferred location for pretending to think very hard while actually doing very little.
He seated in a high-backed chair by the fire.
Wrapped in his enormous tartan dressing gown,
Newspaper unfolded in front of him.
Every so often,
He mutters something important sounding about the snow,
Though nobody is listening.
The logs pop and crackle.
The fire sighs.
Lord Horace,
If pressed,
Would have to admit he's never been more comfortable.
In the drawing room,
Lady Mildred has declared that the situation calls for a calm hand and warm slippers.
She has both.
She sits perfectly straight in a deep armchair.
Her shawl draped around her shoulders,
Holding a teacup with the elegance of someone who believes she was born to hold teacups.
Beatrice,
Her maid.
Stands ready with a fresh pot on the tray,
Occasionally leaning in to adjust the logs.
There's no breakfast like porridge breakfast,
" Lady Mildred eventually announces,
As if she's just solved a national crisis.
Back in the kitchen,
Mrs.
Pottle's porridge has reached that exact temperature.
Perfect point between gloopy and glorious.
The servants are gathered around the warmth,
Their faces pink from the heat.
Listening to the fire spit softly in the stove.
The children have abandoned their fort and crept down to sit near the hearth,
Knees pulled to their chests,
Eager for their steaming bowls.
Lord Horace eventually wanders in too,
Newspaper under his arm,
Pretending it was his idea all along.
And so the morning unfolds,
Not with grand events or great drama,
But with fires crackling,
Spoons tapping on bowls.
And the quiet,
Steady heartbeat of a house that knows how to stay warm.
By the time the last spoonful of porridge has been eaten.
The Abbey has properly woken up.
The corridors creak in that particular way old houses do.
As if the wolves are rolling their eyes at the family.
Jasper and Clementine march down the staircase in their slightly too shiny boots,
Declaring themselves explorers of the indoor kind.
Miss Plumpley is behind them,
Clutching a book of arithmetic like a shield.
The children have already decided they will absolutely not be learning arithmetic this morning.
Arithmetic,
They claim,
Is not a winter subject.
Downstairs,
Mrs.
Pottle has decided that if the porridge didn't bring everyone to their senses,
Baking might.
She's already elbow-deep in flour,
Shouting instructions at the scullery maids,
Who are moving at the speed of slightly frightened squirrels.
No,
No,
Not that ball.
The other one.
The clean one.
The one that isn't trying to ruin my reputation.
The bread dough lands on the counter with a satisfying thud.
The whole kitchen smells warm and a little bossy.
Just like Mrs.
Potter.
Lord Horace,
Meanwhile,
Has wandered into the morning room with the stiff gait of a man who believes walking counts as hard work.
He stands by the fire.
Clearing his throat in the way men do when they've forgotten what they came in for.
Beatrice appears with a tray of tea,
Precisely balanced and hotter than necessary.
And he accepts it with the solemnity of a king who has done absolutely nothing to deserve it.
Splendid,
He says,
Though it's unclear whether he is referring to the tea or himself.
Lady Mildred has taken up residence in her favorite armchair,
Surveying the morning like a general who plans to do no actual fighting.
She listens to the faint thumping and shouting drifting up from the kitchen.
Mrs.
Pottle is in good form today and allows herself a tiny smile.
She enjoys a bit of chaos,
As long as she's not personally involved in it.
Herschule has slept just enough.
To make her look picturesque.
Which is exactly how she likes it.
And back below,
The servants are moving through the kitchen like clockwork,
Albeit a clock that occasionally shouts at itself.
Mr.
Bisley inspects the silver trays with such intensity that one might assume they're plotting against him.
Mrs.
Pottle slams the oven door as if it owes her money.
Even the boot boy.
Who is usually about as useful as a dump towel.
Is polishing like his life depends on it.
Upstairs,
It looks serene.
Downstairs,
It's a performance worthy of applause.
The first hint of the visitor comes just before midday,
When Mr.
Bisley enters the drawing room with the grimly important air of a man announcing the sinking of a minor ship.
There's a courage,
He says,
At the gates.
Lady Mildred lowers her teacup.
Lord Horace peers over his newspaper with the caution of a man who fears social obligations.
Jasper and Clementine,
Stop tormenting Miss Plumpley with riddles.
" A carriage?
" repeats Lady Mildred,
As if this is either the best or worst news she's ever heard.
Downstairs,
The kitchen erupts as if a cannon has gone off.
A what?
Mrs.
Potter-Bellows.
We're not ready for a visitor.
Have only got bread and that suspicious piece of cheese.
She points her wooden spoon at the scullery maid,
As if she personally invited the carriage.
The oven door is flung open.
Pans are shuffled.
Something begins to sizzle that wasn't sizzling a moment ago.
Mr.
Bisley,
Who has survived fifteen years of this,
Simply straightens his jacket and murmurs,
We shall manage.
The visitor,
It turns out.
Is none other than Lady Hortense Chudderberry.
A woman who can spot an under-polished doorknob from fifty paces.
And is known to have opinions about napkin folds.
She sweeps into the abbey in a hat so large it could probably interfere with passing aircraft.
How charming,
" she declares.
Before she's even looked at anything.
Lady Mildred rises with the faint,
Fixed smile of someone welcoming both a guest and a migraine.
Upstairs,
The family scrambles to look effortlessly elegant.
Jasper and Clementine are scrubbed at,
With a level of urgency usually reserved for hospital emergencies.
Lord Horace changes jackets for reasons unknown,
Since both are equally creased.
Beatrice flits from room to room with a fresh pot of tea,
Muttering to herself like a wind-up bird.
The Abbey has shifted gears.
This is no longer a quiet winter's day.
This is performance time.
And downstairs,
The servants are in a kind of glorious chaos.
Mrs.
Pottle has decided that if she can't offer an impressive menu,
She'll make enough noise to distract from it.
Mr.
Bisley is lining up cutlery with surgical precision.
The footman is sprinting up and down the back corridor like a polite,
Dear.
Even the bread smells nervous.
Sleepyubby,
Which had been content to hum quietly all morning,
Is suddenly alive with the wonderful,
Ridiculous panic of lunch.
With a guess.
Lunch begins in the grand dining room,
A room that looks quite sensible most of the time.
Lady Hortense Chuddleberry is sitting at the head of the table,
As though she's taken control of the Abbey by force.
She taps one manicured finger against the side of her glass,
Making a sound like a very polite mosquito.
Lady Mildred sits opposite her,
All smiles and strained politeness.
Lord Horace is to the right,
Slowly cutting his bread roll.
As if it's a complex medical procedure.
The children are fidgeting in their seats,
Like two small,
Barely contained storms.
The first course is Rustic Winter Fair,
Which is Mrs.
Pottle's way of saying,
This is what I could make with very little notice.
A steaming tureen of soup is brought in,
Carried with a trembling sort of dignity by the footman.
Looks as if he might drop dead or the Tyreen at any moment.
The soup smells good,
Warm and peppery,
And this,
Lady Mildred hopes,
Will keep Lady Hortense's famously critical mouth too busy to come in.
Downstairs,
Of course,
It's a very different scene.
Mrs.
Pottle is bellowing for more bread,
More butter,
More something,
To distract the visitor if she starts asking questions about menus.
Mr.
Bisley is dispatching staff like a general moving troops on a battlefield.
The scullery maid,
Armed with a stack of clean napkins,
Sprints through the back corridor,
Convinced her napkins may be the only thing keeping the Abbey's reputation intact.
Upstairs again,
Lady Hortense takes a slow,
Deliberate sip of soup.
Everyone holds their breath.
Quite pleasant.
She finally says.
In a tone that could either mean divine or tolerable.
Lady Mildred exhales through her nose.
Lord Horace,
Feeling suddenly victorious for no reason at all,
Asks Beatrice for more bread,
As if he personally cooked the soup himself.
Jasper and Clementine,
Bored to the brink of madness,
Begin to play a secret game under the table involving their shoes,
Several peas,
And a complicated scoring system.
Miss Plumpley notices but decides,
Wisely,
To look the other way.
Lady Hortense,
Fortunately,
Is too busy examining the curtains with the suspicion of someone certain they're an inch too short.
The fire crackles cheerfully behind them.
Entirely unbothered by the social stakes unfolding at the table.
By the time the last plate is cleared and Lady Hortense has been safely escorted to the guest room,
Where she will no doubt criticize the curtains in private,
The abbey has shifted again.
The buzz of the day begins to melt away.
The air smells of wood smoke and warm breath.
A few logs crack softly in the hearths.
As if congratulating themselves on a job well done.
Upstairs and downstairs alike.
Everyone's shoulders seem a little lower.
In the drawing room,
Lord Horace has taken up his usual position in front of the fire,
Wearing an expression of deep intellectual thought that is,
In fact,
A mild doze.
His slippers are slightly askew,
Which seems fitting Lady Mildred has kicked off her shoes entirely and curled herself into the armchair,
Shawl draped loosely.
A cup of something sweet and warm in hand.
The children are stretched out on the rug,
Faces still pink from a long day indoors.
Arranging the leftover peas into elaborate patterns.
Miss Plumpley is pretending not to enjoy herself.
But she's reading a book with suspicious enthusiasm.
Downstairs.
The servants are gathered around the kitchen hearth,
Their own version of the drawing room.
Mrs.
Pottle is resting on a stool,
Hands folded over her apron,
Looking smugly at the bread she baked under duress.
Mr.
Bisley is polishing a glass very slowly.
Which is his way of admitting the day is over.
The boot boy has nodded off in a corner,
A faint trail of soot on his cheeks.
Even the scullery maid,
Who spent most of the day in a state of mild panic,
Has begun to hum.
The Abbey itself seems to settle with them.
Every timber and stone relaxing into the night.
The wind outside.
Gives a soft nudge against the windows.
But doesn't push.
The candlelight glows along the corridors.
Flickering gently.
Against the old wallpaper.
From one end of the house to the other.
The fires speak.
In little crackles and pops.
Like old friends sharing secrets.
Upstairs,
Lady Mildred looks over at her husband.
Already half asleep.
And smiles.
The children have curled up on the rug.
Wrapped in blankets.
Their earlier chaos reduced to soft breathing.
Downstairs.
The last pot is placed on the shelf.
The final light is dimmed.
And in the quiet that follows.
Sleepy hubby Returns to what it does best.
Being warm.
Being still.
And being a home.
