Whimsical Story Collection For Sleep And Relaxation

Relax, unwind, and drift off with this wholesome bedtime story collection for adults. Narrated by Francesca Harrall in slow, sleepy tones, we visit villages, cosy attics, rustic beaches, and magical cafes in a series of comforting original stories. Every narration is accompanied by a gentle nature ambience, and the story collection is looped to keep you company throughout the night.

If you're struggling with insomnia and you can't fall asleep or stay asleep easily, these bedtime stories help your mind wander onto other things. Prefer classic or standalone stories?

Please visit Francesca's profile for more!

Transcript

Hello and welcome. Thank you so much for joining me today. My name's Fran and tonight we're going to be reading a selection of wholesome, Original stories to help you sleep. Now, These are stories that I've written over the last few years and my aim with every story is to take your mind away from everyday life. Some are magical, Some are mundane and all of them are relaxing and comforting to hopefully help you drift off. Now, I want you to know that there's no pressure to fall asleep right away. These stories will repeat so if you wake up in the night you can continue listening without having to scroll or skip to the next. Each story is accompanied by gentle ambient sounds to set the scene. As always, Thank you so much for joining me and allowing me to read to you as you fall asleep. Postcards from the Village Junk Shop It started as one of those slow, Open-ended afternoons that seemed to stretch out like a cat basking in the sunshine. You'd taken the number 47 bus into the village, The one that rattles along the country lanes and stops wherever someone raises their hand. There wasn't any real reason for the trip, Just one of those restless days where you feel like stretching your legs somewhere that isn't home for a change. The main street was mostly empty, Apart from a few people sitting at the outdoor tables of Mabel's Café, Their teacups clinking gently against saucers as they chatted in low voices. An elderly man in a flat cap sat on an old stone bench by the War Memorial, Breaking up a crusty roll for the pigeons that gathered hopefully at his feet. One particularly bold pigeon had perched on the bench beside him, Cocking its head as if it could understand what he was saying. You wandered past the bakery, Where the windows were still fogged from the morning's baking. The florist next door to it had propped open her green-painted door, And trails of ivy spilled from wooden crates stacked outside. As you walked, Following no particular path, A comforting smell drew you onward. Is it lemon oil on old wood? The scent led you to a narrow shop squeezed between the post office and a house with lace-net curtains. The shop front was painted a faded powder blue that might have once been a bold cornflower hue but now looked softly worn, Like denim washed too many times. Someone had written bits and bobs in curling script on a wooden sign that hung slightly crooked beside the door. Below it, A smaller placard announced, Postcards, Ten pence each, In simpler block letters. The door stood propped open with one of those heavy antique irons. When you pushed the door wider, It creaked on hinges that needed oil and a small brass bell above jingled with the sound like distant church bells. Just a moment, Called a voice from somewhere in the depths of the shop, Followed by the sound of something being carefully set down. Inside, The air was warm and still, Holding the accumulated scents of decades, Mothballs, Oiled leather, And old paper, With undertones of lavender from a small ceramic bowl of dried flowers sitting on the glass counter. Dust moats danced in the strips of sunlight that slanted through the front window, Where a large tabby cat had arranged itself among a display of vintage jewellery. There we are, Said the voice, And a woman emerged from behind a tower of stacked suitcases, Each one tied with a different colour ribbon. She was perhaps sixty, With short white hair that curled at the edges, And reading glasses perched on her nose. Her cardigan was peppered with dust smudges and little ends of thread, And she wiped her hands on her apron before extending one toward you. I'm Margaret, She said with a warm smile that creased the corners of her eyes. Don't mind the mess, I've been sorting through an estate collection all morning. Fascinating what people keep, Isn't it? Have a good look around, I'll be right here if you need anything. Just wrestling with a particularly stubborn jewellery box lock. You nodded, And stepped deeper into the shop, Immediately feeling like you'd wandered into someone's beloved cluttered attic. The space was smaller than it first appeared, But every inch was purposefully used. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, Sagging slightly under the weight of their contents. Chipped but pretty teacups in mismatched patterns. Tarnished silver candlesticks that still held traces of old wax. Wooden toys with paint worn smooth by small hands. And board games from decades past, The sort that came with cardboard spinners held together with brass rivets, And dice that had gone yellow with age. A coat rack stood near the window, Hung with garments that smelled faintly of the attic air. A navy pea coat with anchor buttons. A tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. Burgundy scarves so soft it might have been cashmere. Underneath the front window, An old wireless radio played something scratchy and instrumental. Too quiet to identify, But comforting in the way that distant music always is, Like overhearing someone humming in another room. Your gaze eventually settled on the back corner, Where a round table with a faded green cloth held several long, Shallow boxes. Each box was carefully labelled in the same neat handwriting. Travel and scenic. Holiday greetings. Floral and garden. Humorous. And simply blank cards, Various. You pulled over a three-legged milking stall that had been tucked under a shelf and settled down at the table. The boxes were well organised, Though the postcards within had the comfortable disorder of things that had been frequently handled and admired. You began with travel and scenic, Letting your fingers brush against the smooth edges of the cards. Some were glossy. Others had that matte texture of older printing. A few showed signs of their age. Corners bent, Edges softened, Surfaces slightly faded where they'd been stored in sunlight. The first one you lifted showed the Grand Canyon in all its rust-coloured majesty. The photograph taken from what must have been the South Rim viewpoint. The edges were yellowing slightly, And when you turned it over, You found writing in careful blue ballpoint ink. June 15, 1987. Dear Edna. Well, You are absolutely right. It really is even bigger than it looks on television. Frank and I are both sunburnt despite the SPF 15, But we're happy as clams. The motel we're staying at actually has its own ice machine right there in the hallway, Which feels very fancy. Tomorrow we're driving to the Painted Desert. I'll send another card from there. All my love, Ruth. You found yourself smiling as you set it aside, Picturing Ruth and Frank squinting into the desert sun. Ruth's careful penmanship as she sat at a small motel table with a view of the parking lot. The next card showed a lighthouse perched on rocky cliffs in Maine, Dramatic waves frozen mid-crash against the rocks below. The back revealed a different story. Day four of our romantic getaway. Got food poisoning on the second night. Never, Ever trust a seafood buffet, No matter how good the lobster looks. Bob's been a saint, Bringing me ginger ale and crackers. Still, When I can keep my eyes open long enough, The view from our B&B window really is spectacular. Wish you were here, But not really because then you'd be sick too. XOXO, Janet. P. S. The lighthouse keeper's wife makes the most incredible blueberry scones. You chuckled quietly, Imagining poor Janet trying to appreciate the rugged Maine coast between bouts of nausea. As you continued through the box, Each card revealed its own small story. There were postcards from Paris showing the Eiffel Tower at night, Writing on the back in enthusiastic but shaky handwriting. Climbed to the second level today. My knees are killing me, But it was worth every step. A card from Rome featured the Colosseum with a message that simply read, Marcus would have loved this. Miss you, Dear. One from Brighton showed the famous pier with its message written in a child's careful capitals. Dear Grandma, We saw seagulls and I fed one a chip and Dad said I shouldn't, But it was funny. Love, Alice. You could almost see small Alice, Probably seven or eight, Solemnly composing her message while her parents packed up their beach things. A postcard from Sydney featured the Opera House at sunset, Its message more business-like. The conference is going well, The hotel room overlooks the harbour which helps make up for being away from home for so long. Flying back Thursday. See you soon, David. Some postcards were more whimsical. Blackpool Tower with actual glitter glued to the edges, Now mostly fallen away but leaving a faint sparkle in the creases. One from the Lake District showed a photograph of sheep in a stone-walled field. The back reading, Walk 12 miles today through the most beautiful countryside. My boots are filthy and I've never been happier. The sheep here are ridiculously fluffy. M. Others were more mysterious. A card showing a generic sunset over a lake with just the words I'm sorry written in black ink. No address, No signature, No date. You found yourself holding this one a little longer, Wondering about the story it didn't tell. From the holiday greetings box, You pulled cards with vintage Christmas scenes. Snow-covered cottages, Victorian children building snowmen, Father Christmas in his traditional red coat. Most were unused but one showed signs of having been carefully stored away. Christmas 1962, For our first Christmas as husband and wife. All my love always, Tommy. The card showed a simple nativity scene, Peaceful and traditional. The blank cards box held treasures of a different sort. These were postcards chosen for their images alone. Heavy cardstock with embossed edges. Professional photography, Artistic illustrations. A sepia photograph of a small boy in shorts holding a fishing rod, Standing beside a country stream. A watercolour painting of red poppies in a field, The artist's signature just visible in the corner. A whimsical illustration of a cow wearing sunglasses and a sun hat sitting in a beach chair. Each one was a small work of art, Waiting for someone to find the perfect way to put the words for its back. The shop grew quieter as you sat there. The sounds of the street outside fading to a gentle murmur. Margaret had returned to her work behind the counter, And you could hear the occasional soft click of tools against metal as she worked on her stubborn jewellery box. The cat in the window had moved now, Stretched out fully in a patch of afternoon sun that had moved across the sill. The radio continued its gentle soundtrack. You thought you might have recognised it from an old film, Something romantic and a bit sad. Time seemed to slow and stretch. You found yourself reading each postcard carefully, Imagining the hands that had written them, The places they'd been, The people who had received them. Some made you smile, Others made you pause thoughtfully. A few, Particularly the ones with no message at all, Made you feel a gentle sadness for stories left untold. You marvelled at the stamps and postmarks of all shapes, Sizes and dates, Imagining each postcard on its journey in a postman's bicycle bag, Or among thousands of other letters in a train carriage. After what felt like an hour but might have been less, You realised you'd unconsciously created a small pile beside your elbow, Seven postcards in total. Four that had been written on, Three that were blank. There was no particular logic to your selection, Just a collection of cards that had spoken to something in you. The Grand Canyon card from Ruth. The Lighthouse card from sick but determined Janet. A blank card with a photograph of an old stone bridge over a quietly flowing river. Another with a cheery cottage illustration, And an old poem in a West Country dialect spelled out in block letters. You gathered them up and approached the counter. And Margaret looked up from her jewellery box with a satisfied expression. Success, She announced. The mechanism was just stuck with old grime. These old pieces just need a gentle touch, You know. Now then, She said, Focusing on your small collection. That's a lovely selection you've made. She examined each card briefly. These ones all came from the same estate sale, Actually. A gentleman from the next village over, Mr Henshaw. His daughter said he kept everything in perfect order, All sorted by date and destination. Apparently he travelled quite a bit when he was younger, And then later he just collected them. Sometimes he'd buy them from other shops like this one, Or from church jumble sales. I think he enjoyed the stories they told. Margaret's hands moved efficiently as she spoke, Wrapping your postcards in brown paper that had been saved from some other purchase. She tied the bundle with white string, Her fingers making neat loops as she secured the bow. You know, She said as she handed the package across the counter, There's a proper electric kettle in the back room, And I always keep a tin of decent biscuits. You're welcome to sit and have a cup while you look through more of the boxes. I find people often discover things they didn't know they were looking for when they take their time. The offer was genuinely tempting. You could picture yourself settled in whatever cosy back room Margaret had arranged, A cup of tea warming your hands while you explored more of Mr Henshaw's carefully preserved collection. But your feet were beginning to ache in your walking shoes, And there was something appealing about the idea of taking these particular postcards home, Of reading them again in your chair, In your own time, Without the pressure of discovery. It's very kind you said tucking the bundle into your coat pocket where it settled with a satisfying weight. I think I'll save that pleasure for another visit. Margaret smiled, A kind of smile that suggested she understood completely. They'll be here, She said, Though I should warn you, Mr Henshaw's collection fills six more boxes, You might need to plan for a longer visit next time. As you stepped back onto the street, The light had shifted into that golden hour that makes even the most mundane village street look like a painting. The sun sat lower in the sky, Casting longer shadows and turning the stone buildings warm amber. The man with the pigeons had gone, Leaving only a few scattered crumbs and the memory of his patient kindness. The cafe across the street was preparing to close, With the last customers lingering over their final cups of tea. You began walking slowly back toward the bus stop, One hand resting on the package in your pocket. The brown paper crackled gently with each step, The sound that belonged to lazy Sunday afternoons and carefully preserved treasures. Already you were imagining where you might place these postcards. One on the fridge door, Perhaps, To be read while waiting for the kettle to boil. Another repurposed as a bookmark, To be rediscovered weeks later like a note from a friend. Maybe you'd even send one of the blank cards to someone, Continuing the circle of small connections that postcards were meant to create. The number 47 bus rounded the corner just as you reached the stop, Its engine puttering quietly. As you settled into a seat by the window, Watching the village recede into the countryside, You thought about Mr Henshaw and his carefully organised collection. About Ruth and Frank squinting into the Grand Canyon sun. About little Alice feeding chips to seagulls despite her father's protests. About Margaret, Patiently coaxing old jewellery boxes back to life in her cluttered shop. All these small stories, Preserved on pieces of card that had travelled from hand to hand, Place to place, Carrying with them fragments of ordinary lives, Lived fully. As you rest now, Think of that little junk shop, Still sitting quietly on its corner street, Its blue paint catching the last light of afternoon. Margaret is probably still there, Working through more boxes from Mr Henshaw's estate, The radio playing softly while the tabby cat dreams in the window. The postcards remain in their neat boxes, Each one holding its small story, Waiting for the next curious wanderer to discover them. Think of the weight of your own small collection, The cool touch of the old cardstock, The ink faded just enough to suggest time's gentle passage. In our lives, It's easy to overlook these small objects that carry stories, But they're everywhere, Folded into the corners of ordinary days, Waiting for us to slow down enough to notice them. The postcards you chose today will find places in your life, Becoming part of your own story, Even as they preserve the stories of others. Ruth's enthusiasm, Janet's resilience, Alice's joy, All these moments, Captured and shared, Remind us that every day contains small adventures worth recording, Worth remembering, And worth passing on. Now close your eyes, Rest. These postcards have travelled far to reach you, And tomorrow, You'll wake up and continue your own journey. Sweet dreams. Worry Mail at the Village Post Office Any day is a good day to visit a village square. No matter what the season, There always seems to be that air of coziness, Doesn't there? Is it the quaint shops, All higgledy-piggledy, Lined up along a cobbled street? Or maybe it's how proud and pretty the community flowerbeds look around the bandstand. The people, Though, That's what really makes a village. All the characters that weave their own little tales about how they know so-and-so, Or what this shop used to be decades ago, Never shy to nod their head, And wish you a good morning or lovely weather, Isn't it? Even if you're a new face. And on this particular day, As you're making your way past the sewing shop, The haberdashery, And the little bakery with its delicious bready smells wafting out of the door a group of teenagers just opened, You happen across an old-fashioned post office. You know the kind. Not the industrial-feeling city centre post office with its concrete exterior and sleek modern posters, But the oldie-worldie kind. A weathered sort of brick building with a cheerful red awning over the front door and window. It looks more gift shop than mail centre. Painted on a wooden sandwich board in wobbly cursive is stationery supplies, Delicious coffee, And trinkets. Three of your favourite things nestled under one quaint little roof. Yes, Please. You have a little bit of spending money tucked away in your bag to treat yourself with. After all, That's what this little holiday is all about, Isn't it? Just a little nose-round. See if you can find a nice postcard to add to your collection. Or a fresh new notepad. You push the door inward and the bell tinkles to announce your arrival. From sunny and blustery outside, To dim and cosy, You take a quick look around to see what you make of the place. It's not really like any post office you've been in, Although it reminds you of the little one on the top of that steep hill in town where you grew up. Shelves from floor to ceiling, Bursting with rolls of tape, Balls of twine, Envelopes in all sizes and pens in every colour. An old lady inspects little packages of washi tape, Deciding which to buy as a gift perhaps. One of those spinning stands featuring funny cards and postcards, All by local artists, Seems to have attracted a boy and a girl. They're stifling giggles at one of the silly doodles on the front. And the inviting smells of coffee and pastries. You can honestly say you've never stepped foot in a post office with its own little tea room. Over the other side is where food and drinks are served, Presumably. There are tables and chairs, None of which match, Dotted about in a cramped, Cosy sort of way. Canisters of loose leaf tea all stacked neatly along a shelf behind the counter. A glass display proudly showing off homemade cakes, Danishes and cookies. One of those posh coffee machines whirring after having delivered a frothy looking coffee to a customer. They're carrying it over to one of the tables. And there's what you'd expect from a post office, Of course. A row of high counters with a pane of glass in front of each, Surrounded by leaflets for currency exchange and postage prices, That sort of thing. There's something a little funny about the one in the corner though. It's painted a different colour to the rest. A whimsical purple. On the countertop is a little box with a slot in the top. It's got something written on it. You move closer so you can make it out. Worries. How odd. And now you see it. A large cork notice board covering the back wall. Curiously, It has WORRYMAIL COMMUNITY NOTICE BOARD written across the top in big handwritten loopy font. What is that? You take a few steps closer to the board, Instinctively clasping your hands behind your back as you lean in, As though the act of reading someone's private thoughts should be done with reverence. The notes are all written in the same neat swooping handwriting, But each on a different kind of pastel paper or card, Carefully pinned with a little silver thumbtack. Some are lined, Others dotted or plain. There's even one written on the back of a recipe card. The ingredients for a treacle tart peeking through faintly behind the words. Each card has a number in the corner. 17, 42, 58. That one has a tiny drawing of a teacup at the bottom. You scan the notes, Not in a nosy way, But with a kind of gentle curiosity. 31. I've just moved here and I haven't made any friends yet. I feel silly for thinking I would fit in quickly. 49. My cat passed and my house feels so empty without her. 12. My grandchild is struggling at school and I don't know how to help. Some are longer. Some are just a single line. One simply says, Five. I feel lonely. Your throat catches a little. It's strange, Isn't it? How such a small sentence can feel so large. There's an instruction card too, To help you make sense of all this. It reads, The Worry Mail Community Notice Board is our village's way to give back to those who might need a helping hand to feel better in tough times. It's anonymous and available for anyone to use. We hope that it spreads kindness and love to all. You never know what someone is going through. How to use. For worriers. One, If you have a worry, Please write on a slip on the purple counter and pop it in the box. Two, Each night our clerks will write up your worry and pin it to the notice board the following day. This is to keep all handwriting anonymous so you don't feel shy or silly to share, And so we can assign your worry a number. Three, Anyone who passes through our post office can choose your card off the board and it can be chosen an unlimited number of times during the week that it remains on the board. We give each note a week to make it fair for all worriers. Four, Then keep an eye on your letterbox. Givers send postcards, Greeting cards, Letters and care packages through us and we forward it on anonymously to you. Forgivers. One, The world can feel tough and unfair and you can help spread love and kindness to any of our worriers. Simply choose a worry card from the board, Either by noting down their number or taking a photo with your phone. Two, Think about what the person might need right now. A long letter to share your experience, A cheerful greeting card or even a small care package to show you care. Three, Once you have written your letter or packaged your parcel, Take it to the purple counter. Our designated worry clerk will process your postage and put it aside ready to be mailed. To encourage givers and worriers, We have contributed to the price of worry mail and subsidise the cost of stamps, Meaning the price of all worry mail is one penny for letters and five pennies for packages. Thank you, Worriers and givers. We appreciate you making the world a better place. What a lovely idea. Have you ever seen something like this before? Well, Now you know exactly what to spend some of your money on. You glance around the shop again. Nobody is watching you. The old lady has chosen her washi tapes and is now chatting to the girl behind the till, Laughing softly about how she always buys more than she needs. The kids are gone and someone else is admiring the cakes under a glass dome. Maybe, Just maybe, You could pick one. Offer something gentle, Something kind, Something that could let a stranger know they've been heard. You select one from the board, Number 31, The one about making new friends, And scribble the number gently on a piece of paper and pop it in your coat pocket. And you turn your attention to the stationary corner. It's a treasure trove. Racks of notebooks in every size and colour, Stickers in neat little packets, Some with animals, Others with flowers or stars. There are writing sets too, Matching paper and envelopes, Some with botanical prints, Others with sleepy looking bears and rabbits in woolly scarves. You pick up a little bundle wrapped in twine, A writing kit with pressed flower designs, And a pencil that smells faintly of lavender. Maybe just one trinket. You spot a little enamel pin shaped like a teapot with Take Things Slow written in loopy gold letters. It feels right, A good luck charm for someone starting fresh. After you've chosen your items, You make your way over to the tearoom side and order a hot drink and a toasted tea cake with butter. The woman behind the counter gives you a warm smile as she prepares your tray. You sit down at a corner table, The seat cushion mismatched and a little squishy. Your drink steams gently in front of you, And outside you can just see the wind tugging at the edges of the red awning and the busy street bustling with villagers and tourists. You take out the crumpled paper from your pocket and read it again, Carefully, Before setting it down beside your stationery. Then, You begin to write. Not rushed, Not perfectly, Just sincerely. You picture the person behind the note. Imagine them standing in a hallway of doors, Unsure which to knock on. Their hands in their pockets, Fidgeting with nerves and hopes and a small crumpled bus ticket. So you write them a letter like you'd want to receive. Kind, Steady, Like a cuppa in envelope form. You start with, Hi, I saw your worry today. I just wanted to say, I think you're doing something really brave. And you carry on from there, Talking about how beginnings often feel like endings at first. How unfamiliar streets become landmarks. You tell them how courage isn't loud or flashy, It's just showing up anyway. You seal the note and tuck a sticker on the back, A tiny gold star. Because obviously they deserve one. By now your drink is half gone and the butter on your tea cake has melted into sweet glistening craters. You take a bite. Warm. Comforting. Exactly what today needed. When you're ready, You turn to the purple counter. The woman behind it, Cardigan sleeves slightly pushed up, Gives you a knowing look and slides the wooden box toward you. You slip the envelope into the gap. It makes a soft sound as it lands, Like a page turning. One penny, She says. You give her the coin. It feels like part of a ritual. Small, Sacred and gentle. She offers you a receipt, Which you take politely, Only to discover it has a quote typed across the bottom. Every small kindness is a seed. You never know what might bloom. You smile, Folding it carefully and sliding it into your pocket. Not for records, Just to keep. As you head toward the door, You pass by the notice board again. Your eyes flick up. 31 is still there, But now you notice there's a tiny golden sticker on the corner. Someone else must have responded before you did. And maybe someone else will again. You step outside. The red awning flaps softly and the wind is cooler than before. But not cold. Just brisk enough to remind you that you're real, You're here and you did something kind today. As you walk back down the cobbled path, You wonder what worry you'd write if it were you. You imagine what advice someone might give you. And you wonder who you'll write to next. Because you know that you will be back to the village post office. Solo camp in the wild hills. It's late morning when you set off along the footpath. Your rucksack sitting snug against your back and your boots making soft thuds on the damp, Slightly gravelly ground. The air's cool enough that every breath comes out in a little cloud and everything feels hushed. You haven't seen a soul since setting out and the weather's quite chilly so you might be the only person for miles. It's comforting though as you don't have any obligations, Nobody to answer to. It's just you and the rolling countryside. Fog sits low across the hills, Drifting and shifting, Thinning out in patches where the sun's trying to get through. The path curves uphill between old stone walls covered in moss. You marvel at how they've clearly been there for decades, Maybe even hundreds of years, And they're still standing, Though they look nothing more than stacked flat rocks. Bracken and tall weeds lean in from both sides, Brown and curling, And every now and then a drop of water falls from one of the fronds and lands with a quiet tap on your sleeve. It smells like soil and wet, Decaying leaves. That slightly sweet, Smoky autumn smell that makes you want to take a nice, Big, Deep breath in. You can hear sheep somewhere up ahead, Though you can't see them yet through the fog. The sound is strangely comforting, A reminder that even in all this mist and quiet, There's life out here going about its business after all. You keep walking, Your back bent forward a bit to combat the steepness of the hill, And your pack creaking gently with the movement of your shoulders. It's a steady rhythm, The crunch of your boots on the path, The soft give underfoot, The occasional clink of a loose stone. You're not in any hurry, You've got everything you need with you. Tent, Camping stove, Sleeping bag, And enough food for tonight. You're looking forward to a nice warm meal already, The cold air knows how to work up an appetite. For now, You can rely on your trusty flask filled with your favourite hot drink to keep you going as you make your way up and down the hills. After a while, The path dips down into a little hollow, Where some trees grow close together, Their branches dripping with dew. You stop to adjust your scarf, And as you do, A robin darts across the path in front of you, A quick flash of orange-red and all that grey, Before disappearing into the brambles. You smile to yourself, Watching the last bit of movement vanish into the undergrowth. They say that seeing a robin means someone you loved is watching over you. I wonder who yours is? The ground here is soft, Covered in layers of leaves. Some are whole and golden, Others half-rotted, Sticking together in damp clumps. You catch the smell of mushrooms nearby, An earthy, Slightly fungal scent, And sure enough, When you look to your right, There's a little cluster growing at the base of a fallen birch. Pale beige caps, Edges curled up, Droplets of moisture caught on their surfaces like tiny beads. You take out the little notebook from your coat pocket, Removing the stubby pencil from the spiral binding, And kneel down to roughly sketch it. Maybe you'll add it into your journal, Or just keep it in there, Just like that. With that thought, You pick up a dried leaf too, The best one you can find, And wedge it between the pages to keep it flat and safe. The air feels colder now, And when you stand up again, Your breath comes out in thicker clouds. You pull your hat down over your ears and carry on walking, Following the path as it leads uphill again, Winding between rocks and patches of heather. By midday, You're higher up. The trees have thinned out to patches of scrub and gorse, And the fog lifts a little as you reach the ridge. A faint light breaks through, Silvery and weak, But still nice to see. You stop for a rest, Slipping your pack from your shoulders, And sitting on a low stone wall that runs along the side of the path. When you unscrew the lid of your flask and pour some out, The heat spreads into your hands at once, And the first sip warms you from the inside. It's quiet enough that you can hear the faint rustle of dry grass, And the distant caw of a crow somewhere down in the valley. Then, High above, Another sound catches your attention. A series of sharp cries, Moving fast. You look up, And through the pale fog you spot them. A flock of birds in formation, Heading south. Geese, It looks like. They move like one thing, Wings flashing silver-grey as they pass overhead. For a few seconds you just stand there watching them, Your drink forgotten in your hand, Your face turned up to the sky. You love seeing their little ceremony to mark the end of the warmer months and the beginning of the cold, And you've been lucky enough to witness it. When they've gone, The silence settles even deeper than before. But it's a pleasant silence. You shoulder your pack again and keep walking. The day moves on quietly, Up and down gentle slopes, Through fields dotted with dry thistles and the occasional hawthorn bush brightening the sky. You're in the middle of the night with redberries. A hare even darts out from the edge of the path and bounds across the hillside, Its white tail flashing before it disappears again into the long grass. You stop and watch the spot where it vanished, Half hoping it'll reappear, But it doesn't. By early afternoon, The ground begins to rise more steeply. You feel a tingle in your thighs as you climb, Your breathing coming a bit heavier in the cold air. The wind has picked up too, Bringing with it a smell of salt, Faint but unmistakable. You're not far from the coast now, You can almost taste it. You keep going until the land starts to level out again, And that's when you see it. A clearing tucked in among the hills, Shielded on three sides by trees and bushes, Open to the view on the fourth. The ground is flat and dry, The grass short and springy underfoot, And just beyond the edge, You can feel the breeze. The land drops gently away to reveal the distant coast. You can see the faint shapes of cottages scattered across the landscape, Their rooftops small and pale against the patchwork of fields and moorlands. You take off your pack and stand for a moment, Just breathing it all in. The stillness, The smell of the air, The wide openness of it all, This is perfect. Setting up the tent doesn't take long, Your hands know what they're doing. Pegs into the ground, Fabric clipped onto the poles, The tent standing upright with a satisfying ripple as the breeze catches it. You crawl inside for a quick check. Sleeping mat unrolled, Sleeping bag fluffed out and ready, Torch clipped to the little loop hanging from the roof. It's already starting to feel like home, That small sheltered space against all the vastness outside. You sit for just a moment, And it hits you how tired your body feels from hiking all day. You're so grateful to have found this little idyllic clearing on the headland, And at just the right time. When you crawl back out, You notice the light has changed from the weak silvery glow to softer and warmer, More golden around the edges of the fog. You set up your folding chair just outside the tent, Facing the view, And pull out your little camping stove. The faint metallic clink of the ignition sounds loud in the quiet, Followed by the gentle hiss as the flame catches and settles into a steady blue ring. You open a tin of soup with your Swiss army knife, Thick vegetable, The sort that's more like a stew really, And pour it into your little pan. The smell rises almost immediately, Rich and savoury, Mingling with the faint scent of heather and damp grass. While it warms, You tear off a chunk of bread from the loaf you packed this morning. It's a bit squashed from being in your rucksack all day, But somehow that makes it taste better. Rustic, Chewy, And perfect for dipping. You eat slowly, Blowing on each spoonful before it goes in your mouth, Watching the fog roll in low waves over the distant hills. The warmth of the soup spreads through your chest and down into your stomach, Giving you a bit of a second wind. It's a deep satisfaction in knowing you carried it all here yourself, Every bit of it on your own back, And you worked up an appetite in the cold to enjoy it even more. When the pan's empty, You give it a quick rinse with water from your bottle, Shaking the droplets off into the grass. Then comes pudding, Makeshift s'mores, The sort of thing you'd never bother with at home, But that feels exactly right out here. You crumble a few digestive biscuits into the pan to make a sort of base. Sprinkle a handful of chocolate chips over the top and drop a few marshmallows on. They start to melt almost at once, The chocolate going all glossy, The marshmallows turning sticky and golden around the edges of the pan. You stir it all together with your spoon until it forms a warm, Sweet mess, And eat it straight from the pan. It tastes wonderful. Getting pretty sleepy now. Your belly is full and the lovely hearty food has you so content that you can't imagine feeling any happier than you are right now. You let your eyes slide out of focus, Your tongue running along the roof of your mouth to savour the last of the chocolatey goodness. After you've rinsed it a second time, You set the pan back on the stove with a little water in it to boil for tea. As it heats, You pull your blanket around your shoulders and sit back in the chair, Your legs stretched out in front of you. The day is fading fast now as the afternoons are short this time of year. The fog is turning from white to blue-grey and the horizon glows faintly where the sun is sinking, Hidden somewhere behind all that mist. It never did come out all the way today, But that's okay. You warmed yourself with the long hike and the delicious hearty tea. When the water boils, You pour it carefully into your mug, Watching the steam curl upward and disappear into the cold air. It warms your hands as you hold the mug between your palms. You sip slowly, Letting the quiet soak into you, Not thinking about much at all. Somewhere in the trees behind you, A wood pigeon coos its soft, Rhythmic call. A breeze stirs the branches and sends a few last leaves drifting down, Tumbling end over end before they land in the grass. You can hear the rustle of dry stems, A far-off sigh of wind moving across the hills, And once or twice, The faint bark of a fox calling out somewhere in the valley. When the light has almost gone, Just a faint glow left on the horizon, You tidy away what's left. The pan, The mug, The chair, Everything gets stowed or wiped down or tucked away. Then you crawl into your tent, Zipping the door closed behind you. You get ready for bed, And then the sleeping bag welcomes you with its familiar rustle as you wriggle down into it, Pulling it up until only your face is poking out. The air against your cheeks is cool, But the rest of you is warm and cocooned. You click off your lantern and lie still, Listening. Outside, The night creates its own sort of lullaby. The trees creak a little as they settle for the night. Somewhere nearby, A small animal scurries through the undergrowth, Its movements quick and light. The wind threads itself through the branches, Steady and low, A constant backdrop to everything else. You can feel the day's walk in your legs, That pleasant heaviness that comes from real movement, From fresh air and distance covered. Your body feels properly moved in the best way, Tired but content. It makes sleep feel like a reward. The warmth of your sleeping bag wraps around you, And as you close your eyes, You picture the fog outside thickening again, Hiding the hills, The coast, The whole quiet world you've walked through today. Everything becomes still, Like the land itself has let out a long, Slow breath. You breathe out once more, And the last of your thoughts drift away with it. Tomorrow can wait. For now, You sleep. The bramble is in the garden. You stand at the back door, Looking out at your garden. The lawn is still green, But covered in brown leaves from the cherry tree that started giving up its leaves a few weeks ago. The air is cool on your face as you step outside, And you can hear water dripping from the gutter after the rain earlier. You've got a pair of secateurs in one hand, And thick gloves tucked under your arm. The job at hand is trimming back the brambles. They've grown too far into the flowerbeds and across the lawn. It seems like everyone in your street is experiencing this. Only a couple of days ago, You noticed the lady on the corner's rosebush getting overtaken by the thick vines. The blackberries are finished now. You picked the last ones a week or two ago. Some sweet, Some sharp. You remember plucking them and eating them straight off the vine, With the purple juice staining your fingers. Now all that's left are just the stems. Long, Arching canes, With thorns that catch on everything. You pull the gloves on. The leather is stiff, But it moulds to your hands after a moment. You know better than to do this without gloves. Some of the bigger thorns even manage to break through the thick leather sometimes. That first cut is satisfying. You press the secateurs against the thick stem, And hear the crunch as it parts. The cane falls to the ground. The cut end smells faintly green, Though the air still smells mostly of damp leaves and earth. You work your way along the patch, Cutting piece by piece. The brambles cling to each other. Thorns hooked together, So each one has to be pulled free very carefully. The sound is snapping, Tearing, Rustling. Sometimes a cane comes loose suddenly, And the dry leaves brush your arms. The stems are heavier than they look. When you lift them, They're thick with moisture from all the rain. You toss them onto a pile at the side, Keeping them clear of the path. Your neighbour, Janet, Appears at the fence. She's in her sixties, Always out in her garden. Tackling the brambles, Are you? She calls over. Yeah, Finally getting round to it, You say, Straightening up. I should do mine, She says, Looking at her own tangle along the back wall. Though I keep telling myself they're good for the birds. They are, You agree. I saw a blackbird in there yesterday. Every time you mention blackbirds, You think back to a few years ago, When your cherry tree started sprouting out of where the thick hedge grows. You mentioned it to someone who said it was probably nesting blackbirds that dropped a cherry stone, And then of course the rest was history. Still, They do take over, Don't they? She watches you work for a moment, Then says, I've got the kettle on if you want a cup after. I might take you up on that, You say. She goes back inside, And you return to the brambles. As you work, You notice details. A few dried blackberries still cling to the higher stems, Those ones that you can't quite reach, And they're shriveled and dark. At the base, There's a nest of dry leaves where something small has been through, Maybe a hedgehog. You're careful not to disturb it too much, Just in case. The brambles are a nuisance, But they're not all bad. In summer, The flowers were covered in bees. You'd see butterflies landing on them, Opening and closing their wings slowly. Later, The berries fed the blackbirds and thrushes that came in from the hedge. Even now, The brambles shelter the wrens and robins. But left alone, They take over the whole garden. So you keep cutting, Pulling, Stacking. There's a rhythm to it. Your breath makes small clouds in the air. Your body warms up with effort. Every so often, You pause and listen. Somewhere down the lane, A dog barks. A wood pigeon leaves the cherry tree with a clatter of wings. Otherwise, It's just the wind. In the hedge, Your partner opens the back door and leans out. How's it going? Nearly there, You say. You want a hand? I'm all right, Nearly done now. They nod. Don't forget, We've got those bulbs to plant. I know, I was thinking I'd put them here once this is cleared. Daffodils? Yeah, They go back inside and de-finish the last few stems. When you're done, There's a clear patch where the brambles were. The soil looks raw and disturbed, But it'll settle. The pile of cut stems looks almost like a war. Thorns tangled together, Waiting to go to the compost heap. You peel off your gloves. Your hands are a bit sore. There are red scratches on your wrists where thorns got past the leather. You can smell damp soil on your clothes and a faint sweetness from the cut stems. You remember your grandmother doing this same job when you were younger. She'd spend whole afternoons out in her own unusual circular-shaped garden that you loved so much. She was methodical, Working through the borders one by one. Her hands, Veined and spotted with age, Would grip the secateurs firmly. Stubborn things, She'd mutter, But she never got rid of them completely. They'll be back next year, She'd say with a slight smile. Always are. She was right. They will be back. And when they are, They'll bring flowers and berries again. And work. Back inside, You set the gloves and secateurs by the door. Through the window, You look at the garden once more. It looks tidier, Though you know the brambles will return. They always do. There's something balanced about that. The work and the reward. The nuisance and the fruit. All in the same plant. You think about going next door for that cup of tea. But first, You wash your hands at the kitchen sink. The water runs brown at first, Then clear. Your hands are cold from being outside. The warm water feels good. You dry your hands and look at the clock. Nearly four. The light will start going soon. You pull on a clean jumper and head out the front door. Walking the few steps to Janet's gate. The path is wet and there are leaves stuck to it. You can smell more wood smoke now, Probably from a few gardens down. Janet answers before you finish knocking. Come in, Come in, Tea's ready. Her kitchen is warm. There's condensation on the windows. And the radio is on low. Some programme about gardening. She pours from a pot that's been sat under a cozy. The tea dark and strong. Milk, Please. She hands you the mug and you wrap both hands around it. The heat seeps into your fingers, Which are still cold from being outside. Sit down, She says, Gesturing to the table. You sit. The chair is old and wooden and creaks slightly. Janet sits across from you with her own mug. There's a plate of biscuits between you. Digestives, Plain ones. Get it all done then, She asks. Yeah, Took longer than I thought. It always does. She dunks a biscuit in her tea. I'll have to do mine before the frost comes, Though I keep putting it off. They're not going anywhere, You say. She laughs at that. No, They're certainly not. You sit in comfortable quiet for a moment. The radio murmurs in the background. Outside the window, You can see her garden, Which is tidier than yours, But still has that same tangle of brambles at the back. Janet talks a bit about her son who's supposed to visit next week, And about the frost that's forecast for later in the week. You half listen, Half watch the light starting to fade outside. The garden is going grey. A blackbird lands on her fence, Looks around, And flies off. The mug is warm in your hands. Your body feels tired now, The good kind of tired from being outside and doing something physical. Your shoulders are a bit stiff. Your fingers are warming up slowly. After a while, You finish the tea and stand up. Thanks for that. Any time, Said Janet, You know where I am. You walk back to your house. The garden looks different in the fading light. The pile of brambles is just a dark shape now. The cleared patch of soil has disappeared into shadow. Inside, It's warm. You close the door behind you and stand for a moment in the quiet. The day feels complete somehow. The work done, The tea drunk, The light going. You think about the bulbs you'll plant. Tomorrow or the day after. Daffodils. They'll come up in spring, Yellow and bright in the space where the brambles were. But that's for tomorrow. For now, You're just warm and tired and ready to settle in for the evening. The garden is done. The brambles are cut back and outside, The light is nearly gone. Sweet dreams. A frosty stroll for Crumble. Flexing his big, Fluffy paws so his toes spread out in a big fan, Crumble stretched out his legs and rubbed the top of his head against the soft blanket he was laying on. Just a couple more minutes. After all, Cats didn't really need to fill their days with much other than laying, Eating, Washing and occasionally playing if the mood struck. There was nowhere his owner expected him to be. In fact, It seemed like laying dozily and purring now and again was exactly what they wanted from him, And that suited Crumble just fine. After napping for a little while longer, Crumble felt the urge to get up from his spot on the sofa in front of the crackling fire and hunt for some food. Of course, Hunting, According to Crumble, Meant he simply needed to check his bowl in the kitchen. His humans had learned that if there was even a glimpse of the bottom of his ceramic dish, A few loud and persistent meows would have it topped up again in no time. He gave one more large arch of his big fluffy back and a dramatic yawn, Leaping carefully down from the sofa. He sauntered across the living room rug and into the kitchen to investigate the food situation. The icy stone tiles were a bit of a shock to his feet, But he got used to it after a few seconds. After a few mouthfuls of food, A crisp breeze from outside wafted through the gaps in his cat flap, Making his whiskers twitch. Although chilly, The wind carried tempting smells that only a cat would notice. The scent of a distant chicken being roasted, The smell of nature and birds and grass, The nip of frost on the air. Crumble's eyes went big, And intrigued, He squeezed himself through the doorway that was only just big enough for him. He wasn't an overly fat cat, But appeared rotund because of his dense orange fur, Like a big fluffy pumpkin with ears and a tail. The day was brisk with bright sunshine giving the impression that it was warmer than it really was. Spring wasn't far away, Yet there was frost dusting the ground like sugared shortbread under his paws. Snowdrops and crocuses had begun to poke their heads out from the earth in neighbours' flowerbeds after their year-long slumber. It wasn't quite time for them to bloom yet, Though. The morning frosts would come back for a few weeks still, Until this corner of the world gently thawed. The plump, Ginger cat set off down the street, Nose in the air and eyes alert. He spied the tabby laying on the windowsill a few doors down from his own house. And when it didn't stir at his presence, He continued on. A solitary robin sat and watched him from the top of a brick wall to someone's front garden. That is, Until Crumble hopped up, Not in a predatory way, But just out of curiosity. Crumble, Unlike many cats, Was a bit of a pacifist. When other cats would chirp longingly at the birds hopping about in the trees, Crumble would gaze half-interested and then turn his attention to something else. He effortlessly tiptoed along the wall, And then up again to a higher piece of fence. For a large cat, He certainly didn't struggle to balance himself on the thin fence panels. From up here, He could nosily peer into the other gardens in his neighbourhood. Of course, He believed it was all his territory, A king surveying his estate. He leisurely licked his front paw, As a light breeze blew against him. Wafting those earlier smells of roasting chicken from a neighbour's kitchen, Where they were probably getting an early start on a Sunday roast. As a cat, Crumble didn't understand the calendar that humans used. But he knew that once every few days there was a particularly delicious aroma of food whirling through the streets. And on these days, His owners sometimes dropped a little bit of chicken onto a plate for him to enjoy. With this thought in his mind, He graciously stretched his body vertically down the other side of the fence, Holding out his paws in front of him to stop himself from falling, Giving it a quick pluck with his claws, And flumping down onto the patch of grass, Crunchy with frost, Blades of grass like desiccated coconuts sticking up out of the ground. It was too cold for the grass to begin growing again, Still the same length as it had been in the autumn, When the people here last cut it down. Taking a few steps with the hard earth underfoot, A wave of energy overtook him, As it seems to be the way with cats. Wiggling his behind, His ears flat against his head, With huge pupils, He darted on top of a rogue leaf and caught it underneath his feet. I told you he's a pacifist, Except when it comes to fallen leaves apparently. Using his big, Soft paw pads, He played with it a while, Running back and repeating the same pouncing predator dance over and over until another, More interesting sound pricked his ears. He could hear his biscuit box being shaken down the street. At the click of a finger, Or the rattle of a dry cat food box, He abandoned the leaf, Now in tatters, And leapt up onto the fence, Striding along the brick wall. Two blackbirds now sat, And promptly flew away when they caught sight of the cat coming towards them. The frost on the pavement was gradually melting, But still just as cold. Hopping merrily with his nose in the air, And his tail curled into a shepherd's hook, He bolted back through the cat flap, And into the warmth of his kitchen. The stone floor now seemed pleasant compared to the frost-bitten ground outside. He weaved between the legs of his owner as she fussed him on top of his head, And poured a generous helping of biscuits into his dish. Playing with leaves and leaping up and down on fences all morning had got Crumble's stomach rumbling. So he contented himself by eating half a bowl of food in one sitting, Swallowing some biscuits whole, And taking some out of the dish individually, Giving them a good shake before crunching them up. Feeling sleepy, Warm, And content, He strode back into the living room, Across the hard wood floor and woven rug, Saving the rugs inviting tassels for another time. He could attack them any time he wanted to, But right now he wanted nothing more than to curl up in his favourite spot, Next to the fire, And gently fall asleep. And Crumble did just that. The end. This is Log Cabin in Snowsap Forest. I trudge slowly through Snowsap Forest, A thick blanket of snow underfoot, And the chill wind nipping my nose. Around me is a wondrous forest of majestic fir trees, Standing tall and mighty, Unfazed by the blistering cold. Shades of deepest emerald, Moss and velvet, Iced with a thick layer of snow. I spot full holly bushes with their cheerful berries and shiny leaves, Nestled around the lower trunks of the formidable trees. Snow is falling around me. Those big fluffy flakes, Silent and soft. They catch the breeze and spiral on their journey to the ground. Some seem quick to land, While others take their time, Carelessly catching the breeze and floating down in their own time. Luckily, The thick trees are stopping most of the breeze from blowing through my long coat, So despite the weather, I feel quite warm. The piney fresh scent of the trees around me fills my nostrils, And the fresh, Undisturbed snow crunches and compacts under my feet. It's therapeutic to listen to my rhythmic footsteps. My cheeks and nose are red from the cold, But thankfully I'm bundled up in a cosy woolen scarf and hat, A gift from my friend in a faraway place, Who knits the cosiest, Wonderful pieces from soft, Thick yarn. There's a comfortable, Peaceful silence in the forest, As if it's holding its breath for me as I make my way through. Patiently it waits, Guiding me on my way. I feel safe and secure to go at my own pace. Distant birds that brave the harsh weather before the sun sets. Sing their echoing songs in amongst the forest canopy. In this moment, Although I walk alone, I know I have the forest creatures to keep me company. As I walk steadily through a frosty clearing, I spot a small log cabin off a little way in the distance. The windows have a warm, Cosy, Orange glow, And there's a small stream of smoke coming from the chimney. Seeing this log cabin up ahead fills me with warmth and a sense of relaxation. It's the lighting, I think. The orangey-yellow glow of a fire or candles, Perhaps. It instantly washes a sense of cosiness and calm over you, Doesn't it? I'm trying to imagine what might be inside. It's a welcome sight as the light is fading fast, And I'm looking forward to resting my feet. Picking up the pace a little, I continue to trudge through the beautifully untouched layer of snow, Closer and closer to the cabin. Once I reach it, I stomp my heavy boots up the outside wooden steps of the porch, Surrounded now by twinkling fairy lights and warm, Candlelit lanterns. Knocking the snow off my feet before walking up to the front door. Filled with anticipation, I spot a small handwritten note stuck to the door. Leaning in, I notice the paper is freshly torn out of a pretty notepad, Judging by the floral pattern. And in loopy handwriting, It reads, A hearty welcome to the cabin nestled in the heart of Snowsap Forest. Inside is everything you need to relax and rest. Enjoy and stay as long as you like. I recognise the handwriting. It's my close friend. It seems they've decided to treat me to a little break from the cold weather, For which I'm extremely grateful. Somehow the cabin feels like home, But I've never been here before. I turn the brass doorknob, And the warmth hits my cold face immediately as I open the door. Just like sinking into a hot bubble bath after a long day. Walking inside, I notice the cabin is lit up entirely by the roaring fire in the log burner and a few clustered candles in little nooks around the room. Just like I suspected. A gigantic squashy sofa beckons with a woollen throw and cushions. First, With some effort through achy joints and cold muscles, I pull off my heavy coat, Hat, Scarf and gloves, Setting my boots to one side. There is a small rustic table in the little kitchen. A kitchen area, Laid out with a cup and a plate. Along a wooden shelf are kilner jars filled with all kinds of teas and even hot chocolate powder. On serving plates on the countertop, There are freshly baked cookies, Still warm, And a delicious cake cut into generous slices. The sweet vanilla and chocolate fill the air with a delicious scent, Making my stomach rumble. I help myself to a slice of cake and a cookie, Boil the little stovetop kettle and fill my cup with boiling water, Dunking a tea bag in and taking it to the squashy sofa in front of the fire. I sink down into the plush sofa and pop my food and drink on the wood slice coffee table. I already feel so much warmer, Sinking my tired feet into the sheepskin rug that's decorating the floor in front of the fire. The warm mug heats up my cold fingertips and I inhale the scent and steam rising from it. Taking a gulp, I feel the warm, Comforting tea soothe my throat, Feeling its warmth radiate my body, Spreading down into my chest, My stomach and spreading through my arms and legs. Relief and tranquility wash over me, Taking a few moments to sit in the quiet. All I can hear is the crackling fire and slight whistle of wind from outside. I hadn't realised how tired my body feels until I sat down and took the weight off my feet. I suppose trudging through the snow in blustery winter weather takes its toll. I'm so glad for the time to rest and recharge with a warm drink and some delicious treats. I spend the next hour or so relaxing, Drinking my steaming mug of tea and finishing the delicious baked treats. In this moment I am so grateful to have my friend arrange something that I sorely needed. A wave of tiredness flows over me and my body is heavy and not ready to leave just yet. My eyes are drooping and I'm finding it tricky to keep them open. I'll lay down just for a few moments. I get up briefly to blow out the candles and settle back down. The fire has burned down now to a low glow of embers. Lifting my heavy legs onto the sofa, I grab the thick tartan throw from the back cushions and drape it around me. I lay back and rest my head on the soft cushions. The crackle of the fire lulls me further into relaxation. My eyes drifting out of focus as the amber glow from the fireplace dances on the cabin walls. I gently close my eyes and drift off. The end. The Cozy Witch Cafe. In the heart of a forest in springtime, Where the flowers peeked through the soil, And there were dozens of beautiful and interesting creatures living together in harmony, There stood a quaint little witch cafe nestled in the thick trees. It looked to be the shape of a giant toadstool, With windows and a crooked chimney poking through the cap roof. It was a place of magic, Mystery and warmth, Where the air was always infused with a scent of spices and herbs, And the walls were adorned with twinkling fairy lights. It was hard to say how long the cafe had stood there, But it felt like it could have been there a hundred years. Even being in its presence gave its visitors a sense of calm and happiness. On this spring afternoon, As you approached the cafe down a winding muddy path through the trees, You noticed that the windows were foggy and steamy, And the sounds of bubbling cauldrons and soft whispers could be heard from within. Broomsticks stood outside on a stand, Just like you would find for bicycles, And there was a hearty wooden sign above the door saying, Welcome. You pushed open the door, And a bell tinkled on the frame to gently announce your arrival. You were greeted by a cosy fire-lit room, Filled with comfy armchairs, Little mismatched tables, Shelves lined with spellbooks, And a bar made of polished dark wood. The domed roof really was a giant toadstool cap, With a hole in the centre for a skylight. Down from the ceiling trailed ivy, Its green leaves catching the afternoon light. As you looked around the cafe for a place to sit, You saw all sorts of magical creatures and beings gathered together, Enjoying each other's company. A group of fairies fluttered by, Leaving a trail of glitter in their wake. A wise old tawny owl perched on a shelf, Watching over the patrons with his piercing eyes. A trio of mischievous gnomes played a game of cards in the corner, Cackling and teasing each other. You glanced into the very far corner of the cafe, If round rooms do have corners, And spotted a giant, Squashy armchair with a table made from a chunk of tree trunk next to it. You made your way over, And sunk deeply into the comfortable chair, Noticing how it hugged your body and supported your weight. You never remember feeling so comfortable in your whole life. Not only did the chair take your physical weight, It seemed to absorb some of your mental worries and settle your emotions too. As you settled into your seat, You noticed that the air was filled with a soft murmur of conversation. The patrons were chatting about everything, From the latest spells and potions, To the newest fairy tales and legends. You could hear snippets of laughter and excitement, And every so often, A burst of magic would light up the room. Although you arrived alone, You knew that this was a place of comfort, And belonging. You knew you were wanted here, And if you had needed, Any one of these friendly creatures would lend a hand or an ear. The scent of cinnamon and cloves wafted from the kitchen, Making your mouth water. You heard the clinking of teacups, And the sizzling of something delicious on the stove. You felt the warmth of the fire on your skin, And the softness of the cushions beneath you. It was as if you were wrapped up in a cozy blanket of magic and comfort. After a few moments, A kind wrinkled old witch approached you, Offering you a steaming mug of spiced apple cider. The steam rising from the mug seemed to have a pearlescent quality to it, And when you breathed it in, It cleansed your nose, Throat and lungs, Spreading warmth and contentment throughout your body. You took a sip, And felt that warm, Comforting glow continue to spread through your body. And you began to relax even further, Letting your mind wander and dance with the flames in the fire. As you sat there, Sipping your cider and listening to the chatter around you, You began to feel a sense of peace wash over you. The stress and worries of the outside world faded away, Replaced by a feeling of contentment and tranquility. As the afternoon turned into evening, You found yourself growing more and more sleepy. The gentle atmosphere of the cafe lulled you into a peaceful state of mind. And before you knew it, You were nodding off in your chair. The last thing you heard, Before drifting off, Was the soft rustle of pages turning, And the distant sound of a lullaby. And as you closed your eyes, You felt a sense of gratitude for this little haven of magic and warmth nestled in the heart of the forest. Sweet dreams. Friends of the Forest Once upon a time, In a far-off land, There was a magical forest. The trees in the forest were ancient and wise, And they were said to possess magical powers. It was a place of great beauty, Where the light filtered through the leaves to create a dappled, Enchanted glow. The rumours were, Through the ages, That within the bark and leaves and branches, The trees possessed healing powers, And many people believed that spending time in the forest could help to soothe the mind, Body and spirit. It was home to many hidden paths and secret glades, Making it an exciting place to explore and discover new things. It was a place of wonder and magic, That had the power to captivate and enchant all those who entered it. The forest was home to many creatures, Big and small, Mysterious and enchanted. One of those creatures was a young doe named Mavis. Mavis was a kind and gentle creature, Who loved to roam the forest and explore. One day, As Mavis was wandering through the forest, She stumbled across a clearing. In the middle of the clearing stood a large and ancient oak tree. This formidable tree was unlike any other in the forest, With wide branches that stretched out in all directions. It had lived through many seasons and countless years. The tree had seen much, And had grown to be very large and strong. Its thick boughs and gnarled bark provided a home and shelter to many creatures in the forest. The trunk had deep grooves and ridges that told the story of its long life. This mighty oak held a sense of wisdom and serenity about it, Making it a peaceful and calming place to be. Its presence was also different from the other trees, As it seemed to have a stronger connection to the land and the forest around it. Mavis was awestruck by the magical aura of the tree. She decided to take a closer look. She carefully approached the tree. She noticed that there was a small hollow at the base of the trunk. The hollow looked like it would be the perfect place to rest and take a nap. Mavis settled down in the hollow and closed her eyes. As she drifted off to sleep, She felt a sense of peace and contentment wash over her. The sound of the wind rustling through the trees. And the gentle sway of the branches rocked her to sleep. As Mavis slept in the hollow of the ancient oak tree, She dreamt of all the wonderful things she had seen and experienced in the forest. She dreamed of the babbling brooks and the colourful flowers, Of the playful squirrels and the majestic eagles. She dreamt of the sunsets, The warm rays of the sun, The cool breeze and the gentle sway of the branches. Mavis thought about the different seasons, The lush green leaves of summer, The orange, Red and yellow leaves of autumn, The bare branches of winter and the new buds of spring. She dreamt of all the different animals she had met. The butterflies, The bees, The birds and the rabbits. She dreamt of the different scents of the forest. The pine needles, The wild berries, The wood smoke and the decay of the damp earth. Mavis's mind drifted to her friends. The other deer, Animals and mysterious creatures she had met in the forest. And how they all lived together in harmony. She remembered the adventures and the explorations she had made. The hidden paths and secret glades she had discovered. And how it felt to be free and wild. Her dream was a reflection of her love and connection to the forest. The memories and experiences she had gathered and how it had shaped her as an individual. It was a dream that made her feel peaceful and content and connected to the nature around her. When she woke, She felt refreshed and rejuvenated. She knew that the ancient oak tree would always be a special place for her. A place where she could go to rest and dream. And so Mavis thanked the tree and set off to continue her adventures. Books in the attic You lean the trusty old ladder up against the ledge of the attic hatch. We call it a loft in the UK by the way, But for the purpose of the story I'm going to call it an attic. And test it for its sturdiness on the landing floor. You've got to go up there at some point and clear some space. Ready for the roof work, So it may as well be today while you have some free time. Lantern in hand, You ascend the steps one by one. And rest the light on one of the higher steps that you haven't reached yet. With a free hand, You push the hatch lid off and into the attic. Which sends a little plume of dust along down with the rush of warm air. Taking a quick peek, You continue up the steps. Now with your lantern in your hand, Ready to hook onto the nail sticking out of one of the nearby beams that the previous owner must have hammered in for that exact purpose many years ago. The old bulb casts a warm, Soft glow over all of the bags and boxes piled high in your attic. It's a bit messier than you remember, But that's what attics are for, Aren't they? You think back and you can't really remember anyone having a perfect looking attic. It's comfortably messy though, You don't mind. And that smell, The dusty, Warm scent of familiar belongings that haven't been moved around much gives you that content feeling. Getting your footing on the supporting joists, You take a look around you. Here's where everything you've ever collected rests. Ready to be picked through when you need that old camping gear or Christmas decorations at the end of the year. You can spot the tree, The tinsel and the baubles in their marked boxes. You still can't believe it all fits inside that old soundbar packaging you saved. There are suitcases filled with boxes that you can't bear to part with. Bin bags of old clothes and, Of course, Piles of your old childhood toys. You told yourself that at some point, When you make the time, You'll hang some shelves and arrange your old favourites on them to display. You smile at the idea of bringing all that nostalgia down into the rest of your house to enjoy looking at. For now, You know you need to focus on clearing some of it out of the way so that when the workers come to repair that little spot on the roof, They'll have room to move about. There's no windows up here like some of the bigger, Older houses so you'll have to rely on the light from your lantern to organise the mess into piles. You decide that it makes most sense to move some of the smaller items out of the way into the deeper parts of the attic and then take down boxes and bags that are closest to the hatch first to clear a little path. You set to work shifting piles of old magazines, Tubs of Lego, Clothes packed into vacuum-sealed bags and boxes of random cables until there's a bit more room to move about. It doesn't take long and the warm attic isn't stifling like you anticipated. It's a comforting sort of warmth a contrast to the sharp air of early spring outside. You're getting close to the spot where the repairs need doing now and this is where a lot of your childhood belongings are stored. You catch your breath for a moment and kneel down to get a closer look at everything. You run your hand over the tattered cardboard reading the labels SCHOOL written on one TOYS on another and ONE that doesn't have anything written on it at all. You can't help but let your curiosity get the better of you and tear off the sticky tape holding the unmarked box shut. It's a bit tricky considering its age and the fact it's been taped over several times by the looks of things. You pick at the edges and finally get it open. It looks like loads of old books stacked up in a pile and some filling the spare spaces around it. Your old books! You treasured these as a little kid remembering how proudly you organised them on your little bookshelf in your bedroom. You can instantly smell that old book smell like the scent of the old second-hand bookshop in town. Sort of a dusty decay smell but a pleasant one not damp. You start picking up each title turning them over to marvel at the old cover designs. Some have cheerful printed images faded with time others have leather covers and gold writing. You leaf through your old favourites the pretty illustrations and passages instantly taking you back to your younger years when you'd sit on your beanbag chair surrounded by teddy bears reading until bedtime. And of course there were the books you read as you reached your teenage years too. The novels with dog-eared corners and spell books with some of the corners folded down to mark the important parts. A box filled with memories from different points in your life. As you reach the very bottom of the box a thin, Fabric-bound book catches your eye and you pull it out. You don't remember owning it it looks like the oldest book in the box by far. Perhaps it was one of your gran's old books mixed in with yours. The olive green cover is a little worn at the edges but you can still make out the navy and emerald painting of a mermaid on the front with the words The Sandman's Hour by Abbey Phillips Walker. Intrigued, You pull a moving blanket onto the floor to make a comfy spot to sit and in the dim but comfy glow of the lantern you open the cover and begin to leaf through the yellowed pages. The binding is a little fragile so you take care not to detach the pages from the threads. The first story you settle on is called Mr Possum Mr Possum lived in a tree in the woods where Mr Bear lived and one morning just before spring Mr Possum awoke very hungry. He ran around to Mr Squirrel's house and tried to get an invitation to breakfast but Mr Squirrel had only enough for himself. He knew that Mr Possum always lived on his neighbours when he could so he said Of course you have been to breakfast long ago Mr Possum you are such a smart fellow so I will not offer you any. Mr Possum of course said he had and that he only dropped in to make a call he was on his way to Mr Rabbit's house but he met with no better success at Mr Rabbit's for he only put his nose out of the door and when he saw who was there said I am as busy as I can be getting ready for my spring planting will you come in and help sort seeds? Mr Rabbit knew the easiest way to be rid of Mr Possum was to ask him to work. I would gladly help you replied Mr Possum but I am in a great hurry this morning I have some important business with Mr Bear and I only stopped to say how do you do? Mr Bear I am afraid will not be receiving today said Mr Rabbit it is rather early for him to be up isn't it? I thought as the sun was nice and warm he might venture out and I thought it would please him to have me there to welcome him said Mr Possum besides that I wish to see him on business now Mr Possum knew well enough that Mr Bear would not be up he wanted to find him sleeping and soundly too he went to the door and knocked softly then he waited and as he did not hear any moving inside he went to a window and looked in there was Mr Bear's chair and pipe just as he had left them when he went to bed he looked in the bedroom window and he could see in the bed a big heap of bed clothes and just the tiniest tip of Mr Bear's nose Mr Possum listened and he trembled a little for he could hear Mr Bear breathing very loud and it sounded anything but pleasant oh he is sound asleep for another week said Mr Possum what is the use of being afraid he walked around the house until he came to the pantry window then he stopped and raised the sash he put in one foot and sat on the sill and listened all was still so he slid off to the floor Mr Possum looked around Mr Bear's well filled pantry he did not know where to begin he was so hungry he became so interested and was so greedy that he forgot all about that he was in Mr Bear's pantry and he stayed on and on and ate and ate then he fell asleep and the first thing he knew a pair of shining eyes were looking in the window and a big head with a red mouth full of long white teeth was poked into the pantry Mr Possum thought his time had come so he just closed his eyes and pretended he was dead but he peeked a little so as to see what happened the big head was followed by a body and when it was on the sill Mr Possum saw it was Mr Fox and the next thing he knew Mr Fox came off the sill with a bang and hit a pan of beans and then knocked over a jar of preserves the noise was enough to awaken all the bears for miles around and Mr Possum was frightened nearly to death for he heard Mr Bear growling in the next room while Mr Fox was on the floor and trying to get up on his feet Mr Possum jumped up and was out of the window like a flash Mr Fox saw something but he did not know what and before he could make his escape the door of the pantry opened and there stood Mr Bear with a candle in his hand looking in Oh ho! He growled So you are trying to rob me while I'm taking my sleep and he sprang at Mr Fox Wait wait wait! Said Mr Fox Let me explain my dear Mr Bear You are mistaken I was trying to protect your home I saw your window open and knew you were asleep and when I got in the window the thief attacked me and nearly killed me and now you are blaming me for it You are most ungrateful I shall know another time what to do Mr Bear looked at him His mouth did not show any signs of food and Mr Fox opened his mouth and told him to look I wonder who it could have been he said When he was satisfied that Mr Fox was not the thief It may have been that Possum fellow I'll go over to his house in the morning The next morning Mr Bear called on Mr Possum He found him sleeping soundly and when he at last opened the door he was rubbing his eyes as though he was not half awake Why how do you do? He said when he saw Mr Bear I did not suppose you were up yet You didn't? Asked Mr Bear and then he stared at Mr Possum's coat What's the matter with your coat? He asked You have white hairs sticking out all over you and the rest of your coat is almost white too Now Mr Possum had a black coat before and he ran to the mirror and looked at himself It was true He was almost white He knew what had happened He was so frightened when he was caught in Mr Bear's pantry by Mr Fox and he heard Mr Bear growl that he had turned nearly white with fright I've been terribly ill he told Mr Bear going back to the door I've been here all alone this winter It was a terrible sickness I guess that is what has caused it Mr Bear went away shaking his head That fellow is crafty he said I feel sure he was the thief and yet he certainly does look sick After that all the Opossums were of dull white colour with long white hairs scattered here and there over their fur They were never able to outgrow the mark the thieving Mr Possum left upon his race What a fun little story you think and then flick through the pages to land on another story to see if somehow it will jog your memory of this book and up to this point you're pretty sure you've never read it before You land next on The Mirror's Dream and scan read the first line How fun that this should be the story of an old attic when I'm up here doing mine The Mirror's Dream The very idea of putting me in the attic said the little old fashioned table as it spread out both leaves in a gesture of despair I have stood in the parlour downstairs for fifty years and now I am consigned to the rubbish room and it dropped its leaves at its side with a sigh I was there longer than that said the sofa Many a courtship I have helped along What do you think of me? Asked an old mirror that stood on the floor leaning against the wall to be brought to the attic after reflecting generation after generation All the famous beauties have looked into my face It is a degradation from which I can never recover This young mistress who has come here to live does not seem to understand the dignity of our position Why, I was in the family when her husband's grandmother was a girl and she has doomed me to a dusty attic to dream out the rest of my days The shadows deepened in the room and gradually the discarded mirror ceased to complain It had fallen asleep but later the moonlight streamed in through the window and showed that its dreams were pleasant ones for it dreamed of the old and happy days The door opened softly and a young girl entered Her hair was dark and hung in curls over her white shoulders Her dark eyes wandered over the room until she saw the old mirror She ran across the room and stood in front of it She wore a hoop skirt over which hung her dress of pale grey with tiny pink ruffles that began at her slender waist and ended at the bottom of her wide skirt Tiny pink rosebuds were dotted over the waist and skirt and she also wore them in her dark curls where one stray blossom, Bolder than the others rested against her soft cheek She stood before the mirror and gazed at her reflection a minute Then she curtsied and said with a laugh I think you will do, He must speak tonight She seemed to fade away in the moonlight The door opened again and a lady entered and with her came five handsome children They went to the mirror and one little girl with dark curls and pink cheeks went close and touched it with her finger Look, She said to the others I look just like the picture of mother when she was a girl And as they stood there a gentleman appeared beside them and put his arm around the lady and the children gathered around them They seemed to walk along the moonlight path and disappear through the window Softly the door opened again and an old lady entered leaning on the arm of an old gentleman They walked to the mirror and he put his arms around her and kissed her with a cheek You are always young and fair to me he said and her face smiled into the depths of the old mirror The moonlight made a halo around their heads as they faded away The morning light streamed in through the window and the mirror's dream was ended By and by the door opened and a young girl came into the room Her dark hair was piled high on her head and her dark eyes looked over the room until they fell upon a chest in the corner She went to it and opened it and took out a pale grey dress with pink ruffles She put it on and she let down her hair which fell in curls over her shoulders She ran to the old mirror and looked at herself I do look like grandmother she said I will wear this to the old folks party tonight Grandfather proposed to grandmother the night she wore this dress Her cheeks turned very pink as she said this and she ran out of the room Then one day the door opened again and a bride entered leaning on the arm of her young husband There were tears in her eyes although she was smiling She led him in front of the old mirror This old mirror, She said has seen all the brides in our family for generations and I am going far away and may never look into it again My brother's wife does not want it downstairs and I may be the last bride it will ever see And she passed her hand over its frame caressingly And then she went away and the old mirror was left to its dreams for many years Then one day the door opened again and a lady entered With her was a young girl The lady looked around the attic room until she saw the mirror There it is, She said Come and look in it dear The young girl followed her The last time I looked into this dear old mirror, The lady said was the day your father and I were married I never expected to have it for my own then But your uncle's wife wants to remodel the house and these things are in the way She does not want old fashioned things and they are willing I should have them Oh mother, They are beautiful, Said the girl looking around the room We will never part with them We will take them to our home and make them forget they were ever discarded And so the mirror and the sofa and the table and many other pieces of bygone days went to live where they were loved and the old mirror still reflects dark haired girls and ladies who smile into its depths and see its beauty as well as their own You sit for a moment thinking again about all the stories the items around you hold What would have been the last thing they would have each heard or seen before being stored up here and having blankets thrown over them You sit in a bit of a daze for a few minutes your mind drifting to this and that before settling on one more story from the little olive coloured book Tearful Once upon a time there was a little girl named Tearful because she cried so often If she could not have her own way she cried If she could not have everything for which she wished she cried Her mother told her one day that she would melt away in tears if she cried so often You are like the boy who cried for the moon she told her and if it had been given to him it would have not made him happy for what possible use could the moon be to anyone out of its proper place and that is the way with you half the things for which you cry would be of no use to you if you got them Tearful did not take warning or heed her mother's words of wisdom and kept on crying just the same One morning she was crying as she walked along to school because she wanted to stay at home when she noticed a frog hopping along beside her Why are you following me? She asked looking at him through her tears Because you will soon form a pond around you with your tears replied the frog and I have always wanted a pond all to myself I shall not make any pond for you said Tearful and I do not want you following me either The frog continued to hop along beside her and Tearful stopped crying and began to run but the frog hopped faster and she could not get away from him so she began to cry again Go away you horrid green frog she said At last she was so tired she sat on a stone by the roadside crying all the time Now replied the frog I shall soon have my pond Tearful cried harder than ever Then she could not see her tears fell so fast and by and by she heard a splashing sound She opened her eyes and saw water all around her She was on a small island in the middle of the pond The frog hopped out of the pond making a terrible grimace as he sat down beside her I hope you are satisfied said Tearful You have your pond why don't you stay in it Alas replied the frog I have wished for something which I cannot use now that I have it Your tears are salt and my pond which I have all by myself is so salty I cannot enjoy it If only your tears had been fresh I should have been a most fortunate fellow You needn't stay if you don't like it said Tearful and you needn't find fault with my tears either she said beginning to cry again Stop! Stop! Cried the frog Tearful saw the water rising around her so she stopped a minute What shall I do? She asked I cannot swim and I will die if I have to stay here and then she began to cry again The frog hopped up and down in front of her waving his front legs and telling her to hush If you would only stop crying he said I might be able to help you but I cannot do a thing if you cover me with your salt tears Tearful listened and promised she would not cry if he would get her away from the island There is only one way that I know of said the frog You must smile that will dry the pond and we can escape But I do not feel like smiling said Tearful and her eyes filled with tears again Look out said the frog You will surely be drowned in your own tears if you cry again Tearful began to laugh That would be strange wouldn't it to be drowned in my own tears she said That is right keep on smiling said the frog Tearful laughed again Oh you are so funny she said I wish I had your picture I never saw a frog dance before You have a slate under your arm said the frog Why don't you draw a picture of me The frog picked up a stick and stuck it in the ground and then he leaned on it with one arm or front leg and crossing his feet he stood very still Tearful drew him in that position and then he kicked up his legs as if he were dancing and she tried to draw him that way but it was not a very good likeness Do you like that she asked the frog when she held the slate for him to see He looked so surprised that Tearful laughed again You did not think you were handsome did you she asked I never thought I looked as bad as those pictures replied the frog Let me try drawing your picture he said Now look pleasant he said as he seated himself in front of Tearful and do smile Tearful did as he requested and in a few minutes he handed her the slate Where is my nose asked Tearful laughing Oh I forgot the nose said the frog but you don't think your eyes are nice and large and your mouth too They are certainly big in this picture said Tearful I hope I do not look just like that I do not think either of us are artists replied the frog Tearful looked around her Why where is the pond she asked It's gone said the frog and I think both of us have learned a lesson I shall never again wish for a pond of my own I should be lonely without my companions and then it might be salt just as this one was and you will surely never cry over little things again for you see what might happen to you I feel much happier smiling and I do not want to be even with such a pleasant companion as you were Look out for the tears then said the frog as he hopped away On that note you shut the book thinking about what a funny little story about friendship that was You're sure you've never heard it before but it was very sweet and a nice message all the same In a bit of a daze you look back in its box where you found it and close the flaps You figure time must be getting on and you were only supposed to be up here to clear a little space for when the repair people come Never mind you've done most of it now To finish the job you grab those boxes the ones labelled school, Toys and carefully bring them down from the attic one by one You're surprised that on descending the ladder it seems to be getting dark The bright sun is now low casting warmer colours through the windows like when logs in a fire have burned down to embers It's a cosy sort of light a light that makes you want to switch the lamps on in the house and start cooking something comforting for dinner which you think it must be about time for Grabbing your lantern and shutting the hatch you come back down to the landing and down the stairs How dusty your clothes are What a perfect excuse to get into something more cosy Your dressing gown perhaps and make a comfy spot on the sofa First you head to the kitchen pull out some veggies from the cupboard under the drainer and begin chopping With a heavy pan on the heat you add a little bit of butter Fry off some onions and let the savoury smell mingle with the comforting dusty smell of the attic that's on your clothes Crumble a plump orange cat weaves between your legs as you prepare food purring his joy at having some company after a day on the sofa fast asleep You'll pop some biscuits in his bowl after In a few moments you've added the celery the leeks peas, Mushrooms, Carrots and potatoes to the pot along with some stock After all you've been upstairs for a long while With a twist of a bunch of dried herbs you grew yourself added in for good measure You pop a lid on the pot and turn it down to a simmer You take a moment to appreciate the fact that you got what you needed done in the attic Dinner's smelling moorish already into a thick gravy and soft sweet veggies You should feel proud of that Plus you indulged in some forgotten childhood tales too Bickies in the cat bowl satisfy Crumble as he trots straight to it at the tinkle of the kibble hitting the ceramic And now all you have to do is get comfy and relax with your meal and wash the attic smell and dust away What a perfectly contented end to a productive day The End Postcards from the village junk shop It started as one of those slow open-ended afternoons that seemed to stretch out like a cat basking in the sunshine You'd taken the number 47 bus into the village the one that rattles along the country lanes and stops wherever someone raises their hand There wasn't any real reason for the trip Just one of those restless days where you feel like stretching your legs somewhere that isn't home for a change The main street was mostly empty apart from a few people sitting at the outdoor tables of Mabel's Café their teacups clinking gently against saucers as they chatted in low voices An elderly man in a flat cap sat on an old stone bench by the war memorial breaking up a crusty roll for the pigeons that gathered hopefully at his feet One particularly bold pigeon had perched on the bench beside him cocking its head as if it could understand what he was saying You wandered past the bakery where the windows were still fogged from the morning's baking The florist next door to it had propped open her green painted door and trails of ivy spilled from wooden crates stacked outside As you walked following no particular path a comforting smell drew you onward Is it lemon oil on old wood? The scent led you to a narrow shop squeezed between the post office and a house with lace net curtains The shop front was painted a faded powder blue that might have once been a bold cornflower hue but now looked softly worn like denim washed too many times Someone had written bits and bobs in curling script on a wooden sign that hung slightly crooked beside the door Below it a smaller placard announced postcards ten pence each in simpler block letters The door stood propped open with one of those heavy antique irons When you pushed the door wider it creaked on hinges that needed oil and a small brass bell above jingled with the sound like distant church bells Just a moment before you entered followed by the sound of something being carefully set down Inside the air was warm and still holding the accumulated scents of decades moth balls oiled leather and old paper with undertones of lavender The birds danced in the strips of sunlight that slanted through the front window where a large tabby cat had arranged itself among a display of vintage jewellery boxes There we are said the voice and a woman emerged from behind a tower of stacked suitcases each one tied with a different colour ribbon She was perhaps sixty with short white hair that curled at the edges and reading glasses perched on her nose Her cardigan was peppered with dust smudges and little ends of thread and she wiped her hands on her apron before extending one toward you I'm Margaret she said with a warm smile that creased the corners of her eyes Don't mind the mess I've been sorting through an estate collection all morning Fascinating what people keep, Isn't it? Have a good look around I'll be right here if you need anything Just wrestling with a particularly stubborn jewellery box lock You nodded into someone's beloved cluttered attic The space was smaller than it first appeared but every inch was purposefully used Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling sagging slightly under the weight of their contents Chipped but pretty teacups in mismatched patterns Tarnished silver candlesticks that still held traces Wooden toys with paint worn smooth by small hands And board games from decades past The sort that came with cardboard spinners held together with brass rivets and dice that had gone yellow with age A coat rack stood near the window hung with garments that smelled faintly of the attic air A navy pea coat and a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches Burgundy scarves so soft it might have been cashmere Underneath the front window an old wireless radio played something scratchy and instrumental Too quiet to identify but comforting in the way that distant music always is Like overhearing someone humming in another room settled on the back corner where a round table with a faded green cloth held several long shallow boxes Each box was carefully labelled in the same neat handwriting Travel and scenic Holiday greetings Floral and garden Humorous and simply blank cards Various A three-legged milking stool that had been tucked under a shelf and settled down at the table The boxes were well organised though the postcards within had the comfortable disorder of things that had been frequently handled and admired You began with Travel and scenic letting your fingers brush against the smooth edges of the cards Some were glossy Others had that matte texture of older printing A few showed signs of their age Corners bent edges softened surfaces slightly faded where they'd been stored in sunlight The first one you lifted showed the Grand Canyon in all its rust-coloured majesty The photograph taken from what must have been the South Rim viewpoint The edges were yellowing slightly And when you turned it over you found writing in careful blue ballpoint ink June 15, 1987 Dear Edna Well, You are absolutely right It really is even bigger than it looks on television Frank and I are both sunburnt despite the SPF 15 but we're happy as clams The motel we're staying at actually has its own ice machine right there in the hallway which feels very fancy Tomorrow we're driving to the Painted Desert I'll send another card from there All my love Ruth You found yourself smiling as you set it aside Picturing Ruth and Frank squinting into the desert sun Ruth's careful penmanship as she sat at a small motel table with a view of the parking lot The next card showed a lighthouse perched on rocky cliffs in Maine Dramatic waves frozen mid-crash against the rocks below The back revealed a different story Day 4 of our romantic getaway Got food poisoning on the second night Never ever trust Bob's been a saint bringing me ginger ale and crackers Still when I can keep my eyes open long enough the view from our B&B window really is spectacular Wish you were here but not really because then you'd be sick too XOXO Janet P. S. The lighthouse keeper's wife makes the most incredible smile She chuckled quietly imagining poor Janet trying to appreciate the rugged Maine coast between bouts of nausea As you continued through the box each card revealed its own small story There were postcards from Paris showing the Eiffel Tower at night Writing on the back was worth every step A card from Rome featured the Colosseum with a message that simply read Marcus would have loved this Miss you dear One from Brighton showed the famous pier with its message written in a child's careful capitals Dear Grandma We saw seagulls and I fed one a chip and Dad said I shouldn't but it was funny You could almost see small Alice probably 7 or 8 solemnly composing her message while her parents packed up their beach things A postcard from Sydney featured the Opera House at sunset Its message more business like The conference is going well The hotel room overlooks the harbour which helps make up for being away from home Some postcards were more whimsical Blackpool Tower with actual glitter glued to the edges now mostly fallen away but leaving a faint sparkle in the creases One from the Lake District showed a photograph of sheep in a stone walled field The back reading Walk 12 miles today through the most beautiful countryside My boots are filthy and I've never been happier The sheep here are ridiculously fluffy M Others were more mysterious A card showing a generic sunset over a lake with just the words I'm sorry written in black ink No address No signature No date You found yourself but you didn't tell From the holiday greetings box you pulled cards with vintage Christmas scenes Snow covered cottages Victorian children building snowmen Father Christmas in his traditional red coat Most were unused but one showed signs of having been carefully stored away Christmas 1962 for our first Christmas All my love always Tommy The card showed a simple nativity scene peaceful and traditional The blank cards box held treasures of a different sort These were postcards chosen for their images alone Heavy cardstock with embossed edges Professional photography Artistic illustrations A sepia photograph of a small boy in shorts holding a fishing rod standing beside a country stream A watercolour painting of red poppies in a field The artist's signature just visible in the corner A whimsical illustration of a cow wearing sunglasses and a sun hat sitting in a beach chair Each one was a small work of art waiting for someone to find the perfect words for its back It grew quieter as you sat there The sounds of the street outside fading to a gentle murmur Margaret had returned to her work behind the counter and you could hear the occasional soft click of tools against metal as she worked on her stubborn jewellery box The cat in the window had moved now stretched out fully in a patch of afternoon sun The radio continued its gentle soundtrack You thought you might have recognised it from an old film something romantic and a bit sad Time seemed to slow and stretch You found yourself reading each postcard carefully imagining the hands that had written them the places they'd been the people who'd saved them Some made you smile others made you pause thoughtfully A few particularly the ones with no message at all made you feel a gentle sadness for stories left untold You marvelled at the stamps and postmarks of all shapes, Sizes and dates imagining each postcard as a pile of other letters in a train carriage After what felt like an hour but might have been less you realised you'd unconsciously created a small pile beside your elbow 7 postcards in total 4 that had been written on 3 that were blank There was no particular logic to your selection just a collection of cards that had spoken The Grand Canyon card from Ruth The Lighthouse card from sick but determined Janet A blank card with a photograph of an old stone bridge over a quietly flowing river Another with a cheery cottage illustration and an old poem in a West Country dialect spelled out in block letters You gathered them up in her jewellery box with a satisfied expression Success, She announced The mechanism was just stuck with old grime These old pieces just need a gentle touch you know Now then, She said Focusing on your small collection That's a lovely selection you've made She examined each card briefly It was a great sale actually A gentleman from the next village over Mr Henshaw His daughter said he kept everything in perfect order all sorted by date and destination Apparently he travelled quite a bit when he was younger and then later he just collected them Sometimes he'd buy them from other shops like this one Margaret's hands moved efficiently as she spoke Wrapping your postcards in brown paper that had been saved from some other purchase She tied the bundle with white string Her fingers making neat loops as she secured the bow You know, She said as she handed the package across the counter There's a proper electric kettle in the back room and I always keep a tin of decent biscuits You're welcome to sit and have a cup while you look through more of the boxes I find people often discover things they didn't know they were looking for when they take their time The offer was genuinely tempting I explored more of Mr Henshaw's carefully preserved collection But your feet were beginning to ache in your walking shoes and there was something appealing about the idea of taking these particular postcards home of reading them again in your own chair in your own time without the pressure of satisfying weight I think I'll save that pleasure for another visit Margaret smiled a kind of smile that suggested she understood completely They'll be here, She said Though I should warn you Mr Henshaw's collection fills six more boxes You might need to plan for a longer visit next time As you stepped back into that golden hour that makes even the most mundane village street look like a painting the sun sat lower in the sky casting longer shadows and turning the stone buildings warm amber The man with the pigeons had gone leaving only a few scattered crumbs and the memory of his patient kindness The cafe across the street was preparing to close with the last customers lingering over their final cups of tea You began walking slowly back toward the bus stop one hand resting on the package in your pocket The brown paper crackled gently as you looked and carefully preserved treasures Already you were imagining where you might place these postcards One on the fridge door perhaps to be read while waiting for the kettle to boil Another repurposed as a bookmark to be rediscovered a few weeks later like a note from a friend Maybe you'd even send one of the blank cards to someone continuing the circle of small connections that postcards were meant to create The number 47 bus rounded the corner just as you reached the stop its engine puttering quietly You thought about Mr Henshaw and his carefully organised collection About Ruth and Frank squinting into the Grand Canyon sun About little Alice feeding chips to seagulls despite her father's protests About Margaret patiently coaxing old jewellery boxes back to life in her cluttered shop All these small stories served on pieces of card that had travelled from hand to hand place to place carrying with them fragments of ordinary lives lived fully As you rest now think of that little junk shop still sitting quietly on its corner street its blue paint catching the last light of afternoon Margaret is probably still there working through more boxes from Mr Henshaw's estate the radio playing softly while the tabby cat dreams in the window The postcards remain in their neat boxes each one holding its small story waiting for the next curious wanderer to discover them Think of the weight of your own small collection the cool touch of the old cardstock the ink faded just enough to suggest time's gentle passage In our lives it's easy to overlook these small objects that carry stories but they're everywhere folded into the corners of ordinary days waiting for us to slow down enough to notice them The postcards you chose today will find places in your life becoming part of your own story even as they preserve the stories of others Ruth's enthusiasm Janet's resilience Alice's joy All these moments captured and shared remind us that every day contains small adventures worth recording worth remembering and worth passing on Now close your eyes rest These postcards have travelled far to reach you and tomorrow you'll wake up and continue your own journey Sweet dreams It's the quaint shops all higgledy-piggledy lined up along a cobbled street or maybe it's how proud and pretty the community flowerbeds look around the bandstand The people though that's what really makes a village all the characters that weave their own little tales about how they know so-and-so or what this shop used to be decades ago never shy to nod their head and wish you a good morning or lovely weather isn't it even if you're a new face And on this particular day as you're making your way past the sewing shop the haberdashery and the little bakery with its delicious bready smells wafting out of the door a group of teenagers just opened you happen across an old post office you know the kind not the industrial feeling city centre post office with its concrete exterior and sleek modern posters but the oldy-worldy kind a weathered sort of brick building with a cheerful red awning over the front door and window It looks more gift shop than mail centre painted on a wooden sandwich board in wobbly cursive is stationary supplies delicious coffee and trinkets three of your favourite things nestled under one quaint little roof yes please you have a little bit of spending money tucked away in your bag to treat yourself with after all that's what this little holiday is all about isn't it just a little nose round see if you can find a nice postcard to add to your collection or a fresh new notepad you push the door inward and the bell tinkles to announce your arrival from sunny and blustery outside to dim and cosy you take a quick look around to see what you make of the place it's not really like any post office you've been in although it reminds you of the little one on the top of that steep hill in town where you grew up shelves from floor to ceiling bursting with rolls of tape balls of twine envelopes in all sizes and pens in every colour an old lady inspects little packages of washi tape deciding which to buy as a gift perhaps one of those spinning stands featuring funny cards and postcards all by local artists seems to have attracted a boy and a girl they're stifling giggles at one of the silly doodles on the front and the inviting smells of coffee and pastries you can honestly say you've never stepped foot in a post office with its own little tea room over the other side is where food and drinks are served presumably there are tables and chairs none of which match dotted about in a cramped, Cosy sort of way canisters of loose leaf tea all stacked neatly along a shelf in the centre a glass display proudly showing off homemade cakes danishes and cookies one of those posh coffee machines whirring after having delivered a frothy looking coffee to a customer they're carrying it over to one of the tables and there's what you'd expect from a post office of course surrounded by leaflets for currency exchange and postage prices that sort of thing there's something a little funny about the one in the corner though it's painted a different colour to the rest a whimsical purple on the counter top is a little box with a slot in the top it's got something written on it how odd and now you see it a large cork notice board covering the back wall curiously it has worry mail community notice board written across the top in big handwritten loopy font what is that? You take a few steps closer to the board as you lean in as though the act of reading someone's private thoughts should be done with reverence the notes are all written in the same neat swooping handwriting but each on a different kind of pastel paper or card carefully pinned with a little silver thumbtack the ingredients for a treacle tart peeking through faintly behind the words each card has a number in the corner seventeen forty two fifty eight that one has a tiny drawing of a teacup at the bottom you scan the notes not in a nosy way but with a kind of I've been here and I haven't made any friends yet I feel silly for thinking I would fit in quickly forty nine my cat passed and my house feels so empty without her twelve my grandchild is struggling at school and I don't know how to help some are longer some are just a single line one simply says five I feel lonely your throat catches a little it's strange isn't it how such a small sentence can feel so large there's an instruction card too to help you make sense of all this it reads the Worry Mail Community Notice Board is our village's way to give back to those who might need a helping hand to feel better in tough times it's anonymous and available for anyone to use we hope that it spreads kindness and love to all you never know what someone is going through when they're anxious for worriers one if you have a worry please write on a slip on the purple counter and pop it in the box two each night our clerks will write up your worry and pin it to the notice board the following day this is to keep all handwriting anonymous so you don't feel shy and so we can assign your worry a number three anyone who passes through our post office can choose your card off the board and it can be chosen an unlimited number of times during the week that it remains on the board we give each note a week to make it fair for all worriers four we send you greeting cards letters and care packages through us and we forward it on anonymously to you forgivers one the world can feel tough and unfair and you can help spread love and kindness to any of our worriers simply choose a worry card from the board either by noting down their number think about what the person might need right now a long letter to share your experience a cheerful greeting card or even a small care package to show you care three once you have written your letter or packaged your parcel take it to the purple counter our designated worry clerk will process your postage and put it aside ready to be mailed to encourage givers and worriers we have contributed to the price of worry mail and subsidised the cost of stamps meaning the price of all worry mail is one penny for letters and five pennies for packages thank you worriers and givers we appreciate you making the world a better place what a lovely idea have you ever seen something like this before? Well now you know exactly what to spend some of your money on you glance around the shop again nobody is watching you the old lady has chosen her washi tapes and is now chatting to the girl behind the till laughing softly about how she always buys things and buys more than she needs the kids are gone and someone else is admiring the cakes under a glass dome maybe just maybe you could pick one offer something gentle something kind something that could let a stranger know they've been heard you select one from the board number 31 the one about making new friends and scribble the number gently on a piece of paper and pop it in your coat pocket and you turn your attention to the stationary corner it's a treasure trove racks of notebooks in every size and colour stickers in neat little packets some with animals others with flowers or stars there are writing sets too matching paper and envelopes some with botanical prints others with sleepy looking bears and rabbits in woolly scarves you pick up a little bundle wrapped in twine a writing kit with pressed flower designs and a pencil that smells faintly of lavender maybe just one trinket you spot a little enamel pin shaped like a teapot with take things slow written in loopy gold letters it feels right a good luck charm for someone starting fresh after you've chosen your items you make your way over to the tea room side and order a hot drink and a toasted tea cake with butter the woman behind the counter gives you a warm smile as she prepares your tray you sit down at a corner table the seat cushion mismatched and a little squishy your drink steams gently in front of you and outside you can just see the wind tugging at the edges of the red awning and the busy street bustling with villagers and tourists you take out the crumpled paper from your pocket and read it again carefully before setting it down beside your stationery then you begin to write not rushed not perfectly just sincerely you picture the person behind the note imagine them standing in a hallway of doors unsure which to knock on their hands in their pockets fidgeting with nerves and hopes and a small crumpled bus ticket so you write them a letter like you'd want to receive kind steady like a cuppa in envelope form you start with Hi, I saw your worry today I just wanted to say I think you're doing something really brave and you carry on from there talking about how beginnings often feel like endings at first how unfamiliar streets become landmarks you tell them how courage isn't loud or flashy it's just showing up anyway you seal the note and tuck a sticker on the back a tiny gold star because obviously they deserve one by now your drink is half gone and the butter on your tea cake has melted into sweet glistening craters you take a bite warm comforting exactly what today needed when you're ready you turn to the purple counter the woman behind it cardigan sleeve slightly pushed up gives you a knowing look and slides the wooden box toward you you slip the envelope into the gap it makes a soft sound as it lands like a page turning one penny, She says you give her the coin it feels like part of a ritual small, Sacred and gentle she offers you a receipt which you take politely only to discover it has a quote typed across the bottom every small kindness is a seed you never know what might bloom you smile folding it carefully and sliding it into your pocket not for records, Just to keep as you head toward the door you pass by the notice board again your eyes flick up 31 is still there but now you notice there's a tiny golden sticker on the corner someone else must have responded before you did and maybe someone else will again you step outside the red awning flaps softly and the wind is cooler than before but not cold just brisk enough to remind you that you're real you're here and you did something kind today as you walk back down the cobbled path you wonder what worry you'd write if it were you you imagine what advice someone might give you and you wonder who you'll write to next because you know that you will be back to the village post office solo camp in the wild hills it's late morning when you set off along the footpath your rucksack sitting snug against your back and your boots making soft thuds on the damp, Slightly gravelly ground the air's cool enough that every breath comes out in a little cloud and everything feels hushed you haven't seen a soul since setting out and the weather's quite chilly so you might be the only person for miles it's comforting though as you don't have any obligations nobody to answer to it's just you and the rolling countryside fog sits low across the hills drifting and shifting thinning out in patches where the sun's trying to get through the path curves uphill between old stone walls covered in moss you marvel at how they've clearly been there for decades maybe even hundreds of years and they're still standing though they look nothing more than stacked flat rocks bracken and tall weeds lean in from both sides brown and curling and every now and then a drop of water falls from one of the fronds and lands with a quiet tap on your sleeve it smells like soil and wet decaying leaves that slightly sweet, Smoky autumn smell that makes you want to take a nice, Big, Deep breath in you can hear sheep somewhere up ahead though you can't see them yet through the fog the sound is strangely comforting a reminder that even in all this mist and quiet there's life out here going about its business after all you keep walking your back bent forward a bit to combat the steepness of the hill and your pack creaking gently with the movement of your shoulders it's a steady rhythm the crunch of your boots on the path the soft give underfoot the occasional clink of a loose stone you're not in any hurry you've got everything you need with you tent, Camping stove, Sleeping bag and enough food for tonight you're looking forward to a nice warm meal already the cold air knows how to work up an appetite for now, You can rely on your trusty flask filled with your favourite hot drink to keep you going as you make your way up and down the hills after a while, The path dips down into a little hollow where some trees grow close together their branches dripping with dew you stop to adjust your scarf and as you do, A robin darts across the path in front of you a quick flash of orange-red and all that grey before disappearing into the brambles you smile to yourself watching the last bit of movement vanish into the undergrowth they say that seeing a robin means someone you loved is watching over you I wonder who yours is? The ground here is soft covered in layers of leaves some are whole and golden others half-rotted, Sticking together in damp clumps you catch the smell of mushrooms nearby an earthy, Slightly fungal scent and sure enough, When you look to your right there's a little cluster growing at the base of a fallen birch pale beige caps, Edges curled up droplets of moisture caught on their surfaces like tiny beads you take out the little notebook from your coat pocket removing the stubby pencil from the spiral binding and kneel down to roughly sketch it maybe you'll add it into your journal or just keep it in there, Just like that with that thought, You pick up a dried leaf too the best one you can find and wedge it between the pages to keep it flat and safe the air feels colder now and when you stand up again your breath comes out in thicker clouds you pull your hat down over your ears and carry on walking following the path as it leads uphill again winding between rocks and patches of heather by midday, You're higher up the trees have thinned out to patches of scrub and gorse and the fog lifts a little as you reach the ridge a faint light breaks through silvery and weak, But still nice to see you stop for a rest slipping your pack from your shoulders and sitting on a low stone wall that runs along the side of the path when you unscrew the lid of your flask and pour some out the heat spreads into your hands at once and the first sip warms you from the inside it's quiet enough that you can hear the faint rustle of dry grass and the distant caw of a crow somewhere down in the valley then, High above, Another sound catches your attention a series of sharp cries, Moving fast you look up, And through the pale fog you spot them a flock of birds in formation, Heading south geese, It looks like they move like one thing wings flashing silver grey as they pass overhead for a few seconds you just stand there watching them your drink forgotten in your hand your face turned up to the sky you love seeing their little ceremony to mark the end of the warmer months and the beginning of the cold and you've been lucky enough to witness it when they've gone, The silence settles even deeper than before but it's a pleasant silence you shoulder your pack again and keep walking the day moves on quietly up and down gentle slopes through fields dotted with dry thistles and the occasional hawthorn bush bright with red berries a hare even darts out from the edge of the path and bounds across the hillside its white tail flashing before it disappears again into the long grass you stop and watch the spot where it vanished, Half hoping it'll reappear, But it doesn't by early afternoon the ground begins to rise more steeply you can feel the pull in your thighs as you climb your breathing coming a bit heavier in the cold air the wind has picked up too, Bringing with it a smell of salt faint but unmistakable you're not far from the coast now, You can almost taste it you keep going until the land starts to level out again and that's when you see it a clearing tucked in among the hills shielded on three sides by trees and bushes open to the view on the fourth the ground is flat and dry the grass short and springy underfoot and just beyond the edge, The land drops gently away to reveal the distant coast you can see the faint shapes of cottages scattered across the landscape their rooftops small and pale against the patchwork of fields and moorlands you take off your pack and stand for a moment, Just breathing it all in the stillness the smell of the air the wide openness of it all this is perfect setting up the tent doesn't take long your hands know what they're doing pegs into the ground, Fabric clipped onto the poles the tent standing upright with a satisfying ripple as the breeze catches it you crawl inside for a quick check sleeping mat unrolled sleeping bag fluffed out and ready torch clipped to the little loop hanging from the roof it's already starting to feel like home that small sheltered space against all the vastness outside you sit for just a moment and it hits you how tired your body feels from hiking all day you're so grateful to have found this little idyllic clearing on the headland and at just the right time when you crawl back out you notice the light has changed from the weak silvery glow to softer and warmer, More golden around the edges of the fog you set up your folding chair just outside the tent, Facing the view and pull out your little camping stove the faint metallic clink of the ignition sounds loud in the quiet followed by the gentle hiss as the flame catches and settles into a steady blue ring you open a tin of soup with your Swiss army knife thick vegetable, The sort that's more like a stew really and pour it into your little pan the smell rises almost immediately rich and savoury, Mingling with the faint scent of heather and damp grass while it warms, You tear off a chunk of bread from the loaf you packed this morning it's a bit squashed from being in your rucksack all day, But somehow that makes it taste better rustic, Chewy and perfect for dipping you eat slowly, Blowing on each spoonful before it goes in your mouth watching the fog roll in low waves over the distant hills the warmth of the soup spreads through your chest and down into your stomach giving you a bit of a second wind it's a deep satisfaction, Knowing you carried it all here yourself every bit of it, On your own back and you worked up an appetite in the cold to enjoy it even more when the pan's empty, You give it a quick rinse with water from your bottle shaking the droplets off into the grass then comes pudding, Makeshift s'mores the sort of thing you'd never bother with at home, But that feels exactly right out here you crumble a few digestive biscuits into the pan to make a sort of base sprinkle a handful of chocolate chips over the top and drop a few marshmallows on they start to melt almost at once, The chocolate going all glossy the marshmallows turning sticky and golden around the edges of the pan you stir it all together with your spoon until it forms a warm, Sweet mess and eat it straight from the pan it tastes wonderful you're getting pretty sleepy now your belly is full and the lovely hearty food has you so content that you can't imagine feeling any happier than you are right now you let your eyes slide out of focus your tongue running along the roof of your mouth to savour the last of the chocolatey goodness after you've rinsed it a second time you set the pan back on the stove with a little water in it to boil for tea as it heats, You pull your blanket around your shoulders and sit back in the chair your legs stretched out in front of you the day is fading fast now as the afternoons are short this time of year the fog is turning from white to blue-grey and the horizon glows faintly where the sun is sinking hidden somewhere behind all that mist it never did come out all the way today but that's okay you warmed yourself with a long hike and the delicious hearty food when the water boils, You pour it carefully into your mug watching the steam curl upward and disappear into the cold air it warms your hands as you hold the mug between your palms you sip slowly, Letting the quiet soak into you not thinking about much at all somewhere in the trees behind you a wood pigeon coos its soft, Rhythmic call a breeze stirs the branches and sends a few last leaves drifting down tumbling end over end before they land in the grass you can hear the rustle of dry stems a far-off sigh of wind moving across the hills and once or twice, The faint bark of a fox calling out somewhere in the valley when the light has almost gone just a faint glow left on the horizon you tidy away what's left the pan, The mug, The chair everything gets stowed or wiped down or tucked away then you crawl into your tent zipping the door closed behind you you get ready for bed and then the sleeping bag welcomes you with its familiar rustle as you wriggle down into it pulling it up until only your face is poking out the air against your cheeks is cool but the rest of you is warm and cocooned you click off your lantern and lie still listening outside, The night creates its own sort of lullaby the trees creak a little as they settle for the night somewhere nearby, A small animal scurries through the undergrowth its movements quick and light the wind threads itself through the branches, Steady and low a constant backdrop to everything else you can feel the day's walk in your legs that pleasant heaviness that comes from real movement from fresh air and distance covered your body feels properly moved in the best way tired but content it makes sleep feel like a reward the warmth of your sleeping bag wraps around you and as you close your eyes you picture the fog outside thickening again hiding the hills, The coast the whole quiet world you've walked through today everything becomes still like the land itself has let out a long slow breath you breathe out once more and the last of your thoughts drift away with it tomorrow can wait for now, You sleep the brambles in the garden you stand at the back door looking out at your garden the lawn is still green but covered in brown leaves from the cherry tree that started giving up its leaves a few weeks ago the air is cool on your face as you step outside and you can hear water dripping from the gutter after the rain earlier you've got a pair of secateurs in one hand and thick gloves tucked under your arm the job at hand is trimming back the brambles they've grown too far into the flower beds and across the lawn it seems like everyone in your street is experiencing this only a couple of days ago you noticed the lady on the corner's rosebush getting overtaken by the thick vines the blackberries are finished now you picked the last ones a week or two ago some sweet, Some sharp you remember plucking them and eating them straight off the vine with the purple juice staining your fingers now all that's left are just the stems long arching canes with thorns that catch on everything you pull the gloves on the leather is stiff but it moulds to your hands after a moment you know better than to do this without gloves some of the bigger thorns even manage to break through the thick leather sometimes that first cut is satisfying you press the secateurs against the thick stem and hear the crunch as it parts the cane falls to the ground the cut end smells faintly green though the air still smells mostly of damp leaves and earth you work your way along the patch, Cutting piece by piece the brambles cling to each other thorns hooked together so each one has to be pulled free very carefully the sound is snapping, Tearing, Rustling sometimes a cane comes loose suddenly and the dry leaves brush your arms the stems are heavier than they look when you lift them they're thick with moisture from all the rain you toss them onto a pile at the side keeping them clear of the path your neighbour, Janet, Appears at the fence she's in her sixties, Always out in her garden tackling the brambles are you? She calls over yeah, Finally getting round to it, You say, Straightening up I should do mine, She says, Looking at her own tangle along the back wall though I keep telling myself they're good for the birds they are, You agree I saw a blackbird in there yesterday every time you mention blackbirds you think back to a few years ago when your cherry tree started sprouting out of where the thick hedge grows you mentioned it to someone who said it was probably nesting blackbirds that had dropped a cherry stone and then of course the rest was history still, They do take over, Don't they? She watches you work for a moment then says, I've got the kettle on if you want a cup after I might take you up on that, You say she goes back inside and you return to the brambles as you work, You notice details a few dried blackberries still cling to the higher stems those ones that you can't quite reach and they're shriveled and dark at the base there's a nest of dry leaves where something small has been through maybe a hedgehog you're careful not to disturb it too much just in case the brambles are a nuisance but they're not all bad in summer, The flowers were covered in bees you'd see butterflies landing on them opening and closing their wings slowly later, The berries fed the blackbirds and thrushes that came in from the hedge even now, The brambles shelter the wrens and robins but left alone, They'd take over the whole garden so you keep cutting, Pulling, Stacking there's a rhythm to it your breath makes small clouds in the air your body warms up with effort every so often, You pause and listen somewhere down the lane, A dog barks a wood pigeon leaves the cherry tree with a clatter of wings otherwise, It's just the wind in the hedge your partner opens the back door and leans out how's it going? Nearly there, You say you want a hand? I'm alright, Nearly done now they nod don't forget, We've got those bulbs to plant I know, I was thinking I'd put them here once this is cleared daffodils? Yeah they go back inside and de-finish the last few stems when you're done, There's a clear patch where the brambles were the soil looks raw and disturbed, But it'll settle the pile of cut stems looks almost like a war thorns tangled together, Waiting to go to the compost heap you peel off your gloves your hands are a bit sore there are red scratches on your wrists where thorns got past the leather you can smell damp soil on your clothes and a faint sweetness from the cut stems you remember your grandmother doing this same job when you were younger she'd spend whole afternoons out in her own unusual circular shaped garden that you loved so much she was methodical, Working through the borders one by one her hands, Veined and spotted with age would grip the secateurs firmly stubborn things, She'd mutter but she never got rid of them completely they'll be back next year, She'd say with a slight smile always are she was right, They will be back and when they are, They'll bring flowers and berries again and work back inside, You set the gloves and secateurs by the door through the window, You look at the garden once more it looks tidier, Though you know the brambles will return they always do there's something balanced about that the work and the reward the nuisance and the fruit all in the same plant you think about going next door for that cup of tea but first, You wash your hands at the kitchen sink the water runs brown at first then clear your hands are cold from being outside the warm water feels good you dry your hands and look at the clock nearly four the light will start going soon you pull on a clean jumper and head out the front door walking the few steps to Janet's gate the path is wet and there are leaves stuck to it you can smell more wood smoke now probably from a few gardens down Janet answers before you finish knocking come in, Come in, Tea's ready her kitchen is warm there's condensation on the windows and the radio is on low some programme about gardening she pours from a pot that's been sat under a cozy the tea dark and strong milk, Please she hands you the mug and you wrap both hands around it the heat seeps into your fingers which are still cold from being outside sit down, She says, Gesturing to the table you sit the chair is old and wooden and creaks slightly Janet sits across from you with her own mug there's a plate of biscuits between you digestives, Plain ones get it all done then, She asks yeah, Took longer than I thought it always does she dunks a biscuit in her tea I'll have to do mine before the frost comes though I keep putting it off they're not going anywhere, You say she laughs at that no, They're certainly not you sit in comfortable quiet for a moment the radio murmurs in the background outside the window you can see her garden which is tidier than yours but still has that same tangle of brambles at the back Janet talks a bit about her son who's supposed to visit next week and about the frost that's forecast for later in the week you half listen half watch the light starting to fade outside the garden is going grey a blackbird lands on her fence looks around and flies off the mug is warm in your hands your body feels tired now the good kind of tired from being outside and doing something physical your shoulders are a bit stiff your fingers are warming up slowly after a while you finish the tea and stand up thanks for that any time, Said Janet, You know where I am you walk back to your house the garden looks different in the fading light the pile of brambles is just a dark shape now the cleared patch of soil has disappeared into shadow inside it's warm you close the door behind you and stand for a moment in the quiet the day feels complete somehow the work done the tea drunk the light going you think about the bulbs you'll plant tomorrow or the day after daffodils they'll come up in spring yellow and bright in the space where the brambles were but that's for tomorrow for now you're just warm and tired and ready to settle in for the evening the garden is done the brambles are cut back and outside the light is nearly gone sweet dreams a frosty stroll for Crumble flexing his big fluffy paws so his toes spread out in a big fan Crumble stretched out his legs and rubbed the top of his head against the soft blanket he was laying on just a couple more minutes after all cats didn't really need to fill their days with much other than laying eating washing and occasionally playing if the mood struck there was nowhere his owner expected him to be in fact it seemed like laying dozily and purring now and again was exactly what they wanted from him and that suited Crumble just fine after napping for a little while longer Crumble felt the urge to get up from his spot on the sofa in front of the crackling fire and hunt for some food of course hunting according to Crumble meant he simply needed to check his bowl in the kitchen his humans had learned that if there was even a glimpse of the bottom of his ceramic dish a few loud and persistent meows would have it topped up again in no time he gave one more large arch of his big fluffy back and a dramatic yawn leaping carefully down from the sofa he sauntered across the living room rug and into the kitchen to investigate the food situation the icy stone tiles were a bit of a shock to his feet but he got used to it after a few seconds after a few mouthfuls of food a crisp breeze from outside wafted through the gaps in his cat flap making his whiskers twitch although chilly the wind carried tempting smells that only a cat would notice the scent of a distant chicken being roasted the smell of nature and birds and grass the nip of frost on the air Crumble's eyes went big and intrigued he squeezed himself through the doorway that was only just big enough for him he wasn't an overly fat cat but appeared rotund because of his dense orange fur like a big fluffy pumpkin with ears and a tail the day was brisk with bright sunshine giving the impression that it was warmer than it really was spring wasn't far away yet there was frost dusting the ground like sugared shortbread under his paws snowdrops and crocuses had begun to poke their heads out from the earth in neighbours' flower beds after their year-long slumber it wasn't quite time for them to bloom yet though the morning frosts would come back for a few weeks still until this corner of the world gently thawed the plump ginger cat set off down the street nose in the air and eyes alert he spied the tabby laying on the windowsill a few doors down from his own house and when it didn't stir at his presence he continued on a solitary robin sat and watched him from the top of a brick wall to someone's front garden that is, Until Crumble hopped up not in a predatory way but just out of curiosity Crumble, Unlike many cats was a bit of a pacifist when other cats would chirp longingly at the birds hopping about in the trees Crumble would gaze half-interested and then turn his attention to something else he effortlessly tiptoed along the wall and then up again to a higher piece of fence for a large cat he certainly didn't struggle to balance himself on the thin fence panels from up here he could nosily peer into the other gardens in his neighbourhood of course, He believed it was all his territory a king surveying his estate he leisurely licked his front paw as a light breeze blew against him wafting those earlier smells of roasting chicken from a neighbour's kitchen where they were probably getting an early start on a Sunday roast as a cat Crumble didn't understand the calendar that humans used but he knew that once every few days there was a particularly delicious aroma of food whirling through the streets and on these days his owners sometimes dropped a little bit of chicken onto a plate for him to enjoy with this thought in his mind he graciously stretched his body vertically down the other side of the fence holding out his paws in front of him to stop himself from falling giving it a quick pluck with his claws and flumping down onto the patch of grass crunchy with frost blades of grass like desiccated coconuts sticking up out of the ground it was too cold for the grass to begin growing again still the same length as it had been in the autumn when the people here last cut it down taking a few steps with the hard earth underfoot a wave of energy overtook him as it seems to be the way with cats wiggling his behind his ears flat against his head with huge pupils he darted on top of a rogue leaf and caught it underneath his feet I told you he's a pacifist except when it comes to fallen leaves apparently using his big, Soft paw pads he played with it a while running back and repeating the same pouncing predator dance over and over until another, More interesting sound pricked his ears he could hear his biscuit box being shaken down the street at the click of a finger or the rattle of a dry cat food box he abandoned the leaf, Now in tatters and leapt up onto the fence striding along the brick wall two blackbirds now sat and promptly flew away when they caught sight of the cat coming towards them the frost on the pavement was gradually melting but still just as cold hopping merrily with his nose in the air and his tail curled into a shepherd's hook he bolted back through the cat flap and into the warmth of his kitchen the stone floor now seemed pleasant compared to the frost-bitten ground outside he weaved between the legs of his owner as she fussed him on top of his head and poured a generous helping of biscuits into his dish playing with leaves and leaping up and down on fences all morning had got Crumble's stomach rumbling so he contented himself by eating half a bowl of food in one sitting swallowing some biscuits whole and taking some out of the dish individually giving them a good shake before crunching them up feeling sleepy, Warm and content he strode back into the living room across the hard wood floor and woven rug saving the rugs inviting tassels for another time he could attack them any time he wanted to but right now he wanted nothing more than to curl up in his favourite spot next to the fire and gently fall asleep and Crumble did just that The End I walk slowly through Snowsap Forest a thick blanket of snow underfoot and a chill wind nipping my nose around me is a wondrous forest of majestic fir trees standing tall and mighty unfazed by the blistering cold shades of deepest emerald, Moss and velvet iced with a thick layer of snow I spot full holly bushes with their cheerful berries and shiny leaves nestled around the lower trunks of the formidable trees snow is falling around me those big fluffy flakes, Silent and soft they catch the breeze and spiral on their journey to the ground some seem quick to land while others take their time carelessly catching the breeze and floating down in their own time luckily the thick trees are stopping most of the breeze from blowing through my long coat so despite the weather I feel quite warm the piney fresh scent of the trees around me fills my nostrils and the fresh undisturbed snow crunches and compacts under my feet it's therapeutic to listen to my rhythmic footsteps my cheeks and nose are red from the cold but thankfully I'm bundled up in a cosy woollen scarf and hat a gift from my friend in a faraway place who knits the cosiest, Wonderful pieces from soft, Thick yarn there's a comfortable, Peaceful silence in the forest as if it's holding its breath for me as I make my way through patiently it waits, Guiding me on my way I feel safe and secure to go at my own pace distant birds that brave the harsh weather before the sun sets sing their echoing songs in amongst the forest canopy in this moment, Although I walk alone I know I have the forest creatures to keep me company as I walk steadily through a frosty clearing I spot a small log cabin off a little way in the distance the windows have a warm, Cosy orange glow and there's a small stream of smoke coming from the chimney seeing this log cabin up ahead fills me with warmth and a sense of relaxation it's the lighting I think the orangey-yellow glow of a fire or candles perhaps it instantly washes a sense of cosiness and calm over you, Doesn't it? I'm trying to imagine what might be inside it's a welcome sight as the light is fading fast and I'm looking forward to resting my feet picking up the pace a little I continue to trudge through the beautifully untouched layer of snow closer and closer to the cabin once I reach it I stomp my heavy boots up the outside wooden steps of the porch surrounded now by twinkling fairy lights and warm candlelit lanterns knocking the snow off my feet before walking up to the front door filled with anticipation I spot a small handwritten note stuck to the door leaning in I notice the paper is freshly torn out of a pretty notepad judging by the floral pattern and in loopy handwriting it reads a hearty welcome to the cabin nestled in the heart of Snowsap Forest inside is everything you need to relax and rest enjoy and stay as long as you like I recognise the handwriting it's my close friend it seems they've decided to treat me to a little break from the cold weather to which I'm extremely grateful somehow the cabin feels like home but I've never been here before I turn the brass doorknob and the warmth hits my cold face immediately as I open the door just like sinking into a hot bubble bath after a long day walking inside I notice the cabin is lit up entirely by the roaring fire in the log burner and a few clustered candles in little nooks around the room just like I suspected a gigantic squashy sofa beckons with a woollen throw and cushions first with some effort through achy joints and cold muscles I pull off my heavy coat, Hat, Scarf and gloves setting my boots to one side there is a small rustic table in the little kitchen area laid out with a cup and a plate along a wooden shelf for kilner jars filled with all kinds of teas and even hot chocolate powder on serving plates on the counter top there are freshly baked cookies, Still warm and a delicious cake cut into generous slices the sweet vanilla and chocolate fill the air with a delicious scent making my stomach rumble I help myself to a slice of cake and a cookie boil the little stove top kettle and fill my cup with boiling water dunking a tea bag in and taking it to the squashy sofa in front of the fire I sink down into the plush sofa and pop my food and drink on the wood slice coffee table I already feel so much warmer sinking my tired feet into the sheepskin rug that's decorating the floor in front of the fire the warm mug heats up my cold fingertips and I inhale the scent and steam rising from it taking a gulp I feel the warm comforting tea soothe my throat feeling its warmth radiate my body spreading down into my chest, My stomach and spreading through my arms and legs relief and tranquility wash over me taking a few moments to sit in the quiet all I can hear is the crackling fire and slight whistle of wind from outside I hadn't realised how tired my body feels until I sat down and took the weight off my feet I suppose trudging through the snow in blustery winter weather takes its toll I'm so glad for the time to rest and recharge with a warm drink and some delicious treats I spend the next hour or so relaxing drinking my steaming mug of tea and finishing the delicious baked treats in this moment I am so grateful to have my friend arrange something that I sorely needed a wave of tiredness flows over me and my body is heavy and not ready to leave just yet my eyes are drooping and I'm finding it tricky to keep them open I'll lay down just for a few moments I get up briefly to blow out the candles and settle back down the fire has burned down now to a low glow of embers lifting my heavy legs onto the sofa I grab the thick tartan throw from the back cushions and drape it around me I lay back and rest my head on the soft cushions the crackle of the fire lulls me further into relaxation my eyes drifting out of focus as the amber glow from the fireplace dances on the cabin walls I gently close my eyes and drift off the end the cosy witch cafe in the heart of a forest in springtime where the flowers peeked through the soil and there were dozens of beautiful and interesting creatures living together in harmony there stood a quaint little witch cafe nestled in the thick trees it looked to be the shape of a giant toadstool with windows and a crooked chimney poking through the cap roof it was a place of magic, Mystery and warmth where the air was always infused with the scent of spices and herbs and the walls were adorned with twinkling fairy lights it was hard to say how long the cafe had stood there but it felt like it could have been there a hundred years even being in its presence gave its visitors a sense of calm and happiness on this spring afternoon as you approached the cafe down a winding muddy path through the trees you noticed that the windows were foggy and steamy and the sounds of bubbling cauldrons and soft whispers could be heard from within broomsticks stood outside on a stand just like you would find for bicycles and there was a hearty wooden sign above the door saying welcome you pushed open the door and a bell tinkled on the frame to gently announce your arrival you were greeted by a cosy fire lit room filled with comfy armchairs little mismatched tables shelves lined with spell books a bar made of polished dark wood the domed roof really was a giant toadstool cap with a hole in the centre for a skylight down from the ceiling trailed ivy its green leaves catching the afternoon light as you looked around the cafe for a place to sit you saw all sorts of magical creatures and beings gathered together enjoying each other's company a group of fairies fluttered by leaving a trail of glitter in their wake a wise old tawny owl perched on a shelf watching over the patrons with his piercing eyes a trio of mischievous gnomes played a game of cards in the corner cackling and teasing each other you glanced into the very far corner of the cafe if round rooms do have corners and spotted a giant squashy armchair with a table made from a chunk of tree trunk next to it you made your way over and sunk deeply into the comfort of the cafe a comfortable chair noticing how it hugged your body and supported your weight you never remember feeling so comfortable in your whole life not only did the chair take your physical weight it seemed to absorb some of your mental worries and settle your emotions too as you settled into your seat you noticed that the air was filled with a soft murmur of conversation the patrons were chatting about everything from the latest spells and potions to the newest fairy tales and legends you could hear snippets of laughter and excitement and every so often a burst of magic would light up the room although you arrived alone you knew that this was a place of comfort and belonging you knew you were wanted here and if you had needed any one of these friendly creatures would lend a hand or an ear the scent of cinnamon and cloves wafted from the kitchen making your mouth water you heard the clinking of teacups and the sizzling of something delicious on the stove you felt the warmth of the fire on your skin and the softness of the cushions beneath you it was as if you were wrapped up in a cosy blanket of magic and comfort after a few moments a kind wrinkled old witch approached you offering you a steaming mug of spiced apple cider the steam rising from the mug seemed to have a pearlescent quality to it and when you breathed it in it cleansed your nose, Throat and lungs spreading warmth and contentment throughout your body you took a sip and felt that warm comforting glow continue to spread through your body and you began to relax even further letting your mind wander and dance with the flames in the fire as you sat there sipping your cider and listening to the chatter around you you began to feel a sense of peace wash over you the stress and worries of the outside world faded away replaced by a feeling of contentment and tranquility as the afternoon turned into evening you found yourself growing more and more sleepy the gentle atmosphere of the cafe lulled you into a peaceful state of mind and before you knew it you were nodding off in your chair the last thing you heard before drifting off was the soft rustle of pages turning and the distant sound of a lullaby and as you closed your eyes you felt a sense of gratitude for this little haven of magic and warmth nestled in the heart of the forest sweet dreams Friends of the Forest Once upon a time in a far off land there was a magical forest the trees in the forest were ancient and wise and they were said to possess magical powers it was a place of great beauty where the light filtered through the leaves to create a dappled enchanted glow the rumours were through the ages that within the bark and leaves and branches the trees possessed healing powers and many people believed that spending time in the forest could help to soothe the mind, Body and spirit it was home to many hidden paths and secret glades making it an exciting place to explore and discover new things it was a place of wonder and magic that had the power to captivate and enchant all those who entered it the forest was home to many creatures big and small, Mysterious and enchanted one of those creatures was a young doe named Mavis Mavis was a kind and gentle creature who loved to roam the forest and explore one day, As Mavis was wandering through the forest she stumbled across a clearing in the middle of the clearing stood a large and ancient oak tree this formidable tree was unlike any other in the forest with wide branches that stretched out in all directions it had lived through many seasons and countless years the tree had seen much and had grown to be very large and strong its thick boughs and gnarled bark provided a home and shelter to many creatures in the forest the trunk had deep grooves and ridges that told the story of its long life this mighty oak held a sense of wisdom and serenity about it making it a peaceful and calming place to be its presence was also different from the other trees as it seemed to have a stronger connection to the land and the forest around it Mavis was awestruck by the magical aura of the tree she decided to take a closer look she carefully approached the tree she noticed that there was a small hollow at the base of the trunk the hollow looked like it would be the perfect place to rest and take a nap Mavis settled down in the hollow and closed her eyes as she drifted off to sleep she felt a sense of peace and contentment wash over her the sound of the wind rustling through the trees and the gentle sway of the branches rocked her to sleep as Mavis slept in the hollow of the ancient oak tree she dreamt of all the wonderful things she had seen and experienced in the forest she dreamed of the babbling brooks and the colourful flowers of the playful squirrels and the majestic eagles she dreamt of the sunsets, The warm rays of the sun the cool breeze and the gentle sway of the branches Mavis thought about the different seasons the lush green leaves of summer the orange, Red and yellow leaves of autumn the bare branches of winter and the new buds of spring she dreamt of all the different animals she had met the butterflies, The bees, The birds and the rabbits she dreamt of the different scents of the forest the pine needles, The wild berries, The wood smoke and the decay of the damp earth Mavis's mind drifted to her friends the other deer, Animals and mysterious creatures she had met in the forest and how they all lived together in harmony she remembered the adventures and the explorations she had made the hidden paths and secret glades she had discovered and how it felt to be free and wild her dream was a reflection of her love and connection to the forest the memories and experiences she had gathered and how it had shaped her as an individual it was a dream that made her feel peaceful and content and connected to the nature around her when she woke, She felt refreshed and rejuvenated she knew that the ancient oak tree would always be a special place for her a place where she could go to rest and dream and so Mavis thanked the tree and set off to continue her adventures Books in the Attic You lean the trusty old ladder up against the ledge of the attic hatch we call it a loft in the UK by the way but for the purpose of the story I'm going to call it an attic and test it for its sturdiness on the landing floor you've got to go up there at some point and clear some space ready for the roof work so it may as well be today while you have some free time lantern in hand, You ascend the steps one by one and rest the light on one of the higher steps that you haven't reached yet with a free hand, You push the hatch lid off and into the attic which sends a little plume of dust along down with the rush of warm air taking a quick peek, You continue up the steps now with your lantern in your hand ready to hook onto the nail sticking out of one of the nearby beams that the previous owner must have hammered in for that exact purpose many years ago the old bulb casts a warm soft glow over all of the bags and boxes piled high in your attic it's a bit messier than you remember but that's what attics are for aren't they? You think back and you can't really remember anyone having a perfect looking attic it's comfortably messy though, You don't mind and that smell, The dusty warm scent of familiar belongings that haven't been moved around much gives you that content feeling getting your footing on the supporting joists you take a look around you here's where everything you've ever collected rests ready to be picked through when you need that old camping gear or Christmas decorations at the end of the year you can spot the tree, The tinsel and the baubles in their marked boxes you still can't believe it all fits inside that old sound bar packaging you saved there are suitcases filled with boxes that you can't bear to part with bin bags of old clothes and of course piles of your old childhood toys you told yourself that at some point when you make the time you'll hang some shelves and arrange your old favourites on them to display you smile at the idea of bringing all that nostalgia down into the rest of your house to enjoy looking at for now, You know you need to focus on clearing some of it out of the way so that when the workers come to repair that little spot on the roof they'll have room to move about there's no windows up here like some of the bigger, Older houses so you'll have to rely on the light from your lantern to organise the mess into piles you decide that it makes most sense to move some of the smaller items out of the way into the deeper parts of the attic and then take down boxes and bags that are closest to the hatch first to clear a little path you set to work, Shifting piles of old magazines tubs of lego clothes packed into vacuum sealed bags and boxes of random cables until there's a bit more room to move about it doesn't take long and the warm attic isn't stifling like you anticipated it's a comforting sort of warmth a contrast to the sharp air of early spring outside you're getting close to the spot where the repairs need doing now and this is where a lot of your childhood belongings are stored you catch your breath for a moment and kneel down to get a closer look at everything you run your hand over the tattered cardboard reading the labels school written on one toys on another and one that doesn't have anything written on it at all you can't help but let your curiosity get the better of you and tear off the sticky tape holding the unmarked box shut it's a bit tricky considering its age and the fact it's been taped over several times by the looks of things you pick at the edges and finally get it open it looks like loads of old books stacked up in a pile and some filling the spare spaces around it your old books! You treasured these as a little kid remembering how proudly you organised them on your little bookshelf in your bedroom you can instantly smell that old book smell like the scent of the old second hand bookshop in town sort of a dusty decay smell but a pleasant one, Not damp you start picking up each title turning them over to marvel at the old cover designs some have cheerful printed images faded with time others have leather covers and gold writing you leaf through your old favourites the pretty illustrations and passages instantly taking you back to your younger years when you'd sit on your beanbag chair surrounded by teddy bears reading until bedtime and of course there were the books you read as you reached your teenage years too the novels with dog-eared corners and spell books with some of the corners folded down to mark the important parts a box filled with memories from different points in your life as you reach the very bottom of the box a thin, Fabric-bound book catches your eye and you pull it out you don't remember owning it it looks like the oldest book in the box by far perhaps it was one of your gran's old books mixed in with yours the olive green cover is a little worn at the edges but you can still make out the navy and emerald painting of a mermaid on the front with the words The Sandman's Hour by Abbey Phillips Walker intrigued, You pull a moving blanket onto the floor to make a comfy spot to sit and in the dim but comfy glow of the lantern you open the cover and begin to leaf through the yellowed pages the binding is a little fragile so you take care not to detach the pages from the threads the first story you settle on is called Mr Possum Mr Possum lived in a tree in the woods where Mr Bear lived and one morning just before spring Mr Possum awoke very hungry he ran around to Mr Squirrel's house and tried to get an invitation to breakfast but Mr Squirrel had only enough for himself he knew that Mr Possum always lived on his neighbours when he could so he said, Of course you have been to breakfast long ago Mr Possum you are such a smart fellow so I will not offer you any Mr Possum of course said he had and that he only dropped in to make a call he was on his way to Mr Rabbit's house but he met with no better success at Mr Rabbit's for he only put his nose out of the door and when he saw who was there said I am as busy as I can be getting ready for my spring planting will you come in and help sort seeds? Mr Rabbit knew the easiest way to be rid of Mr Possum was to ask him to work I would gladly help you replied Mr Possum but I am in a great hurry this morning I have some important business with Mr Bear and I only stop to say how do you do Mr Bear I am afraid will not be receiving today said Mr Rabbit it is rather early for him to be up isn't it? I thought as the sun was nice and warm he might venture out and I thought it would please him to have me there to welcome him said Mr Possum besides that I wish to see him on business now Mr Possum knew well enough that Mr Bear would not be up he wanted to find him sleeping and soundly too he went to the door and knocked softly then he waited and as he did not hear any moving inside he went to a window and looked in there was Mr Bear's chair and pipe just as he had left them when he went to bed he looked in the bedroom window and he could see in the bed a big heap of bed clothes and just the tiniest tip of Mr Bear's nose Mr Possum listened and he trembled a little for he could hear Mr Bear breathing very loud and it sounded anything but pleasant oh he is sound asleep for another week said Mr Possum what is the use of being afraid? He walked around the house until he came to the pantry window then he stopped and raised the sash he put in one foot and sat on the sill and listened all was still so he slid off to the floor Mr Possum looked around Mr Bear's well filled pantry he did not know where to begin he was so hungry he became so interested and was so greedy that he forgot all about that he was in Mr Bear's pantry and he stayed on and on and ate and ate then he fell asleep and the first thing he knew a pair of shining eyes were looking in the window and a big head with a red mouth full of long white teeth was poked into the pantry Mr Possum thought his time had come so he just closed his eyes and pretended he was dead but he peeked a little so as to see what happened the big head was followed by a body and when it was on the sill Mr Possum saw it was Mr Fox and the next thing he knew Mr Fox came off the sill with a bang and hit a pan of beans and then knocked over a jar of preserves the noise was enough to awaken all the bears for miles around and Mr Possum was frightened nearly to death for he heard Mr Bear growling in the next room while Mr Fox was on the floor and trying to get up on his feet Mr Possum jumped up and was out of the window like a flash Mr Fox saw something but he did not know what and before he could make his escape the door of the pantry opened and there stood Mr Bear with a candle in his hand looking in oh ho! He growled so you are trying to rob me while I'm taking my sleep and he sprang at Mr Fox wait, Wait, Wait! Said Mr Fox let me explain my dear Mr Bear you are mistaken I was trying to protect your home I saw your window open and knew you were asleep and when I got in the window the thief attacked me and nearly killed me and now you are blaming me for it you are most ungrateful I shall know another time what to do Mr Bear looked at him his mouth did not show any signs of food and Mr Fox opened his mouth and told him to look I wonder who it could have been he said when he was satisfied that Mr Fox was not the thief it may have been that Possum fellow I'll go over to his house in the morning the next morning Mr Bear called on Mr Possum he found him sleeping soundly and when he at last opened the door he was rubbing his eyes as though he was not half awake why, How do you do? He said when he saw Mr Bear I did not suppose you were up yet you didn't? Asked Mr Bear and then he stared at Mr Possum's coat what's the matter with your coat? He asked you have white hairs sticking out all over you and the rest of your coat is almost white too now Mr Possum had a black coat before and he ran to the mirror and looked at himself it was true, He was almost white he knew what had happened he was so frightened when he was caught in Mr Bear's pantry by Mr Fox and he heard Mr Bear growl that he had turned nearly white with fright I've been terribly ill he told Mr Bear going back to the door I've been here all alone this winter it was a terrible sickness I guess that is what has caused it Mr Bear went away shaking his head that fellow is crafty he said I feel sure he was the thief and yet he certainly does look sick after that all the opossums were of dull white colour with long white hairs scattered here and there over their fur they were never able to outgrow the mark the thieving Mr Possum left upon his race what a fun little story you think and then flick through the pages to land on another story to see if somehow it will jog your memory of this book and up to this point you're pretty sure you've never read it before you land next on The Mirror's Dream and scan read the first line how fun that this should be the story of an old attic when I'm up here doing mine The Mirror's Dream the very idea of putting me in the attic said the little old fashioned table as it spread out both leaves in a gesture of despair I have stood in the parlour downstairs for fifty years and now I am consigned to the rubbish room and it dropped its leaves at its side with a sigh I was there longer than that said the sofa many a courtship I have helped along what do you think of me? Asked an old mirror that stood on the floor leaning against the wall to be brought to the attic after reflecting generation after generation all the famous beauties have looked into my face it is a degradation from which I can never recover this young mistress who has come here to live does not seem to understand the dignity of our position why I was in the family when her husband's grandmother was a girl and she has doomed me to a dusty attic to dream out the rest of my days the shadows deepened in the room and gradually the discarded mirror ceased to complain it had fallen asleep but later the moonlight streamed in through the window and showed that its dreams were pleasant ones for it dreamed of the old and happy days the door opened softly and a young girl entered her hair was dark and hung in curls over her white shoulders her dark eyes wandered over the room until she saw the old mirror she ran across the room and stood in front of it she wore a hoop skirt over which hung her dress of pale grey with tiny pink ruffles that began at her slender waist and ended at the bottom of her wide skirt tiny pink rose buds were dotted over the waist and skirt and she also wore them in her dark curls where one stray blossom bolder than the others rested against her soft cheek she stood before the mirror and gazed at her reflection a minute then she curtsied and said with a laugh I think you will do, He must speak tonight she seemed to fade away in the moonlight the door opened again and a lady entered and with her came five handsome children they went to the mirror and one little girl with dark curls and pink cheeks went close and touched it with her finger look! She said to the others I look just like the picture of mother when she was a girl and as they stood there a gentleman appeared beside them and put his arm around the lady and the children gathered around them they seemed to walk along the moonlight path and disappear through the window softly the door opened again and an old lady entered leaning on the arm of an old gentleman they walked to the mirror and he put his arms around her and kissed her with a cheek you are always young and fair to me he said and her face smiled into the depths of the old mirror the moonlight made a halo around their heads as they faded away the morning light streamed in through the window and the mirror's dream was ended by and by the door opened and a young girl came into the room her dark hair was piled high on her head and her dark eyes looked over the room until they fell upon a chest in the corner she went to it and opened it and took out a pale grey dress with pink ruffles she put it on and she let down her hair which fell in curls over her shoulders she ran to the old mirror and looked at herself I do look like grandmother she said I will wear this to the old folks party tonight grandfather proposed to grandmother the night she wore this dress her cheeks turned very pink as she said this and she ran out of the room then one day the door opened again and a bride entered leaning on the arm of her young husband there were tears in her eyes although she was smiling she led him in front of the old mirror this old mirror she said has seen all the brides in our family for generations and I am going far away and may never look into it again my brother's wife does not want it downstairs and I may be the last bride it will ever see and she passed her hand over its frame caressingly and then she went away and the old mirror was left to its dreams for many years then one day the door opened again and a lady entered with her was a young girl the lady looked around the attic room until she saw the mirror there it is she said come and look in it dear the young girl followed her the last time I looked into this dear old mirror the lady said was the day your father and I were married I never expected to have it for my own then but your uncle's wife wants to remodel the house and these things are in the way she does not want old fashioned things and they are willing I should have them oh mother they are beautiful said the girl looking around the room we will never part with them we will take them to our home and make them forget they were ever discarded and so the mirror and the sofa and the table and many other pieces of bygone days went to live where they were loved and the old mirror still reflects dark haired girls and ladies who smile into its depths and see its beauty as well as their own you sit for a moment thinking again about all the stories the items around you hold what would have been the last thing they would have each heard or seen before being stored up here and having blankets thrown over them you sit in a bit of a daze for a few minutes your mind drifting to this and that before settling on one more story from the little olive coloured book tearful once upon a time there was a little girl named tearful because she cried so often if she could not have her own way she cried if she could not have everything for which she wished she cried her mother told her one day that she would melt away in tears if she cried so often you were like the boy who cried for the moon she told her and if it has been given to him it would have not made him happy for what possible use could the moon be to anyone out of its proper place and that is the way with you half the things for which you cry would be of no use to you if you got them tearful did not take warning or heed her mother's words of wisdom and kept on crying just the same one morning she was crying as she walked along to school because she wanted to stay at home when she noticed a frog hopping along beside her why are you following me she asked looking at him through her tears because you will soon form a pond around you with your tears replied the frog and I have always wanted a pond all to myself I shall not make any pond for you said tearful and I do not want you following me either the frog continued to hop along beside her and tearful stopped crying and began to run but the frog hopped faster and she could not get away from him so she began to cry again go away you horrid green frog she said at last she was so tired she sat on a stone by the roadside crying all the time now replied the frog I shall soon have my pond tearful cried harder than ever then she could not see her tears fell so fast and by and by she heard a splashing sound she opened her eyes and saw water all around her she was on a small island in the middle of the pond the frog hopped out of the pond making a terrible grimace as he sat down beside her I hope you are satisfied said tearful you have your pond why don't you stay in it alas replied the frog I have wished for something which I cannot use now that I have it your tears are salt and my pond which I have all by myself is so salty I cannot enjoy it if only your tears had been fresh I should have been a most fortunate fellow you needn't stay if you don't like it said tearful and you needn't find fault with my tears either she said beginning to cry again stop stop cried the frog hopping about excitedly you will have a flood if you keep on crying tearful saw the water rising around her so she stopped a minute what shall I do she asked I cannot swim and I will die if I have to stay here and then she began to cry again the frog hopped up and down in front of her waving his front legs and telling her to hush if you would only stop crying he said I might be able to help you but I cannot do a thing if you cover me with your salt tears tearful listened and promised she would not cry if he would get her away from the island there is only one way that I know of said the frog you must smile that will dry the pond and we can escape but I do not feel like smiling said tearful and her eyes filled with tears again look out said the frog you will surely be drowned in your own tears if you cry again tearful began to laugh that would be strange wouldn't it to be drowned in my own tears she said that is right keep on smiling said the frog the pond is smaller already and he stood up on his hind legs and began to dance for joy tearful laughed again oh you are so funny she said I wish I had your picture I never saw a frog dance before you have a slate under your arm said the frog why don't you draw a picture of me the frog picked up a stick and stuck it in the ground and then he leaned on it with one arm or front leg and crossing his feet he stood very still tearful drew him in that position and then he kicked up his legs as if he were dancing and she tried to draw him that way but it was not a very good likeness do you like that she asked the frog when she held the slate for him to see he looked so surprised that tearful laughed again you did not think you were handsome did you she asked I had never thought I looked as bad as those pictures replied the frog let me try drawing your picture he said now look pleasant he said as he seated himself in front of tearful and do smile tearful did as he requested and in a few minutes he handed her the slate where is my nose asked tearful laughing oh I forgot the nose said the frog but you don't think your eyes are nice and large and your mouth too they are certainly big in this picture said tearful I hope I do not look just like that I do not think either of us are artists replied the frog tearful looked around her why where is the pond she asked it's gone I thought it would dry up if you would only smile said the frog and I think both of us have learned a lesson I shall never again wish for a pond of my own I should be lonely without my companions and then it might be salt just as this one was and you will surely never cry over little things again for you see what might happen to you I feel much happier smiling and I do not want to be on an island again even with such a pleasant companion as you were look out for the tears then said the frog as he hopped away on that note you shut the book thinking about what a funny little story about friendship that was you're sure you've never heard it before but it was very sweet and a nice message all the same in a bit of a daze you pop the book back in its box where you found it and close the flaps you figure time must be getting on and you were only supposed to be up here to clear a little space for when the repair people come never mind you've done most of it now to finish the job you grab those boxes the ones labeled school, Toys and the blank one that contains all your books and carefully bring them down from the attic one by one you're surprised that on descending the ladder it seems to be getting dark the bright sun is now low casting warmer colors through the windows like when logs in a fire have burned down to embers it's a cozy sort of light a light that makes you want to switch the lamps on in the house and start cooking something comforting for dinner which you think it must be about time for grabbing your lantern and shutting the hatch you come back down to the landing and down the stairs how dusty your clothes are what a perfect excuse to get into something more cozy your dressing gown perhaps and make a comfy spot on the sofa first you head to the kitchen pull out some veggies from the cupboard under the drainer and begin chopping with a heavy pan on the heat you add a little bit of butter fry off some onions and let the savory smell mingle with the comforting dusty smell of the attic that's on your clothes crumble your plump orange cat weaves between your legs as you prepare food purring his joy at having some company after a day on the sofa fast asleep you'll pop some biscuits in his bowl after in a few moments you've added the celery, The leeks, Peas, Mushrooms, Carrots and potatoes to the pot along with some stock your stomach rumbles loudly after all you've been upstairs for a long while with a twist of a bunch of dried herbs you grew yourself added in for good measure you pop a lid on the pot and turn it down to a simmer you take a moment to appreciate the fact that you got what you needed done in the attic dinner's smelling moorish already and you're off to have a nice hot shower while it simmers down into a thick gravy and soft sweet veggies you should feel proud of that plus you indulged in some forgotten childhood tales too Bicky's in the cat bowl satisfy Crumble as he trots straight to it at the tinkle of the kibble hitting the ceramic and now all you have to do is get comfy and relax with your meal after you've washed the attic smell and dust away what a perfectly contented end to a productive day The End Postcards from the village junk shop it started as one of those slow open-ended afternoons that seemed to stretch out like a cat basking in the sunshine you'd taken the number 47 bus into the village the one that rattles along the country lanes and stops wherever someone raises their hand there wasn't any real reason for the trip just one of those restless days where you feel like stretching your legs somewhere that isn't home for a change the main street was mostly empty apart from a few people sitting at the outdoor tables of Mabel's cafe their teacups clinking gently against saucers as they chatted in low voices an elderly man in a flat cap sat on an old stone bench by the war memorial breaking up a crusty roll for the pigeons that gathered hopefully at his feet one particularly bold pigeon had perched on the bench beside him cocking its head as if it could understand what he was saying you wandered past the bakery where the windows were still fogged from the morning's baking the florist next door to it had propped open her green painted door and trails of ivy spilled from wooden crates stacked outside as you walked following no particular path a comforting smell drew you onward is it lemon oil on old wood? The scent led you to a narrow shop squeezed between the post office and a house with lace net curtains the shop front was painted a faded powder blue that might have once been a bold cornflower hue but now looked softly worn like denim washed too many times someone had written bits and bobs in curling script on a wooden sign that hung slightly crooked beside the door below it a smaller placard announced postcards ten pence each in simpler block letters the door stood propped open with one of those heavy antique irons when you pushed the door wider it creaked on hinges that needed oil and a small brass bell above jingled with the sound like distant church bells just a moment called a voice from somewhere in the depths of the shop followed by the sound of something being carefully set down inside the air was warm and still holding the accumulated scents of decades moth balls, Oiled leather and old paper with undertones of lavender from a small ceramic bowl of dried flowers sitting on the glass counter dust motes danced in the strips of sunlight that slanted through the front window where a large tabby cat had arranged itself among a display of vintage jewellery boxes there we are said the voice and a woman emerged from behind a tower of stacked suitcases each one tied with a different colour ribbon she was perhaps sixty with short white hair that curled at the edges and reading glasses perched on her nose her cardigan was peppered with dust smudges and little ends of thread and she wiped her hands on her apron before extending one toward you I'm Margaret she said with a warm smile that creased the corners of her eyes don't mind the mess I've been sorting through an estate collection all morning fascinating what people keep isn't it have a good look around I'll be right here if you need anything just wrestling with a particularly stubborn jewellery box lock you nodded and stepped deeper into the shop immediately feeling like you'd wandered into someone's beloved cluttered attic the space was smaller than it first appeared but every inch was purposefully used shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling sagging slightly under the weight of their contents chipped but pretty teacups in mismatched patterns tarnished silver candlesticks that still held traces of old wax wooden toys with paint worn smooth by small hands and board games from decades past the sort that came with cardboard spinners held together with brass rivets and dice that had gone yellow with age a coat rack stood near the window hung with garments that smelled faintly of the attic air a navy pea coat with anchor buttons a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches burgundy scarves so soft it might have been cashmere underneath the front window an old wireless radio played something scratchy and instrumental too quiet to identify but comforting in the way that distant music always is like overhearing someone humming in another room your gaze eventually settled on the back corner where a round table with a faded green cloth held several long shallow boxes each box was carefully labelled in the same neat handwriting travel and scenic holiday greetings floral and garden humorous and simply blank cards, Various you pulled over a three-legged milking stool that had been tucked under a shelf and settled down at the table the boxes were well organised though the postcards within had the comfortable disorder of things that had been frequently handled and admired you began with travel and scenic letting your fingers brush against the smooth edges of the cards some were glossy others had that matte texture of older printing a few showed signs of their age corners bent, Edges softened surfaces slightly faded where they'd been stored in sunlight the first one you lifted showed the Grand Canyon in all its rust-coloured majesty the photograph taken from what must have been the South Rim viewpoint the edges were yellowing slightly and when you turned it over you found writing in careful blue ballpoint ink June 15, 1987 Dear Edna Well, You are absolutely right it really is even bigger than it looks on television Frank and I are both sunburnt despite the SPF 15 but we're happy as clams the motel we're staying at actually has its own ice machine right there in the hallway which feels very fancy tomorrow we're driving to the Painted Desert I'll send another card from there All my love, Ruth You found yourself smiling as you set it aside picturing Ruth and Frank squinting into the desert sun Ruth's careful penmanship as she sat at a small motel table with a view of the parking lot The next card showed a lighthouse perched on rocky cliffs in Maine dramatic waves frozen mid-crash against the rocks below The back revealed a different story Day four of our romantic getaway got food poisoning on the second night never, Ever trust a seafood buffet no matter how good the lobster looks Bob's been a saint, Bringing me ginger ale and crackers Still, When I can keep my eyes open long enough the view from our B&B window really is spectacular Wish you were here, But not really because then you'd be sick too XOXO, Janet P. S. The lighthouse keeper's wife makes the most incredible blueberry scones You chuckled quietly, Imagining poor Janet trying to appreciate the rugged Maine coast between bouts of nausea As you continued through the box, Each card revealed its own small story There were postcards from Paris showing the Eiffel Tower at night writing on the back in enthusiastic but shaky handwriting Climbed to the second level today My knees are killing me, But it was worth every step A card from Rome featured the Colosseum with a message that simply read Marcus would have loved this. Miss you dear One from Brighton showed the famous pier with its message written in a child's careful capitals Dear Grandma We saw seagulls and I fed one a chip and Dad said I shouldn't, But it was funny Love, Alice You could almost see small Alice, Probably seven or eight solemnly composing her message while her parents packed up their beach things A postcard from Sydney featured the Opera House at sunset its message more businesslike The conference is going well The hotel room overlooks the harbour which helps make up for being away from home for so long Flying back Thursday. See you soon, David Some postcards were more whimsical Blackpool Tower with actual glitter glued to the edges now mostly fallen away but leaving a faint sparkle in the creases One from the Lake District showed a photograph of sheep in a stone-walled field A quick reading Walk twelve miles today through the most beautiful countryside My boots are filthy and I've never been happier The sheep here are ridiculously fluffy M Others were more mysterious A card showing a generic sunset over a lake with just the words I'm sorry written in black ink No address, No signature, No date You found yourself holding this one a little longer wondering about the story it didn't tell From the holiday greetings box you pulled cards with vintage Christmas scenes Snow-covered cottages Victorian children building snowmen Father Christmas in his traditional red coat Most were unused but one showed signs of having been carefully stored away Christmas 1962 For our first Christmas as husband and wife All my love always, Tommy The card showed a simple nativity scene, Peaceful and traditional The blank cards box held treasures of a different sort These were postcards chosen for their images alone Heavy card stock with embossed edges Professional photography, Artistic illustrations A sepia photograph of a small boy in shorts holding a fishing rod standing beside a country stream A watercolour painting of red poppies in a field The artist's signature just visible in the corner A whimsical illustration of a cow wearing sunglasses and a sun hat sitting in a beach chair Each one was a small work of art waiting for someone to find the perfect words for its back The shop grew quieter as you sat there The sounds of the street outside fading to a gentle murmur Margaret had returned to her work behind the counter and you could hear the occasional soft click of tools against metal as she worked on her stubborn jewellery box The cat in the window had moved now stretched out fully in a patch of afternoon sun that had moved across the sill The radio continued its gentle soundtrack You thought you might have recognised it from an old film something romantic and a bit sad Time seemed to slow and stretch You found yourself reading each postcard carefully imagining the hands that had written them the places they'd been the people who had received them Some made you smile others made you pause thoughtfully A few, Particularly the ones with no message at all made you feel a gentle sadness for stories left untold You marvelled at the stamps and postmarks of all shapes, Sizes and dates imagining each postcard on its journey in a postman's bicycle bag or among thousands of other letters in a train carriage After what felt like an hour but might have been less you realised you'd unconsciously created a small pile beside your elbow seven postcards in total four four that had been written on three that were blank There was no particular logic to your selection just a collection of cards that had spoken to something in you the Grand Canyon card from Ruth the Lighthouse card from sick but determined Janet a blank card with a photograph of an old stone bridge over a quietly flowing river another with a cheery cottage illustration and an old poem in a West Country dialect spelled out in block letters You gathered them up and approached the counter where Margaret looked up from her jewellery box with a satisfied expression Success, She announced The mechanism was just stuck with old grime These old pieces just need a gentle touch, You know Now then, She said focusing on your small collection that's a lovely selection you've made She examined each card briefly These ones all came from the same estate sale, Actually A gentleman from the next village over, Mr Henshaw His daughter said he kept everything in perfect order all sorted by date and destination Apparently he travelled quite a bit when he was younger and then later he just collected them Sometimes he'd buy them from other shops like this one or from church jumble sales I think he enjoyed the stories they told Margaret's hands moved efficiently as she spoke wrapping your postcards in brown paper that had been saved from some other purchase She tied the bundle with white string her fingers making neat loops as she secured the bow You know, She said as she handed the package across the counter there's a proper electric kettle in the back room and I always keep a tin of decent biscuits You're welcome to sit and have a cup while you look through more of the boxes I find people often discover things they didn't know they were looking for when they take their time The offer was genuinely tempting You could picture yourself settled in whatever cosy back room Margaret had arranged A cup of tea warming your hands while you explored more of Mr Henshaw's carefully preserved collection But your feet were beginning to ache in your walking shoes and there was something appealing about the idea of taking these particular postcards home of reading them again in your own chair in your own time without the pressure of discovery It's very kind you said tucking the bundle into your coat pocket where it settled with a satisfying weight I think I'll save that pleasure for another visit Margaret smiled a kind of smile that suggested she understood completely They'll be here, She said Though I should warn you Mr Henshaw's collection fills six more boxes You might need to plan for a longer visit next time As you stepped back onto the street the light had shifted into that golden hour that makes even the most mundane village street look like a painting The sun sat lower in the sky casting longer shadows and turning the stone buildings warm amber The man with the pigeons had gone leaving only a few scattered crumbs and the memory of his patient kindness The cafe across the street was preparing to close with the last customers lingering over their final cups of tea You began walking slowly back toward the bus stop one hand resting on the package in your pocket The brown paper crackled gently with each step a sound that belonged to lazy Sunday afternoons and carefully preserved treasures Already you were imagining where you might place these postcards One on the fridge door, Perhaps, To be read while waiting for the kettle to boil Another repurposed as a bookmark to be rediscovered weeks later like a note from a friend Maybe you'd even send one of the blank cards to someone continuing the circle of small connections that postcards were meant to create The number 47 bus rounded the corner just as you reached the stop its engine puttering quietly As you settled into a seat by the window watching the village recede into the countryside You thought about Mr Henshaw and his carefully organised collection about Ruth and Frank squinting into the Grand Canyon sun about little Alice feeding chips to seagulls despite her father's protests about Margaret patiently coaxing old jewellery boxes back to life in her cluttered shop All these small stories preserved on pieces of card that had travelled from hand to hand place to place carrying with them fragments of ordinary lives lived fully As you rest now think of that little junk shop still sitting quietly on its corner street its blue paint catching the last light of afternoon Margaret is probably still there working through more boxes from Mr Henshaw's estate the radio playing softly while the tabby cat dreams in the window The postcards remain in their neat boxes each one holding its small story waiting for the next curious wanderer to discover them Think of the weight of your own small collection the cool touch of the old cardstock the ink faded just enough to suggest time's gentle passage In our lives it's easy to overlook these small objects that carry stories but they're everywhere folded into the corners of ordinary days waiting for us to slow down enough to notice them The postcards you chose today will find places in your life becoming part of your own story even as they preserve the stories of others Ruth's enthusiasm Janet's resilience Alice's joy all these moments captured and shared remind us that every day contains small adventures worth recording worth remembering and worth passing on Now close your eyes rest these postcards have travelled far to reach you and tomorrow you'll wake up and continue your own journey Sweet dreams It's the quaint shops all higgledy-piggledy lined up along a cobbled street or maybe it's how proud and pretty the community flowerbeds look around the bandstand The people though that's what really makes a village all the characters that weave their own little tales about how they know so-and-so or what this shop used to be decades ago never shy to nod their head and wish you a good morning or lovely weather isn't it even if you're a new face And on this particular day as you're making your way past the sewing shop the haberdashery and the little bakery with its delicious bready smells wafting out of the door a group of teenagers just opened you happen across an old fashioned post office you know the kind not the industrial feeling city centre post office with its concrete exterior and sleek modern posters but the oldy-worldy kind a weathered sort of brick building with a cheerful red awning over the front door and window It looks more gift shop than mail centre painted on a wooden sandwich board in wobbly cursive is stationery supplies delicious coffee and trinkets three of your favourite things nestled under one quaint little roof yes please you have a little bit of spending money tucked away in your bag to treat yourself with after all that's what this little holiday is all about isn't it just a little nose round see if you can find a nice postcard to add to your collection or a fresh new notepad you push the door inward and the bell tinkles to announce your arrival from sunny and blustery outside to dim and cosy you take a quick look around to see what you make of the place it's not really like any post office you've been in although it reminds you of the little one on the top of that steep hill in town where you grew up shelves from floor to ceiling bursting with rolls of tape balls of twine envelopes in all sizes and pens in every colour an old lady inspects little packages of washi tape deciding which to buy as a gift perhaps one of those spinning stands featuring funny cards and postcards all by local artists seems to have attracted a boy and a girl they're stifling giggles at one of the silly doodles on the front and the inviting smells of coffee and pastries you can honestly say you've never stepped foot in a post office with its own little tea room over the other side is where food and drinks are served presumably there are tables and chairs none of which match dotted about in a cramped, Cosy sort of way canisters of loose leaf tea all stacked neatly along a shelf behind the counter a glass display proudly showing off homemade cakes, Danishes and cookies one of those posh coffee machines whirring after having delivered a frothy looking coffee to a customer they're carrying it over to one of the tables and there's what you'd expect from a post office of course a row of high counters with a pane of glass in front of each surrounded by leaflets for currency exchange and postage prices, That sort of thing there's something a little funny about the one in the corner though it's painted a different colour to the rest a whimsical purple on the counter top is a little box with a slot in the top it's got something written on it you move closer so you can make it out worries, How odd and now you see it a large cork notice board covering the back wall curiously it has worry mail community notice board written across the top in big handwritten loopy font what is that? You take a few steps closer to the board instinctively clasping your hands behind your back as you lean in as though the act of reading someone's private thoughts should be done with reverence the notes are all written in the same neat swooping handwriting but each on a different kind of pastel paper or card carefully pinned with a little silver thumbtack some are lined, Others dotted or plain there's even one written on the back of a recipe card the ingredients for a treacle tart peeking through faintly behind the words each card has a number in the corner 17, 42, 58 that one has a tiny drawing of a teacup at the bottom you scan the notes, Not in a nosy way but with a kind of gentle curiosity 31, I've just moved here and I haven't made any friends yet I feel silly for thinking I would fit in quickly 49, My cat passed and my house feels so empty without her 12, My grandchild is struggling at school and I don't know how to help some are longer, Some are just a single line one simply says, Five, I feel lonely your throat catches a little it's strange isn't it, How such a small sentence can feel so large there's an instruction card too, To help you make sense of all this it reads, The worry mail community notice board is our village's way to give back to those who might need a helping hand to feel better in tough times it's anonymous and available for anyone to use we hope that it spreads kindness and love to all you never know what someone is going through how to use for worriers 1. If you have a worry, Please write on a slip on the purple counter and pop it in the box 2. Each night, Our clerks will write up your worry and pin it to the notice board the following day this is to keep all handwriting anonymous, So you don't feel shy or silly to share and so we can assign your worry a number 3. Anyone who passes through our post office can choose your card off the board and it can be chosen an unlimited number of times during the week that it remains on the board we give each note a week to make it fair for all worriers 4. Then keep an eye on your letterbox givers send postcards, Greeting cards, Letters and care packages through us and we forward it on anonymously to you for givers 1. The world can feel tough and unfair and you can help spread love and kindness to any of our worriers simply choose a worry card from the board, Either by noting down their number or taking a photo with your phone 2. Think about what the person might need right now a long letter to share your experience a cheerful greeting card or even a small care package to show you care 3. Once you have written your letter or packaged your parcel take it to the purple counter our designated worry clerk will process your postage and put it aside, Ready to be mailed to encourage givers and worriers we have contributed to the price of worry mail and subsidised the cost of stamps meaning the price of all worry mail is one penny for letters and five pennies for packages thank you worriers and givers we appreciate you making the world a better place what a lovely idea have you ever seen something like this before? Well now you know exactly what to spend some of your money on you glance around the shop again nobody is watching you the old lady has chosen her washi tapes and is now chatting to the girl behind the till laughing softly about how she always buys more than she needs the kids are gone and someone else is admiring the cakes under a glass dome maybe, Just maybe you could pick one offer something gentle something kind something that could let a stranger know they've been heard you select one from the board number 31, The one about making new friends and scribble the number gently on a piece of paper and pop it in your coat pocket and you turn your attention to the stationery corner it's a treasure trove racks of notebooks in every size and colour stickers in neat little packets some with animals, Others with flowers or stars there are writing sets too matching paper and envelopes some with botanical prints others with sleepy looking bears and rabbits in woolly scarves you pick up a little bundle wrapped in twine a writing kit with pressed flower designs and a pencil that smells faintly of lavender maybe just one trinket you spot a little enamel pin shaped like a teapot with take things slow written in loopy gold letters it feels right, A good luck charm for someone starting fresh after you've chosen your items you make your way over to the tea room side and order a hot drink and a toasted tea cake with butter the woman behind the counter gives you a warm smile as she prepares your tray you sit down at a corner table the seat cushion mismatched and a little squishy your drink steams gently in front of you and outside you can just see the wind tugging at the edges of the red awning and the busy street bustling with villagers and tourists you take out the crumpled paper from your pocket and read it again, Carefully before setting it down beside your stationery then you begin to write not rushed, Not perfectly just sincerely you picture the person behind the note imagine them standing in a hallway of doors unsure which to knock on their hands in their pockets fidgeting with nerves and hopes and a small crumpled bus ticket so you write them a letter like you'd want to receive kind, Steady, Like a cuppa in envelope form you start with Hi, I saw your worry today I just wanted to say, I think you're doing something really brave and you carry on from there talking about how beginnings often feel like endings at first how unfamiliar streets become landmarks you tell them how courage isn't loud or flashy it's just showing up anyway you seal the note and tuck a sticker on the back a tiny gold star because obviously they deserve one by now your drink is half gone and the butter on your tea cake has melted into sweet glistening craters you take a bite warm comforting exactly what today needed when you're ready you turn to the purple counter the woman behind it cardigan sleeve slightly pushed up gives you a knowing look and slides the wooden box toward you you slip the envelope into the gap it makes a soft sound as it lands like a page turning one penny, She says you give her the coin it feels like part of a ritual small, Sacred and gentle she offers you a receipt which you take politely only to discover it has a quote typed across the bottom every small kindness is a seed you never know what might bloom you smile, Folding it carefully and sliding it into your pocket not for records, Just to keep as you head toward the door you pass by the notice board again your eyes flick up 31 is still there but now you notice there's a tiny golden sticker on the corner someone else must have responded before you did and maybe someone else will again you step outside the red awning flaps softly and the wind is cooler than before but not cold just brisk enough to remind you that you're real you're here and you did something kind today as you walk back down the cobbled path you wonder what worry you'd write if it were you you imagine what advice someone might give you and you wonder who you'll write to next because you know that you will be back to the village post office solo camp in the wild hills it's late morning when you set off along the footpath your rucksack sitting snug against your back and your boots making soft thuds on the damp, Slightly gravelly ground the air's cool enough that every breath comes out in a little cloud and everything feels hushed you haven't seen a soul since setting out and the weather's quite chilly so you might be the only person for miles it's comforting though as you don't have any obligations nobody to answer to it's just you and the rolling countryside fog sits low across the hills drifting and shifting thinning out in patches where the sun's trying to get through the path curves uphill between old stone walls covered in moss you marvel at how they've clearly been there for decades maybe even hundreds of years and they're still standing though they look nothing more than stacked flat rocks bracken and tall weeds lean in from both sides brown and curling and every now and then a drop of water falls from one of the fronds and lands with a quiet tap on your sleeve it smells like soil and wet decaying leaves that slightly sweet, Smoky autumn smell that makes you want to take a nice, Big, Deep breath in you can hear sheep somewhere up ahead though you can't see them yet through the fog the sound is strangely comforting a reminder that even in all this mist and quiet there's life out here going about its business after all you keep walking your back bent forward a bit to combat the steepness of the hill and your pack creaking gently with the movement of your shoulders it's a steady rhythm the crunch of your boots on the path the soft give underfoot the occasional clink of a loose stone you're not in any hurry you've got everything you need with you tent, Camping stove, Sleeping bag and enough food for tonight you're looking forward to a nice warm meal already the cold air knows how to work up an appetite for now, You can rely on your trusty flask filled with your favourite hot drink to keep you going as you make your way up and down the hills after a while, The path dips down into a little hollow where some trees grow close together their branches dripping with dew you stop to adjust your scarf and as you do, A robin darts across the path in front of you a quick flash of orange-red and all that grey before disappearing into the brambles you smile to yourself watching the last bit of movement vanish into the undergrowth they say that seeing a robin means someone you loved is watching over you I wonder who yours is the ground here is soft covered in layers of leaves some are whole and golden others half-rotted, Sticking together in damp clumps you catch the smell of mushrooms nearby an earthy, Slightly fungal scent and sure enough, When you look to your right there's a little cluster growing at the base of a fallen birch pale beige caps, Edges curled up droplets of moisture caught on their surfaces like tiny beads you take out the little notebook from your coat pocket removing the stubby pencil from the spiral binding and kneel down to roughly sketch it maybe you'll add it into your journal or just keep it in there, Just like that with that thought you pick up a dried leaf too the best one you can find and wedge it between the pages to keep it flat and safe the air feels colder now and when you stand up again your breath comes out in thicker clouds you pull your hat down over your ears and carry on walking following the path as it leads uphill again winding between rocks and patches of heather by midday you're higher up the trees have thinned out to patches of scrub and gorse and the fog lifts a little as you reach the ridge a faint light breaks through silvery and weak, But still nice to see you stop for a rest slipping your pack from your shoulders and sitting on a low stone wall that runs along the side of the path when you unscrew the lid of your flask and pour some out the heat spreads into your hands at once and the first sip warms you from the inside it's quiet enough that you can hear the faint rustle of dry grass and the distant caw of a crow somewhere down in the valley then, High above, Another sound catches your attention a series of sharp cries, Moving fast you look up, And through the pale fog you spot them a flock of birds in formation, Heading south geese, It looks like they move like one thing, Wings flashing silver grey as they pass overhead for a few seconds you just stand there watching them your drink forgotten in your hand your face turned up to the sky you love seeing their little ceremony to mark the end of the warmer months and the beginning of the cold and you've been lucky enough to witness it when they've gone, The silence settles even deeper than before but it's a pleasant silence you shoulder your pack again and keep walking the day moves on quietly, Up and down gentle slopes through fields dotted with dry thistles and the occasional hawthorn bush bright with red berries a hare even darts out from the edge of the path and bounds across the hillside its white tail flashing before it disappears again into the long grass you stop and watch the spot where it vanished, Half hoping it'll reappear, But it doesn't by early afternoon, The ground begins to rise more steeply you can feel the pull in your thighs as you climb your breathing coming a bit heavier in the cold air the wind has picked up too, Bringing with it a smell of salt faint but unmistakable you're not far from the coast now, You can almost taste it you keep going until the land starts to level out again and that's when you see it a clearing tucked in among the hills shielded on three sides by trees and bushes open to the view on the fourth the ground is flat and dry the grass short and springy underfoot and just beyond the edge, The land drops gently away to reveal the distant coast you can see the faint shapes of cottages scattered across the landscape their rooftops small and pale against the patchwork of fields and moorlands you take off your pack and stand for a moment, Just breathing it all in the stillness the smell of the air the wide openness of it all this is perfect setting up the tent doesn't take long your hands know what they're doing pegs into the ground, Fabric clipped onto the poles the tent standing upright with a satisfying ripple as the breeze catches it you crawl inside for a quick check sleeping mat unrolled sleeping bag fluffed out and ready torch clipped to the little loop hanging from the roof it's already starting to feel like home that small sheltered space against all the vastness outside you sit for just a moment and it hits you how tired your body feels from hiking all day you're so grateful to have found this little idyllic clearing on the headland and at just the right time when you crawl back out you notice the light has changed from the weak silvery glow to softer and warmer, More golden around the edges of the fog you set up your folding chair just outside the tent, Facing the view and pull out your little camping stove the faint metallic clink of the ignition sounds loud in the quiet followed by the gentle hiss as the flame catches and settles into a steady blue ring you open a tin of soup with your Swiss army knife thick vegetable, The sort that's more like a stew really and pour it into your little pan the smell rises almost immediately rich and savoury, Mingling with the faint scent of heather and damp grass while it warms, You tear off a chunk of bread from the loaf you packed this morning it's a bit squashed from being in your rucksack all day but it makes it taste better rustic, Chewy and perfect for dipping you eat slowly, Blowing on each spoonful before it goes in your mouth watching the fog roll in low waves over the distant hills the warmth of the soup spreads through your chest and down into your stomach giving you a bit of a second wind it's a deep satisfaction in knowing you carried it all here yourself every bit of it, On your own back and you worked up an appetite in the cold to enjoy it even more when the pan's empty, You give it a quick rinse with water from your bottle shaking the droplets off into the grass then comes pudding makeshift s'mores the sort of thing you'd never bother with at home but that feels exactly right out here you crumble a few digestive biscuits into the pan to make a sort of base sprinkle a handful of chocolate chips over the top and drop a few marshmallows on they start to melt almost at once the chocolate going all glossy the marshmallows turning sticky and golden around the edges of the pan you stir it all together with your spoon until it forms a warm, Sweet mess and eat it straight from the pan it tastes wonderful you're getting pretty sleepy now your belly is full and the lovely hearty food has you so content that you can't imagine feeling any happier than you are right now you let your eyes slide out of focus your tongue running along the roof of your mouth to savour the last of the chocolatey goodness after you've rinsed it a second time you set the pan back on the stove with a little water in it to boil for tea as it heats you pull your blanket around your shoulders and sit back in the chair your legs stretched out in front of you the day is fading fast now as the afternoons are short this time of year the fog is turning from white to blue-grey and the horizon glows faintly where the sun is sinking hidden somewhere behind all that mist it never did come out all the way today but that's okay you warmed yourself with the long hike and the delicious hearty food when the water boils you pour it carefully into your mug watching the steam curl upward and disappear into the cold air it warms your hands as you hold the mug between your palms you sip slowly letting the quiet soak into you not thinking about much at all somewhere in the trees behind you a wood pigeon coos its soft rhythmic call a breeze stirs the branches and sends a few last leaves drifting down tumbling end over end before they land in the grass you can hear the rustle of dry stems a far-off sigh of wind moving across the hills and once or twice the faint bark of a fox calling out somewhere in the valley when the light has almost gone just a faint glow left on the horizon you tidy away what's left the pan, The mug, The chair everything gets stowed or wiped down or tucked away then you crawl into your tent zipping the door closed behind you you get ready for bed and then the sleeping bag welcomes you with its familiar rustle as you wriggle down into it pulling it up until only your face is poking out the air against your cheeks is cool but the rest of you is warm and cocooned you click off your lantern and lie still listening outside the night creates its own sort of lullaby the trees creak a little as they settle for the night somewhere nearby a small animal scurries through the undergrowth its movements quick and light the wind threads itself through the branches steady and low a constant backdrop to everything else you can feel the day's walk in your legs that pleasant heaviness that comes from real movement from fresh air and distance covered your body feels properly moved in the best way tired but content it makes sleep feel like a reward the warmth of your sleeping bag wraps around you and as you close your eyes you picture the fog outside thickening again hiding the hills, The coast the whole quiet world you've walked through today everything becomes still like the land itself has let out a long slow breath you breathe out once more and the last of your thoughts drift away with it tomorrow can wait for now you sleep the brambles in the garden you stand at the back door looking out at your garden the lawn is still green but covered in brown leaves from the cherry tree that started giving up its leaves a few weeks ago the air is cool on your face as you step outside and you can hear water dripping from the gutter after the rain earlier you've got a pair of secateurs in one hand and thick gloves tucked under your arm the job at hand is trimming back the brambles they've grown too far into the flower beds and across the lawn it seems like everyone in your street is experiencing this only a couple of days ago you noticed the lady on the corner's rosebush getting overtaken by the thick vines the blackberries are finished now you picked the last ones a week or two ago some sweet, Some sharp you remember plucking them and eating them straight off the vine with the purple juice staining your fingers now all that's left are just the stems long arching canes with thorns that catch on everything you pull the gloves on the leather is stiff but it moulds to your hands after a moment you know better than to do this without gloves some of the bigger thorns even manage to break through the thick leather sometimes that first cut is satisfying you press the secateurs against the thick stem and hear the crunch as it parts the cane falls to the ground the cut end smells faintly green though the air still smells mostly of damp leaves and earth you work your way along the patch, Cutting piece by piece the brambles cling to each other thorns hooked together so each one has to be pulled free very carefully the sound is snapping, Tearing, Rustling sometimes a cane comes loose suddenly and the dry leaves brush your arms the stems are heavier than they look when you lift them, They're thick with moisture from all the rain you toss them onto a pile at the side keeping them clear of the path your neighbour, Janet, Appears at the fence she's in her sixties, Always out in her garden tackling the brambles are you? She calls over yeah, Finally getting round to it, You say, Straightening up I should do mine, She says, Looking at her own tangle along the back wall though I keep telling myself they're good for the birds they are, You agree I saw a blackbird in there yesterday every time you mention blackbirds you think back to a few years ago when your cherry tree started sprouting out of where the thick hedge grows you mentioned it to someone who said it was probably nesting blackbirds that had dropped a cherry stone and then of course the rest was history still, They do take over, Don't they? She watches you work for a moment then says, I've got the kettle on if you want a cup after I might take you up on that, You say she goes back inside and you return to the brambles as you work, You notice details a few dried blackberries still cling to the higher stems those ones that you can't quite reach and they're shriveled and dark at the base there's a nest of dry leaves where something small has been through maybe a hedgehog you're careful not to disturb it too much just in case the brambles are a nuisance but they're not all bad in summer, The flowers were covered in bees you'd see butterflies landing on them opening and closing their wings slowly later, The berries fed the blackbirds and thrushes that came in from the hedge even now, The brambles shelter the wrens and robins but left alone, They'd take over the whole garden so you keep cutting, Pulling, Stacking there's a rhythm to it your breath makes small clouds in the air your body warms up with effort every so often, You pause and listen somewhere down the lane, A dog barks a wood pigeon leaves the cherry tree with a clatter of wings otherwise, It's just the wind in the hedge your partner opens the back door and leans out how's it going? Nearly there, You say you want a hand? I'm alright, Nearly done now they nod don't forget, We've got those bulbs to plant I know, I was thinking I'd put them here once this is cleared daffodils? Yeah they go back inside and de-finish the last few stems when you're done, There's a clear patch where the brambles were the soil looks raw and disturbed, But it'll settle the pile of cut stems looks almost like a war thorns tangled together, Waiting to go to the compost heap you peel off your gloves your hands are a bit sore there are red scratches on your wrists where thorns got past the leather you can smell damp soil on your clothes and a faint sweetness from the cut stems you remember your grandmother doing this same job when you were younger she'd spend whole afternoons out in her own unusual circular-shaped garden that you loved so much she was methodical, Working through the borders one by one her hands, Veined and spotted with age, Would grip the secateurs firmly stubborn things, She'd mutter, But she never got rid of them completely they'll be back next year, She'd say with a slight smile, Always are she was right, They will be back and when they are, They'll bring flowers and berries again and work back inside, You set the gloves and secateurs by the door through the window, You look at the garden once more it looks tidier, Though you know the brambles will return they always do there's something balanced about that the work and the reward the nuisance and the fruit all in the same plant you think about going next door for that cup of tea but first, You wash your hands at the kitchen sink the water runs brown at first, Then clear your hands are cold from being outside the warm water feels good you dry your hands and look at the clock nearly four the light will start going soon you pull on a clean jumper and head out the front door walking the few steps to Janet's gate the path is wet and there are leaves stuck to it you can smell more wood smoke now, Probably from a few gardens down Janet answers before you finish knocking come in, Come in, Tea's ready her kitchen is warm, There's condensation on the windows and the radio is on low, Some programme about gardening she pours from a pot that's been sat under a cozy the tea dark and strong milk? Please she hands you the mug and you wrap both hands around it the heat seeps into your fingers which are still cold from being outside sit down, She says, Gesturing to the table you sit the chair is old and wooden and creaks slightly Janet sits across from you with her own mug there's a plate of biscuits between you digestives, Plain ones get it all done then, She asks yeah, Took longer than I thought it always does she dunks a biscuit in her tea I'll have to do mine before the frost comes, Though I keep putting it off they're not going anywhere, You say she laughs at that, No, They're certainly not you sit in comfortable quiet for a moment the radio murmurs in the background outside the window you can see her garden which is tidier than yours but still has that same tangle of brambles at the back Janet talks a bit about her son who's supposed to visit next week and about the frost that's forecast for later in the week you half listen, Half watch the light starting to fade outside the garden is going grey a blackbird lands on her fence, Looks around and flies off the mug is warm in your hands your body feels tired now the good kind of tired from being outside and doing something physical your shoulders are a bit stiff your fingers are warming up slowly after a while you finish the tea and stand up thanks for that any time, Said Janet, You know where I am you walk back to your house the garden looks different in the fading light the pile of brambles is just a dark shape now the cleared patch of soil has disappeared into shadow inside it's warm you close the door behind you and stand for a moment in the quiet the day feels complete somehow the work done, The tea drunk the light going you think about the bulbs you'll plant tomorrow or the day after daffodils they'll come up in spring, Yellow and bright in the space where the brambles were but that's for tomorrow for now you're just warm and tired and ready to settle in for the evening the garden is done the brambles are cut back and outside the light is nearly gone sweet dreams a frosty stroll for Crumble flexing his big fluffy paws so his toes spread out in a big fan Crumble stretched out his legs and rubbed the top of his head against the soft blanket he was laying on just a couple more minutes after all cats didn't really need to fill their days with much other than laying, Eating, Washing and occasionally playing if the mood struck there was nowhere his owner expected him to be in fact it seemed like laying dozily and purring now and again was exactly what they wanted from him and that suited Crumble just fine after napping for a little while longer Crumble felt the urge to get up from his spot on the sofa in front of the crackling fire and hunt for some food of course hunting according to Crumble meant he simply needed to check his bowl in the kitchen his humans had learned that if there was even a glimpse of the bottom of his ceramic dish a few loud and persistent meows would have it topped up again in no time he gave one more large arch of his big fluffy back and a dramatic yawn leaping carefully down from the sofa he sauntered across the living room rug and into the kitchen to investigate the food situation the icy stone tiles were a bit of a shock to his feet but he got used to it after a few seconds after a few mouthfuls of food a crisp breeze from outside wafted through the gaps in his cat flap making his whiskers twitch although chilly the wind carried tempting smells that only a cat would notice the scent of a distant chicken being roasted the smell of nature and birds and grass the nip of frost on the air Crumble's eyes went big and intrigued he squeezed himself through the doorway that was only just big enough for him he wasn't an overly fat cat but appeared rotund because of his dense orange fur like a big fluffy pumpkin with ears and a tail the day was brisk with bright sunshine giving the impression that it was warmer than it really was spring wasn't far away yet there was frost dusting the ground like sugared shortbread under his paws snowdrops and crocuses had begun to poke their heads out from the earth in neighbours flower beds after their year long slumber it wasn't quite time for them to bloom yet though the morning frosts would come back for a few weeks still until this corner of the world gently thawed the plump ginger cat set off down the street nose in the air and eyes alert he spied the tabby laying on the windowsill a few doors down from his own house and when it didn't stir at his presence he continued on a solitary robin sat and watched him from the top of a brick wall to someone's front garden that is until Crumble hopped up not in a predatory way but just out of curiosity Crumble, Unlike many cats, Was a bit of a pacifist when other cats would chirp longingly at the birds hopping about in the trees Crumble would gaze half interested and then turn his attention to something else he effortlessly tiptoed along the wall and then up again to a higher piece of fence for a large cat he certainly didn't struggle to balance himself on the thin fence panels from up here he could nosily peer into the other gardens in his neighbourhood of course he believed it was all his territory a king surveying his estate he leisurely licked his front paw as a light breeze blew against him wafting those earlier smells of roasting chicken from a neighbour's kitchen where they were probably getting an early start on a Sunday roast as a cat Crumble didn't understand the calendar that humans used but he knew that once every few days there was a particularly delicious aroma of food whirling through the streets and on these days his owners sometimes dropped a little bit of chicken onto a plate for him to enjoy with this thought in his mind he graciously stretched his body vertically down the other side of the fence holding out his paws in front of him to stop himself from falling giving it a quick pluck with his claws and flumping down onto the patch of grass crunchy with frost blades of grass like desiccated coconut sticking up out of the ground it was too cold for the grass to begin growing again still the same length as it had been in the autumn when the people here last cut it down taking a few steps with the hard earth underfoot a wave of energy overtook him as it seems to be the way with cats wiggling his behind his ears flat against his head with huge pupils he darted on top of a rogue leaf and caught it underneath his feet I told you he's a pacifist except when it comes to fallen leaves apparently using his big soft paw pads he played with it a while running back and repeating the same pouncing predator dance over and over until another more interesting sound pricked his ears he could hear his biscuit box being shaken down the street at the click of a finger or the rattle of a dry cat food box he abandoned the leaf now in tatters and leapt up onto the fence striding along the brick wall two blackbirds now sat and promptly flew away when they caught sight of the cat coming towards them the frost on the pavement was gradually melting but still just as cold hopping merrily with his nose in the air and his tail curled into a shepherd's hook he bolted back through the cat flap and into the warmth of his kitchen the stone floor now seemed pleasant compared to the frostbitten ground outside he weaved between the legs of his owner as she fussed him on top of his head and poured a generous helping of biscuits into his dish playing with leaves and leaping up and down on fences all morning had got Crumble's stomach rumbling so he contented himself by eating half a bowl of food in one sitting swallowing some biscuits whole and taking some out of the dish individually giving them a good shake before crunching them up feeling sleepy, Warm and content he strode back into the living room across the hard wood floor and woven rug saving the rugs inviting tassels for another time he could attack them any time he wanted to but right now he wanted nothing more than to curl up in his favourite spot next to the fire and gently fall asleep and Crumble did just that The End This is Log Cabin in Snowsap Forest I trudge slowly through Snowsap Forest a thick blanket of snow underfoot and the chill wind nipping my nose around me is a wondrous forest of majestic fir trees standing tall and mighty unfazed by the blistering cold shades of deepest emerald, Moss and velvet iced with a thick layer of snow I spot full holly bushes with their cheerful berries and shiny leaves nestled around the lower trunks of the formidable trees snow is falling around me those big fluffy flakes, Silent and soft they catch the breeze and spiral on their journey to the ground some seem quick to land while others take their time carelessly catching the breeze and floating down in their own time luckily the thick trees are stopping most of the breeze from blowing through my long coat so despite the weather I feel quite warm the piney fresh scent of the trees around me fills my nostrils and the fresh undisturbed snow crunches and compacts under my feet it's therapeutic to listen to my rhythmic footsteps my cheeks and nose are red from the cold but thankfully I'm bundled up in a cosy woolen scarf and hat a gift from my friend in a faraway place who knits the cosiest, Wonderful pieces from soft, Thick yarn there's a comfortable, Peaceful silence in the forest as if it's holding its breath for me as I make my way through patiently it waits, Guiding me on my way I feel safe and secure to go at my own pace distant birds that brave the harsh weather before the sun sets sing their echoing songs in amongst the forest canopy in this moment, Although I walk alone I know I have the forest creatures to keep me company as I walk steadily through a frosty clearing I spot a small log cabin off a little way in the distance the windows have a warm, Cosy orange glow and there's a small stream of smoke coming from the chimney seeing this log cabin up ahead fills me with warmth and a sense of relaxation it's the lighting, I think the orangey-yellow glow of a fire or candles, Perhaps it instantly washes a sense of cosiness and calm over you, Doesn't it? I'm trying to imagine what might be inside it's a welcome sight as the light is fading fast and I'm looking forward to resting my feet picking up the pace a little I continue to trudge through the beautifully untouched layer of snow closer and closer to the cabin once I reach it, I stomp my heavy boots up the outside wooden steps of the porch surrounded now by twinkling fairy lights and warm candlelit lanterns knocking the snow off my feet before walking up to the front door filled with anticipation, I spot a small handwritten note stuck to the door leaning in, I notice the paper is freshly torn out of a pretty notepad judging by the floral pattern and in loopy handwriting, It reads a hearty welcome to the cabin nestled in the heart of Snowsap Forest inside is everything you need to relax and rest enjoy and stay as long as you like I recognise the handwriting it's my close friend it seems they've decided to treat me to a little break from the cold weather for which I'm extremely grateful somehow the cabin feels like home but I've never been here before I turn the brass doorknob and the warmth hits my cold face immediately as I open the door just like sinking into a hot bubble bath after a long day walking inside, I notice the cabin is lit up entirely by the roaring fire in the log burner and a few clustered candles in little nooks around the room just like I suspected a gigantic squashy sofa beckons with a woollen throw and cushions first with some effort through achy joints and cold muscles I pull off my heavy coat, Hat, Scarf and gloves setting my boots to one side there is a small rustic table in the little kitchen area laid out with a cup and a plate along a wooden shelf for kilner jars filled with all kinds of teas and even hot chocolate powder on serving plates on the counter top there are freshly baked cookies, Still warm and a delicious cake cut into generous slices the sweet vanilla and chocolate fill the air with a delicious scent making my stomach rumble I help myself to a slice of cake and a cookie boil the little stove top kettle and fill my cup with boiling water dunking a tea bag in and taking it to the squashy sofa in front of the fire I sink down into the plush sofa and pop my food and drink on the wood slice coffee table I already feel so much warmer sinking my tired feet into the sheepskin rug that's decorating the floor in front of the fire the warm mug heats up my cold fingertips and I inhale the scent and steam rising from it taking a gulp I feel the warm comforting tea soothe my throat feeling its warmth radiate my body spreading down into my chest, My stomach and spreading through my arms and legs relief and tranquility wash over me taking a few moments to sit in the quiet all I can hear is the crackling fire and slight whistle of wind from outside I hadn't realised how tired my body feels until I sat down and took the weight off my feet I suppose trudging through the snow in blustery winter weather takes its toll I'm so glad for the time to rest and recharge with a warm drink and some delicious treats I spend the next hour or so relaxing drinking my steaming mug of tea and finishing the delicious baked treats in this moment I am so grateful to have my friend arrange something that I sorely needed a wave of tiredness flows over me and my body is heavy and not ready to leave just yet my eyes are drooping and I'm finding it tricky to keep them open I'll lay down just for a few moments I get up briefly to blow out the candles and settle back down the fire has burned down now to a low glow of embers lifting my heavy legs onto the sofa I grab the thick tartan throw from the back cushions and drape it around me I lay back and rest my head on the soft cushions the crackle of the fire lulls me further into relaxation my eyes drifting out of focus as the amber glow from the fireplace dances on the cabin walls I gently close my eyes and drift off The End The Cosy Witch Café In the heart of a forest in springtime where the flowers peeked through the soil and there were dozens of beautiful and interesting creatures living together in harmony there stood a quaint little witch café nestled in the thick trees it looked to be the shape of a giant toadstool with windows and a crooked chimney poking through the cap roof it was a place of magic, Mystery and warmth where the air was always infused with the scent of spices and herbs and the walls were adorned with twinkling fairy lights it was hard to say how long the café had stood there but it felt like it could have been there a hundred years even being in its presence gave its visitors a sense of calm and happiness on this spring afternoon as you approached the café down a winding muddy path through the trees you noticed that the windows were foggy and steamy and the sounds of bubbling cauldrons and soft whispers could be heard from within broomsticks stood outside on a stand just like you would find for bicycles and there was a hearty wooden sign above the door saying welcome you pushed open the door and a bell tinkled on the frame to gently announce your arrival you were greeted by a cosy fire-lit room filled with comfy armchairs, Little mismatched tables, Shelves lined with spellbooks and a bar made of polished dark wood the domed roof really was a giant toadstool cap with a hole in the centre for a skylight down from the ceiling trailed ivy, Its green leaves catching the afternoon light as you looked around the café for a place to sit you saw all sorts of magical creatures and beings gathered together enjoying each other's company a group of fairies fluttered by, Leaving a trail of glitter in their wake a wise old tawny owl perched on a shelf watching over the patrons with his piercing eyes a trio of mischievous gnomes played a game of cards in the corner cackling and teasing each other you glanced into the very far corner of the café if round rooms do have corners and spotted a giant squashy armchair with a table made from a chunk of tree trunk next to it you made your way over and sunk deeply into the comfortable chair noticing how it hugged your body and supported your weight you never remember feeling so comfortable in your whole life not only did the chair take your physical weight it seemed to absorb some of your mental worries and settle your emotions too as you settled into your seat you noticed that the air was filled with a soft murmur of conversation the patrons were chatting about everything from the latest spells and potions to the newest fairy tales and legends you could hear snippets of laughter and excitement and every so often a burst of magic would light up the room although you arrived alone you knew that this was a place of comfort and belonging you knew you were wanted here and if you had needed, Any one of these friendly creatures would lend a hand or an ear the scent of cinnamon and cloves wafted from the kitchen making your mouth water you heard the clinking of teacups and the sizzling of something delicious on the stove you felt the warmth of the fire on your skin and the softness of the cushions beneath you it was as if you were wrapped up in a cosy blanket of magic and comfort after a few moments a kind wrinkled old witch approached you offering you a steaming mug of spiced apple cider the steam rising from the mug seemed to have a pearlescent quality to it and when you breathed it in it cleansed your nose, Throat and lungs spreading warmth and contentment throughout your body you took a sip and felt that warm comforting glow continue to spread through your body and you began to relax even further letting your mind wander and dance with the flames in the fire as you sat there, Sipping your cider and listening to the chatter around you you began to feel a sense of peace wash over you the stress and worries of the outside world faded away replaced by a feeling of contentment and tranquility as the afternoon turned into evening you found yourself growing more and more sleepy the gentle atmosphere of the cafe lulled you into a peaceful state of mind and before you knew it you were nodding off in your chair the last thing you heard before drifting off was the soft rustle of pages turning and the distant sound of a lullaby and as you closed your eyes you felt a sense of gratitude for this little haven of magic and warmth nestled in the heart of the forest sweet dreams Friends of the Forest Once upon a time, In a far off land there was a magical forest the trees in the forest were ancient and wise and they were said to possess magical powers it was a place of great beauty where the light filtered through the leaves to create a dappled enchanted glow the rumours were through the ages that within the bark and leaves and branches the trees possessed healing powers and many people believed that spending time in the forest could help to soothe the mind, Body and spirit it was home to many hidden paths and secret glades making it an exciting place to explore and discover new things it was a place of wonder and magic that had the power to captivate and enchant all those who entered it the forest was home to many creatures big and small, Mysterious and enchanted one of those creatures was a young doe named Mavis Mavis was a kind and gentle creature who loved to roam the forest and explore one day, As Mavis was wandering through the forest she stumbled across a clearing in the middle of the clearing stood a large and ancient oak tree this formidable tree was unlike any other in the forest with wide branches that stretched out in all directions it had lived through many seasons and countless years the tree had seen much and had grown to be very large and strong its thick boughs and gnarled bark provided a home and shelter to many creatures in the forest the trunk had deep grooves and ridges that told the story of its long life this mighty oak held a sense of wisdom and serenity about it making it a peaceful and calming place to be its presence was also different from the other trees as it seemed to have a stronger connection to the land and the forest around it Mavis was awestruck by the magical aura of the tree she decided to take a closer look she carefully approached the tree she noticed that there was a small hollow at the base of the trunk the hollow looked like it would be the perfect place to rest and take a nap Mavis settled down in the hollow and closed her eyes as she drifted off to sleep she felt a sense of peace and contentment wash over her the sound of the wind rustling through the trees and the gentle sway of the branches rocked her to sleep as Mavis slept in the hollow of the ancient oak tree she dreamt of all the wonderful things she had seen and experienced in the forest she dreamed of the babbling brooks and the colourful flowers of the playful squirrels and the majestic eagles she dreamt of the sunsets, The warm rays of the sun the cool breeze and the gentle sway of the branches Mavis thought about the different seasons the lush green leaves of summer the orange, Red and yellow leaves of autumn the bare branches of winter and the new buds of spring she dreamt of all the different animals she had met the butterflies, The bees, The birds and the rabbits she dreamt of the different scents of the forest the pine needles, The wild berries, The wood smoke and the decay of the damp earth Mavis's mind drifted to her friends the other deer, Animals and mysterious creatures she had met in the forest and how they all lived together in harmony she remembered the adventures and the explorations she had made the hidden paths and secret glades she had discovered and how it felt to be free and wild her dream was a reflection of her love and connection to the forest the memories and experiences she had gathered and how it had shaped her as an individual it was a dream that made her feel peaceful and content and connected to the nature around her when she woke, She felt refreshed and rejuvenated she knew that the ancient oak tree would always be a special place for her a place where she could go to rest and dream and so Mavis thanked the tree and set off to continue her adventures Books in the Attic You lean the trusty old ladder up against the ledge of the attic hatch we call it a loft in the UK by the way but for the purpose of the story I'm going to call it an attic and test it for its sturdiness on the landing floor you've got to go up there at some point and clear some space ready for the roof work so it may as well be today while you have some free time lantern in hand, You ascend the steps one by one and rest the light on one of the higher steps that you haven't reached yet with a free hand, You push the hatch lid off and into the attic which sends a little plume of dust along down with the rush of warm air taking a quick peek, You continue up the steps now with your lantern in your hand ready to hook onto the nail sticking out of one of the nearby beams that the previous owner must have hammered in for that exact purpose many years ago the old bulb casts a warm, Soft glow over all of the bags and boxes piled high in your attic it's a bit messier than you remember but that's what attics are for, Aren't they? You think back and you can't really remember anyone having a perfect looking attic it's comfortably messy though, You don't mind and that smell, The dusty, Warm scent of familiar belongings that haven't been moved around much gives you that content feeling getting your footing on the supporting joists you take a look around you here's where everything you've ever collected rests ready to be picked through when you need that old camping gear or Christmas decorations at the end of the year you can spot the tree, The tinsel and the baubles in their marked boxes you still can't believe it all fits inside that old sound bar packaging you saved there are suitcases filled with boxes that you can't bear to part with bin bags of old clothes and of course, Piles of your old childhood toys you told yourself that at some point, When you make the time you'll hang some shelves and arrange your old favourites on them to display you smile at the idea of bringing all that nostalgia down into the rest of your house to enjoy looking at for now, You know you need to focus on clearing some of it out of the way so that when the workers come to repair that little spot on the roof they'll have room to move about there's no windows up here like some of the bigger, Older houses so you'll have to rely on the light from your lantern to organise the mess into piles you decide that it makes most sense to move some of the smaller items out of the way into the deeper parts of the attic and then take down boxes and bags that are closest to the hatch first to clear a little path you set to work, Shifting piles of old magazines tubs of lego clothes packed into vacuum sealed bags and boxes of random cables until there's a bit more room to move about it doesn't take long and the warm attic isn't stifling like you anticipated it's a comforting sort of warmth a contrast to the sharp air of early spring outside you're getting close to the spot where the repairs need doing now and this is where a lot of your childhood belongings are stored you catch your breath for a moment and kneel down to get a closer look at everything you run your hand over the tattered cardboard reading the labels school written on one toys on another and one that doesn't have anything written on it at all you can't help but let your curiosity get the better of you and tear off the sticky tape holding the unmarked box shut it's a bit tricky considering its age and the fact it's been taped over several times by the looks of things you pick at the edges and finally get it open it looks like loads of old books stacked up in a pile and some filling the spare spaces around it your old books! You treasured these as a little kid remembering how proudly you organised them on your little bookshelf in your bedroom you can instantly smell that old book smell like the scent of the old second hand bookshop in town sort of a dusty decay smell but a pleasant one, Not damp you start picking up each title turning them over to marvel at the old cover designs some have cheerful printed images faded with time others have leather covers and gold writing you leaf through your old favourites the pretty illustrations and passages instantly taking you back to your younger years when you'd sit on your beanbag chair surrounded by teddy bears reading until bedtime and of course there were the books you read as you reached your teenage years too the novels with dog-eared corners and spell books with some of the corners folded down to mark the important parts a box filled with memories from different points in your life as you reach the very bottom of the box a thin, Fabric-bound book catches your eye and you pull it out you don't remember owning it it looks like the oldest book in the box by far perhaps it was one of your gran's old books mixed in with yours the olive green cover is a little worn at the edges but you can still make out the navy and emerald painting of a mermaid on the front with the words The Sandman's Hour by Abbey Phillips Walker intrigued, You pull a moving blanket onto the floor to make a comfy spot to sit and in the dim but comfy glow of the lantern you open the cover and begin to leaf through the yellowed pages the binding is a little fragile so you take care not to detach the pages from the threads the first story you settle on is called Mr Possum Mr Possum lived in a tree in the woods where Mr Bear lived and one morning just before spring Mr Possum awoke very hungry he ran around to Mr Squirrel's house and tried to get an invitation to breakfast but Mr Squirrel had only enough for himself he knew that Mr Possum always lived on his neighbours when he could so he said, Of course you have been to breakfast long ago Mr Possum you are such a smart fellow so I will not offer you any Mr Possum of course said he had and that he only dropped in to make a call he was on his way to Mr Rabbit's house but he met with no better success at Mr Rabbit's for he only put his nose out of the door and when he saw who was there said I am as busy as I can be getting ready for my spring planting will you come in and help sort seeds? Mr Rabbit knew the easiest way to be rid of Mr Possum was to ask him to work I would gladly help you replied Mr Possum but I am in a great hurry this morning I have some important business with Mr Bear and I only stop to say how do you do Mr Bear I am afraid will not be receiving today said Mr Rabbit it is rather early for him to be up isn't it? I thought as the sun was nice and warm he might venture out and I thought it would please him to have me there to welcome him said Mr Possum besides that I wish to see him on business now Mr Possum knew well enough that Mr Bear would not be up he wanted to find him sleeping and soundly too he went to the door and knocked softly then he waited and as he did not hear any moving inside he went to a window and looked in there was Mr Bear's chair and pipe just as he had left them when he went to bed he looked in the bedroom window and he could see in the bed a big heap of bed clothes and just the tiniest tip of Mr Bear's nose Mr Possum listened and he trembled a little for he could hear Mr Bear breathing very loud and it sounded anything but pleasant oh he is sound asleep for another week said Mr Possum what is the use of being afraid he walked around the house until he came to the pantry window then he stopped and raised the sash he put in one foot and sat on the sill and listened all was still so he slid off to the floor Mr Possum looked around Mr Bear's well filled pantry he did not know where to begin he was so hungry he became so interested and was so greedy that he forgot all about that he was in Mr Bear's pantry and he stayed on and on and ate and ate then he fell asleep and the first thing he knew a pair of shining eyes were looking in the window and a big head with a red mouth full of long white teeth was poked into the pantry Mr Possum thought his time had come so he just closed his eyes and pretended he was dead but he peeked a little so as to see what happened the big head was followed by a body and when it was on the sill Mr Possum saw it was Mr Fox and the next thing he knew Mr Fox came off the sill with a bang and hit a pan of beans and then knocked over a jar of preserves the noise was enough to awaken all the bears for miles around and Mr Possum was frightened nearly to death for he heard Mr Bear growling in the next room while Mr Fox was on the floor and trying to get up on his feet Mr Possum jumped up and was out of the window like a flash Mr Fox saw something but he did not know what and before he could make his escape the door of the pantry opened and there stood Mr Bear with a candle in his hand looking in oh ho! He growled so you are trying to rob me while I'm taking my sleep and he sprang at Mr Fox wait wait wait said Mr Fox let me explain my dear Mr Bear you are mistaken I was trying to protect your home I saw your window open and knew you were asleep and when I got in the window the thief attacked me and nearly killed me and now you are blaming me for it you are most ungrateful I shall know another time what to do Mr Bear looked at him his mouth did not show any signs of food and Mr Fox opened his mouth and told him to look I wonder who it could have been he said when he was satisfied that Mr Fox was not the thief it may have been that Possum fellow I'll go over to his house in the morning the next morning Mr Bear called on Mr Possum he found him sleeping soundly and when he at last opened the door he was rubbing his eyes as though he was not half awake why how do you do he said when he saw Mr Bear I did not suppose you were up yet you didn't asked Mr Bear and then he stared at Mr Possum's coat what's the matter with your coat he asked you have white hairs sticking out all over you and the rest of your coat is almost white too now Mr Possum had a black coat before and he ran to the mirror and looked at himself it was true he was almost white he knew what had happened he was so frightened when he was caught in Mr Bear's pantry by Mr Fox and he heard Mr Bear growl that he had turned nearly white with fright I've been terribly ill he told Mr Bear going back to the door I've been here all alone this winter it was a terrible sickness I guess that is what has caused it Mr Bear went away shaking his head that fellow is crafty he said I feel sure he was the thief and yet he certainly does look sick after that all the Opossums were of dull white colour with long white hairs scattered here and there over their fur they were never able to outgrow the mark the thieving Mr Possum left upon his race what a fun little story you think and then flick through the pages to land on another story to see if somehow it will jog your memory of this book and up to this point you're pretty sure you've never read it before you land next on The Mirror's Dream and scan read the first line how fun that this should be the story of an old attic when I'm up here doing mine the very idea of putting me in the attic said the little old fashioned table as it spread out both leaves in a gesture of despair I have stood in the parlour downstairs for fifty years and now I am consigned to the rubbish room and it dropped its leaves at its side with a sigh I was there longer than that said the sofa many a courtship I have helped along what do you think of me asked an old mirror that stood on the floor leaning against the wall to be brought to the attic after reflecting generation after generation all the famous beauties have looked into my face it is a degradation from which I can never recover this young mistress who has come here to live does not seem to understand the dignity of our position why I was in the family when her husband's grandmother was a girl and she has doomed me to a dusty attic to dream out the rest of my days the shadows deepened in the room and gradually the discarded mirror ceased to complain it had fallen asleep but later the moonlight streamed in through the window and showed that its dreams were pleasant ones for it dreamed of the old and happy days the door opened softly and a young girl entered her hair was dark and hung in curls over her white shoulders her dark eyes wandered over the room until she saw the old mirror she ran across the room and stood in front of it she wore a hoop skirt over which hung her dress of pale grey with tiny pink ruffles that began at her slender waist and ended at the bottom of her wide skirt tiny pink rose buds were dotted over the waist and skirt and she also wore them in her dark curls where one stray blossom bolder than the others rested against her soft cheek she stood before the mirror and gazed at her reflection a minute then she curtsied and said with a laugh I think you will do, He must speak tonight she seemed to fade away in the moonlight the door opened again and a lady entered and with her came five handsome children they went to the mirror and one little girl with dark curls and pink cheeks went close and touched it with her finger look, She said to the others I look just like the picture of mother when she was a girl and as they stood there a gentleman appeared beside them and put his arm around the lady and the children gathered around them they seemed to walk along the moonlight path and disappear through the window softly the door opened again and an old lady entered leaning on the arm of an old gentleman they walked to the mirror and he put his arms around her and kissed her with a cheek you are always young and fair to me, He said and her face smiled into the depths of the old mirror the moonlight made a halo around their heads as they faded away the morning light streamed in through the window and the mirror's dream was ended by and by the door opened and a young girl came into the room her dark hair was piled high on her head and her dark eyes looked over the room until they fell upon a chest in the corner she went to it and opened it and took out a pale grey dress with pink ruffles she put it on and she let down her hair which fell in curls over her shoulders she ran to the old mirror and looked at herself I do look like grandmother, She said I will wear this to the old folks party tonight grandfather proposed to grandmother the night she wore this dress her cheeks turned very pink as she said this and she ran out of the room then one day the door opened again and a bride entered leaning on the arm of her young husband there were tears in her eyes although she was smiling she led him in front of the old mirror this old mirror, She said has seen all the brides in our family for generations and I am going far away and may never look into it again my brother's wife does not want it downstairs and I may be the last bride it will ever see and she passed her hand over its frame caressingly and then she went away and the old mirror was left to its dreams for many years then one day the door opened again and a lady entered with her was a young girl the lady looked around the attic room until she saw the mirror there it is, She said come and look in it dear the young girl followed her dear old mirror, The lady said was the day your father and I were married I never expected to have it for my own then but your uncle's wife wants to remodel the house and these things are in the way she does not want old fashioned things and they are willing I should have them oh mother they are beautiful, Said the girl looking around the room we will never part with them we will take them to our home and make them forget they were ever discarded and so the mirror and the sofa and the table and many other pieces of bygone days went to live where they were loved and the old mirror still reflects dark haired girls and ladies who smile into its depths and see its beauty as well as their own you sit for a moment thinking again about all the stories the items around you hold what would have been the last thing they would have each heard or seen before being stored up here and having blankets thrown over them you sit in a bit of a daze for a few minutes your mind drifting to this and that before settling on one more story from the little olive coloured book tearful once upon a time there was a little girl named tearful because she cried so often if she could not have her own way she cried if she could not have everything for which she wished she cried her mother told her one day that she would melt away in tears if she cried so often you are like the boy who cried for the moon she told her and if it has been given to him it would have not made him happy for what possible use could the moon be to anyone out of its proper place and that is the way with you half the things for which you cry would be of no use to you if you got them tearful did not take warning or heed her mother's words of wisdom and kept on crying just the same one morning she was crying as she walked along to school because she wanted to stay at home when she noticed a frog hopping along beside her why are you following me she asked looking at him through her tears because you will soon form a pond around you with your tears replied the frog and I have always wanted a pond all to myself I shall not make any pond for you said tearful and I do not want you following me either the frog continued to hop along beside her and tearful stopped crying and began to run but the frog hopped faster and she could not get away from him so she began to cry again go away you horrid green frog she said at last she was so tired she sat on a stone by the roadside crying all the time now replied the frog I shall soon have my pond tearful cried harder than ever then she could not see her tears fell so fast and by and by she heard a splashing sound she opened her eyes and saw water all around her she was on a small island in the middle of the pond the frog hopped out of the pond making a terrible grimace as he sat down beside her I hope you are satisfied said tearful you have your pond why don't you stay in it alas replied the frog I have wished for something which I cannot use now that I have it your tears are salt and my pond which I have all by myself is so salty I cannot enjoy it if only your tears had been fresh I should have been a most fortunate fellow you needn't stay if you don't like it said tearful and you needn't find fault with my tears either she said beginning to cry again stop stop cried the frog hopping about excitedly you will have a flood if you keep on crying tearful saw the water rising around her so she stopped a minute what shall I do she asked I cannot swim and I will die if I have to stay here and then she began to cry again the frog hopped up and down in front of her waving his front legs and telling her to hush if you would only stop crying he said I might be able to help you but I cannot do a thing if you cover me with your salt tears tearful listened and promised she would not cry if he would get her away from the island there is only one way that I know of said the frog you must smile that will dry the pond and we can escape but I do not feel like smiling said tearful and her eyes filled with tears again look out said the frog you will surely be drowned in your own tears if you cry again tearful began to laugh that would be strange wouldn't it to be drowned in my own tears she said that is right keep on smiling said the frog the pond is smaller already and he stood up on his hind legs and began to dance for joy tearful laughed again oh you are so funny she said I wish I had your picture I never saw a frog dance before you have a slate under your arm said the frog why don't you draw a picture of me the frog picked up a stick and stuck it in the ground and then he leaned on it with one arm or front leg and crossing his feet he stood very still tearful drew him in that position and then he kicked up his legs as if he were dancing and she tried to draw him that way but it was not a very good likeness do you like that she asked the frog when she held the slate for him to see he looked so surprised that tearful laughed again you did not think you were handsome did you she asked I had never thought I looked as bad as those pictures replied the frog let me try drawing your picture he said now look pleasant he said as he seated himself in front of tearful and do smile tearful did as he requested and in a few minutes he handed her the slate where is my nose asked tearful laughing oh I forgot the nose said the frog but you don't think your eyes are nice and large and your mouth too they are certainly big in this picture said tearful I hope I do not look just like that I do not think either of us are artists replied the frog tearful looked around her why where is the pond she asked it's gone I thought it would dry up if you would only smile said the frog and I think both of us have learned a lesson I shall never again wish for a pond of my own I should be lonely without my companions and then it might be salt just as this one was and you will surely never cry over little things again for you see what might happen to you I feel much happier smiling and I do not want to be on an island again even with such a pleasant companion as you were look out for the tears then said the frog as he hopped away on that note you shut the book thinking about what a funny little story about friendship that was you're sure you've never heard it before but it was very sweet and a nice message all the same in a bit of a daze you pop the book back in its box where you found it and close the flaps you figure time must be getting on and you were only supposed to be up here to clear a little space for when the repair people come never mind you've done most of it now to finish the job you grab those boxes the ones labeled school, Toys and the blank one that contains all your books and carefully bring them down from the attic one by one you're surprised that on descending the ladder it seems to be getting dark the bright sun is now low casting warmer colors through the windows like when logs in a fire have burned down to embers it's a cozy sort of light a light that makes you want to switch the lamps on in the house and start cooking something comforting for dinner which you think it must be about time for grabbing your lantern and shutting the hatch you come back down to the landing and down the stairs how dusty your clothes are what a perfect excuse to get into something more cozy your dressing gown perhaps and make a comfy spot on the sofa first you head to the kitchen pull out some veggies from the cupboard under the drainer and begin chopping with a heavy pan on the heat you add a little bit of butter fry off some onions and let the savory smell mingle with the comforting dusty smell of the attic that's on your clothes crumble your plump orange cat weaves between your legs as you prepare food purring his joy at having some company after a day on the sofa fast asleep you'll pop some biscuits in his bowl after in a few moments you've added the celery, The leeks, Peas, Mushrooms, Carrots and potatoes to the pot along with some stock your stomach rumbles loudly after all you've been upstairs for a long while with a twist of a bunch of dried herbs you grew yourself added in for good measure you pop a lid on the pot and turn it down to a simmer you take a moment to appreciate the fact that you got what you needed done in the attic dinner's smelling moorish already and you're off to have a nice hot shower while it simmers down into a thick gravy and soft sweet veggies you should feel proud of that plus you indulged in some forgotten childhood tales too Bicky's in the cat bowl satisfy Crumble as he trots straight to it at the tinkle of the kibble hitting the ceramic and now all you have to do is get comfy and relax with your meal after you've washed the attic smell and dust away what a perfectly contented end to a productive day The End Postcards from the village junk shop it started as one of those slow open-ended afternoons that seemed to stretch out like a cat basking in the sunshine you'd taken the number 47 bus into the village the one that rattles along the country lanes and stops wherever someone raises their hand there wasn't any real reason for the trip just one of those restless days where you feel like stretching your legs somewhere that isn't home for a change the main street was mostly empty apart from a few people sitting at the outdoor tables of Mabel's cafe their teacups clinking gently against saucers as they chatted in low voices an elderly man in a flat cap sat on an old stone bench by the war memorial breaking up a crusty roll for the pigeons that gathered hopefully at his feet one particularly bold pigeon had perched on the bench beside him cocking its head as if it could understand what he was saying you wandered past the bakery where the windows were still fogged from the morning's baking the florist next door to it had propped open her green painted door and trails of ivy spilled from wooden crates stacked outside as you walked following no particular path a comforting smell drew you onward is it lemon oil on old wood? The scent led you to a narrow shop squeezed between the post office and a house with lace net curtains the shop front was painted a faded powder blue that might have once been a bold cornflower hue but now looked softly worn like denim washed too many times someone had written bits and bobs in curling script on a wooden sign that hung slightly crooked beside the door below it a smaller placard announced postcards ten pence each in simpler block letters the door stood propped open with one of those heavy antique irons when you pushed the door wider it creaked on hinges that needed oil and a small brass bell above jingled with the sound like distant church bells just a moment called a voice from somewhere in the depths of the shop followed by the sound of something being carefully set down inside the air was warm and still holding the accumulated scents of decades moth balls, Oiled leather and old paper with undertones of lavender from a small ceramic bowl of dried flowers sitting on the glass counter dust motes danced in the strips of sunlight that slanted through the front window where a large tabby cat had arranged itself among a display of vintage jewellery boxes there we are said the voice and a woman emerged from behind a tower of stacked suitcases each one tied with a different colour ribbon she was perhaps sixty with short white hair that curled at the edges and reading glasses perched on her nose her cardigan was peppered with dust smudges and little ends of thread and she wiped her hands on her apron before extending one toward you I'm Margaret she said with a warm smile that creased the corners of her eyes don't mind the mess I've been sorting through an estate collection all morning fascinating what people keep isn't it have a good look around I'll be right here if you need anything just wrestling with a particularly stubborn jewellery box lock you nodded and stepped deeper into the shop immediately feeling like you'd wandered into someone's beloved cluttered attic the space was smaller than it first appeared but every inch was purposefully used shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling sagging slightly under the weight of their contents chipped but pretty teacups in mismatched patterns tarnished silver candlesticks that still held traces of old wax wooden toys with paint worn smooth by small hands and board games from decades past the sort that came with cardboard spinners held together with brass rivets and dice that had gone yellow with age a coat rack stood near the window hung with garments that smelled faintly of the attic air a navy pea coat with anchor buttons a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches burgundy scarves so soft it might have been cashmere underneath the front window an old wireless radio played something scratchy and instrumental too quiet to identify but comforting in the way that distant music always is like overhearing someone humming in another room your gaze eventually settled on the back corner where a round table with a faded green cloth held several long shallow boxes each box was carefully labelled in the same neat handwriting travel and scenic holiday greetings floral and garden humorous and simply blank cards, Various you pulled over a three-legged milking stool that had been tucked under a shelf and settled down at the table the boxes were well organised though the postcards within had the comfortable disorder of things that had been frequently handled and admired you began with travel and scenic letting your fingers brush against the smooth edges of the cards some were glossy others had that matte texture of older printing a few showed signs of their age corners bent, Edges softened surfaces slightly faded where they'd been stored in sunlight the first one you lifted showed the Grand Canyon in all its rust-coloured majesty the photograph taken from what must have been the South Rim viewpoint the edges were yellowing slightly and when you turned it over you found writing in careful blue ballpoint ink June 15, 1987 Dear Edna Well, You are absolutely right it really is even bigger than it looks on television Frank and I are both sunburnt despite the SPF 15 but we're happy as clams the motel we're staying at actually has its own ice machine right there in the hallway which feels very fancy tomorrow we're driving to the Painted Desert I'll send another card from there All my love, Ruth You found yourself smiling as you set it aside picturing Ruth and Frank squinting into the desert sun Ruth's careful penmanship as she sat at a small motel table with a view of the parking lot The next card showed a lighthouse perched on rocky cliffs in Maine dramatic waves frozen mid-crash against the rocks below The back revealed a different story Day four of our romantic getaway got food poisoning on the second night never, Ever trust a seafood buffet no matter how good the lobster looks Bob's been a saint, Bringing me ginger ale and crackers Still, When I can keep my eyes open long enough the view from our B&B window really is spectacular Wish you were here, But not really because then you'd be sick too XOXO, Janet P. S. The lighthouse keeper's wife makes the most incredible blueberry scones You chuckled quietly, Imagining poor Janet trying to appreciate the rugged Maine coast between bouts of nausea As you continued through the box, Each card revealed its own small story There were postcards from Paris showing the Eiffel Tower at night writing on the back in enthusiastic but shaky handwriting Climbed to the second level today My knees are killing me, But it was worth every step A card from Rome featured the Colosseum with a message that simply read Marcus would have loved this. Miss you dear One from Brighton showed the famous pier with its message written in a child's careful capitals Dear Grandma We saw seagulls and I fed one a chip and Dad said I shouldn't but it was funny Love, Alice You could almost see small Alice, Probably seven or eight solemnly composing her message while her parents packed up their beach things A postcard from Sydney featured the Opera House at sunset its message more business-like The conference is going well The hotel room overlooks the harbour which helps make up for being away from home for so long Flying back Thursday See you soon David Some postcards were more whimsical Blackpool Tower with actual glitter glued to the edges now mostly fallen away but leaving a faint sparkle in the creases One from the Lake District showed a photograph of sheep in a stone-walled field The back reading Walk 12 miles today through the most beautiful countryside My boots are filthy and I've never been happier The sheep here are ridiculously fluffy M Others were more mysterious A card showing a generic sunset over a lake with just the words I'm sorry written in black ink No address, No signature, No date You found yourself holding this one a little longer wondering about the story it didn't tell From the holiday greetings box you pulled cards with vintage Christmas scenes Snow-covered cottages Victorian children building snowmen Father Christmas in his traditional red coat Most were unused but one showed signs of having been carefully stored away Christmas 1962 For our first Christmas as husband and wife All my love always, Tommy The card showed a simple nativity scene, Peaceful and traditional The blank cards box held treasures of a different sort These were postcards chosen for their images alone Heavy cardstock with embossed edges Professional photography Artistic illustrations A sepia photograph of a small boy in shorts holding a fishing rod standing beside a country stream A watercolour painting of red poppies in a field The artist's signature just visible in the corner A whimsical illustration of a cow wearing sunglasses and a sun hat sitting in a beach chair Each one was a small work of art waiting for someone to find the perfect words for its back The shop grew quieter as you sat there The sounds of the street outside fading to a gentle murmur Margaret had returned to her work behind the counter and you could hear the occasional soft click of tools against metal as she worked on her stubborn jewellery box The cat in the window had moved now stretched out fully in a patch of afternoon sun that had moved across the sill The radio continued its gentle soundtrack You thought you might have recognised it from an old film something romantic and a bit sad Time seemed to slow and stretch You found yourself reading each postcard carefully imagining the hands that had written them the places they'd been the people who had received them Some made you smile others made you pause thoughtfully A few, Particularly the ones with no message at all made you feel a gentle sadness for stories left untold You marvelled at the stamps and postmarks of all shapes, Sizes and dates imagining each postcard on its journey in a postman's bicycle bag or among thousands of other letters in a train carriage After what felt like an hour but might have been less you realised you'd unconsciously created a small pile beside your elbow seven postcards in total four that had been written on three that were blank There was no particular logic to your selection just a collection of cards that had spoken to something in you the Grand Canyon card from Ruth the Lighthouse card from sick but determined Janet a blank card with a photograph of an old stone bridge over a quietly flowing river another with a cheery cottage illustration and an old poem in a West Country dialect spelled out in block letters You gathered them up and approached the counter where Margaret looked up from her jewellery box with a satisfied expression Success, She announced The mechanism was just stuck with old grime These old pieces just need a gentle touch, You know Now then, She said Focusing on your small collection That's a lovely selection you've made She examined each card briefly These ones all came from the same estate sale, Actually A gentleman from the next village over, Mr Henshaw His daughter said he kept everything in perfect order all sorted by date and destination Apparently he travelled quite a bit when he was younger and then later he just collected them Sometimes he'd buy them from other shops like this one or from church jumble sales I think he enjoyed the stories they told Margaret's hands moved efficiently as she spoke wrapping your postcards in brown paper that had been saved from some other purchase She tied the bundle with white string her fingers making neat loops as she secured the bow You know, She said as she handed the package across the counter There's a proper electric kettle in the back room and I always keep a tin of decent biscuits You're welcome to sit and have a cup while you look through more of the boxes I find people often discover things they didn't know they were looking for when they take their time The offer was genuinely tempting You could picture yourself settled in whatever cosy back room Margaret had arranged a cup of tea warming your hands while you explored more of Mr Henshaw's carefully preserved collection But your feet were beginning to ache in your walking shoes and there was something appealing about the idea of taking these particular postcards home of reading them again in your own chair, In your own time without the pressure of discovery It's very kind you said tucking the bundle into your coat pocket where it settled with a satisfying weight I think I'll save that pleasure for another visit Margaret smiled, A kind of smile that suggested she understood completely They'll be here, She said, Though I should warn you Mr Henshaw's collection fills six more boxes You might need to plan for a longer visit next time As you stepped back onto the street The light had shifted into that golden hour that makes even the most mundane village street look like a painting The sun sat lower in the sky casting longer shadows and turning the stone buildings warm amber The man with the pigeons had gone leaving only a few scattered crumbs and the memory of his patient kindness The cafe across the street was preparing to close with the last customers lingering over their final cups of tea You began walking slowly back toward the bus stop one hand resting on the package in your pocket The brown paper crackled gently with each step a sound that belonged to lazy Sunday afternoons and carefully preserved treasures Already you were imagining where you might place these postcards One on the fridge door, Perhaps, To be read while waiting for the kettle to boil Another repurposed as a bookmark to be rediscovered weeks later like a note from a friend Maybe you'd even send one of the blank cards to someone Continuing the circle of small connections that postcards were meant to create The number 47 bus rounded the corner just as you reached the stop its engine puttering quietly As you settled into a seat by the window watching the village recede into the countryside You thought about Mr. Henshaw and his carefully organised collection About Ruth and Frank squinting into the Grand Canyon sun About little Alice feeding chips to seagulls despite her father's protests About Margaret patiently coaxing old jewellery boxes back to life in her cluttered shop All these small stories preserved on pieces of card that had travelled from hand to hand place to place Carrying with them fragments of ordinary lives lived fully As you rest now think of that little junk shop still sitting quietly on its corner street its blue paint catching the last light of afternoon Margaret is probably still there working through more boxes from Mr. Henshaw's estate the radio playing softly while the tabby cat dreams in the window The postcards remain in their neat boxes each one holding its small story waiting for the next curious wanderer to discover them Think of the weight of your own small collection the cool touch of the old cardstock the ink faded just enough to suggest time's gentle passage In our lives it's easy to overlook these small objects that carry stories but they're everywhere folded into the corners of ordinary days waiting for us to slow down enough to notice them The postcards you chose today will find places in your life becoming part of your own story even as they preserve the stories of others Ruth's enthusiasm Janet's resilience Alice's joy All these moments captured and shared remind us that every day contains small adventures worth recording worth remembering and worth passing on Now close your eyes rest These postcards have travelled far to reach you and tomorrow you'll wake up and continue your own journey Sweet dreams Worry Mail at the Village Post Office Any day is a good day to visit a village square No matter what the season there always seems to be that air of coziness, Doesn't there? Is it the quaint shops all higgledy-piggledy lined up along a cobbled street Or maybe it's how proud and pretty the community flowerbeds look around the bandstand The people though, That's what really makes a village All the characters that weave their own little tales about how they know so-and-so or what this shop used to be decades ago never shy to nod their head and wish you a good morning or lovely weather, Isn't it? Even if you're a new face And on this particular day as you're making your way past the sewing shop the haberdashery and the little bakery with its delicious bready smells wafting out of the door a group of teenagers just opened you happen across an old-fashioned post office you know the kind not the industrial-feeling city centre post office with its concrete exterior and sleek modern posters but the oldy-worldy kind a weathered sort of brick building with a cheerful red awning over the front door and window It looks more gift shop than mail centre Painted on a wooden sandwich board in wobbly cursive is stationery supplies delicious coffee and trinkets Three of your favourite things nestled under one quaint little roof Yes, Please You have a little bit of spending money tucked away in your bag to treat yourself with After all, That's what this little holiday is all about, Isn't it? Just a little nose-round See if you can find a nice postcard to add to your collection or a fresh new notepad You push the door inward and the bell tinkles to announce your arrival From sunny and blustery outside to dim and cosy You take a quick look around to see what you make of the place It's not really like any post office you've been in although it reminds you of the little one on the top of that steep hill in town where you grew up Shelves from floor to ceiling bursting with rolls of tape balls of twine envelopes in all sizes and pens in every colour An old lady inspects little packages of washi tape deciding which to buy as a gift perhaps One of those spinning stands featuring funny cards and postcards all by local artists seems to have attracted a boy and a girl They're stifling giggles at one of the silly doodles on the front And the inviting smells of coffee and pastries You can honestly say you've never stepped foot in a post office with its own little tea room Over the other side is where food and drinks are served presumably There are tables and chairs, None of which match dotted about in a cramped, Cosy sort of way Canisters of loose-leaf tea all stacked neatly along a shelf behind the counter A glass display proudly showing off homemade cakes, Danishes and cookies One of those posh coffee machines whirring after having delivered a frothy-looking coffee to a customer They're carrying it over to one of the tables And there's what you'd expect from a post office of course A row of high counters with a pane of glass in front of each surrounded by leaflets for currency exchange and postage prices, That sort of thing There's something a little funny about the one in the corner though It's painted a different colour to the rest A whimsical purple On the countertop is a little box with a slot in the top It's got something written on it You move closer so you can make it out WORRIES How odd And now you see it A large cork notice board covering the back wall Curiously it has WORRYMAIL COMMUNITY NOTICE BOARD written across the top in big handwritten loopy font What is that? You take a few steps closer to the board instinctively clasping your hands behind your back as you lean in as though the act of reading someone's private thoughts should be done with reverence The notes are all written in the same neat swooping handwriting but each on a different kind of pastel paper or card carefully pinned with a little silver thumbtack Some are lined, Others dotted or plain There's even one written on the back of a recipe card the ingredients for a treacle tart peeking through faintly behind the words Each card has a number in the corner 17, 42, 58 That one has a tiny drawing of a teacup at the bottom You scan the notes, Not in a nosy way but with a kind of gentle curiosity 31, I've just moved here and I haven't made any friends yet I feel silly for thinking I would fit in quickly 49, My cat passed and my house feels so empty without her 12, My grandchild is struggling at school and I don't know how to help Some are longer, Some are just a single line One simply says, Five, I feel lonely Your throat catches a little It's strange isn't it, How such a small sentence can feel so large There's an instruction card too, To help you make sense of all this It reads, The Worry Mail Community Notice Board is our village's way to give back to those who might need a helping hand to feel better in tough times It's anonymous and available for anyone to use We hope that it spreads kindness and love to all You never know what someone is going through How to use For worriers 1. If you have a worry, Please write on a slip on the purple counter and pop it in the box 2. Each night, Our clerks will write up your worry and pin it to the notice board the following day This is to keep all handwriting anonymous, So you don't feel shy or silly to share And so we can assign your worry a number 3. Anyone who passes through our post office can choose your card off the board And it can be chosen an unlimited number of times during the week that it remains on the board We give each note a week to make it fair for all worriers 4. Then keep an eye on your letterbox Givers send postcards, Greeting cards, Letters and care packages through us and we forward it on anonymously to you For givers 1. The world can feel tough and unfair and you can help spread love and kindness to any of our worriers Simply choose a worry card from the board, Either by noting down their number or taking a photo with your phone 2. Think about what the person might need right now A long letter to share your experience A cheerful greeting card Or even a small care package to show you care 3. Once you have written your letter or packaged your parcel, Take it to the purple counter Our designated worry clerk will process your postage and put it aside, Ready to be mailed To encourage givers and worriers, We have contributed to the price of worry mail and subsidised the cost of stamps Meaning the price of all worry mail is one penny for letters and five pennies for packages Thank you, Worriers and givers We appreciate you making the world a better place What a lovely idea Have you ever seen something like this before? Well now you know exactly what to spend some of your money on You glance around the shop again Nobody is watching you The old lady has chosen her washi tapes and is now chatting to the girl behind the till Laughing softly about how she always buys more than she needs The kids are gone and someone else is admiring the cakes under a glass dome Maybe, Just maybe, You could pick one Offer something gentle, Something kind Something that could let a stranger know they've been heard You select one from the board, Number 31, The one about making new friends And scribble the number gently on a piece of paper and pop it in your coat pocket And you turn your attention to the stationary corner It's a treasure trove Racks of notebooks in every size and colour Stickers in neat little packets, Some with animals, Others with flowers or stars There are writing sets too Matching paper and envelopes, Some with botanical prints Others with sleepy looking bears and rabbits in woolly scarves You pick up a little bundle wrapped in twine A writing kit with pressed flower designs and a pencil that smells faintly of lavender Maybe just one trinket You spot a little enamel pin shaped like a teapot with Take things slow, Written in loopy gold letters It feels right, A good luck charm for someone starting fresh After you've chosen your items You make your way over to the tearoom side And order a hot drink and a toasted tea cake with butter The woman behind the counter gives you a warm smile as she prepares your tray You sit down at a corner table, The seat cushion mismatched and a little squishy Your drink steams gently in front of you And outside you can just see the wind tugging at the edges of the red awning And the busy street bustling with villagers and tourists You take out the crumpled paper from your pocket and read it again, Carefully Before setting it down beside your stationery Then you begin to write Not rushed, Not perfectly, Just sincerely You picture the person behind the note Imagine them standing in a hallway of doors, Unsure which to knock on Their hands in their pockets, Fidgeting with nerves and hopes and a small crumpled bus ticket So you write them a letter like you'd want to receive Kind, Steady, Like a cuppa in envelope form You start with Hi, I saw your worry today I just wanted to say, I think you're doing something really brave And you carry on from there Talking about how beginnings often feel like endings at first How unfamiliar streets become landmarks You tell them how courage isn't loud or flashy It's just showing up anyway You seal the note and tuck a sticker on the back A tiny gold star Because obviously they deserve one By now your drink is half gone And the butter on your tea cake has melted into sweet glistening craters You take a bite Warm Comforting Exactly what today needed When you're ready You turn to the purple counter The woman behind it, Cardigan sleeves slightly pushed up Gives you a knowing look and slides the wooden box toward you You slip the envelope into the gap It makes a soft sound as it lands, Like a page turning One penny, She says You give her the coin It feels like part of a ritual Small, Sacred and gentle She offers you a receipt, Which you take politely Only to discover it has a quote typed across the bottom Every small kindness is a seed You never know what might bloom You smile, Folding it carefully and sliding it into your pocket Not for records, Just to keep As you head toward the door You pass by the notice board again Your eyes flick up 31 is still there But now you notice there's a tiny golden sticker on the corner Someone else must have responded before you did And maybe someone else will again You step outside The red awning flaps softly And the wind is cooler than before But not cold Just brisk enough to remind you that You're real You're here And you did something kind today As you walk back down the cobbled path You wonder what worry you'd write if it were you You imagine what advice someone might give you And you wonder who you'll write to next Because you know that you will be back To the village post office Solo camp in the wild hills It's late morning when you set off along the footpath Your rucksack sitting snug against your back And your boots making soft thuds on the damp, Slightly gravelly ground The air's cool enough that every breath comes out in a little cloud And everything feels hushed You haven't seen a soul since setting out And the weather's quite chilly So you might be the only person for miles It's comforting though As you don't have any obligations Nobody to answer to It's just you and the rolling countryside Fog sits low across the hills Drifting and shifting Thinning out in patches Where the sun's trying to get through The path curves uphill Between old stone walls covered in moss You marvel at how they've clearly been there for decades Maybe even hundreds of years And they're still standing Though they look nothing more than stacked flat rocks Bracken and tall weeds lean in from both sides Brown and curling And every now and then a drop of water falls from one of the fronds And lands with a quiet tap on your sleeve It smells like soil and wet decaying leaves That slightly sweet, Smoky autumn smell That makes you want to take a nice, Big, Deep breath in You can hear sheep somewhere up ahead Though you can't see them yet through the fog The sound is strangely comforting A reminder that even in all this mist and quiet There's life out here going about its business after all You keep walking Your back bent forward a bit to combat the steepness of the hill And your pack creaking gently with the movement of your shoulders It's a steady rhythm The crunch of your boots on the path The soft give underfoot The occasional clink of a loose stone You're not in any hurry You've got everything you need with you Tent, Camping stove, Sleeping bag And enough food for tonight You're looking forward to a nice warm meal already The cold air knows how to work up an appetite For now, You can rely on your trusty flask filled with your favourite hot drink to keep you going As you make your way up and down the hills After a while, The path dips down into a little hollow Where some trees grow close together Their branches dripping with dew You stop to adjust your scarf And as you do, A robin darts across the path in front of you A quick flash of orange-red and all that grey Before disappearing into the brambles You smile to yourself, Watching the last bit of movement vanish into the undergrowth They say that seeing a robin means someone you loved is watching over you I wonder who yours is? The ground here is soft Covered in layers of leaves Some are whole and golden Others half-rotted, Sticking together in damp clumps You catch the smell of mushrooms nearby An earthy, Slightly fungal scent And sure enough, When you look to your right There's a little cluster growing at the base of a fallen birch Pale beige caps, Edges curled up Droplets of moisture caught on their surfaces Like tiny beads You take out the little notebook from your coat pocket Removing the stubby pencil from the spiral binding And kneel down to roughly sketch it Maybe you'll add it into your journal Or just keep it in there, Just like that With that thought, You pick up a dried leaf too The best one you can find And wedge it between the pages to keep it flat And safe The air feels colder now And when you stand up again Your breath comes out in thicker clouds You pull your hat down over your ears and carry on walking Following the path as it leads uphill again Winding between rocks and patches of heather By midday, You're higher up The trees have thinned out to patches of scrub and gorse And the fog lifts a little as you reach the ridge A faint light breaks through Silvery and weak, But still nice to see You stop for a rest Slipping your pack from your shoulders And sitting on a low stone wall That runs along the side of the path When you unscrew the lid of your flask and pour some out The heat spreads into your hands at once And the first sip warms you from the inside It's quiet enough that you can hear the faint rustle of dry grass And the distant caw of a crow somewhere down in the valley Then, High above, Another sound catches your attention A series of sharp cries moving fast You look up And through the pale fog you spot them A flock of birds in formation, Heading south Geese, It looks like They move like one thing Wings flashing silver grey as they pass overhead For a few seconds you just stand there watching them Your drink forgotten in your hand Your face turned up to the sky You love seeing their little ceremony to mark the end of the warmer months and the beginning of the cold And you've been lucky enough to witness it When they've gone, The silence settles even deeper than before But it's a pleasant silence You shoulder your pack again and keep walking The day moves on quietly Up and down gentle slopes Through fields dotted with dry thistles And the occasional hawthorn bush bright with red berries A hare even darts out from the edge of the path and bounds across the hillside Its white tail flashing before it disappears again into the long grass You stop and watch the spot where it vanished, Half hoping it'll reappear, But it doesn't By early afternoon, The ground begins to rise more steeply You can feel the pull in your thighs as you climb Your breathing coming a bit heavier in the cold air The wind has picked up too, Bringing with it a smell of salt Faint but unmistakable You're not far from the coast now You can almost taste it You keep going until the land starts to level out again And that's when you see it A clearing tucked in among the hills Shielded on three sides by trees and bushes Open to the view on the fourth The ground is flat and dry The grass short and springy underfoot And just beyond the edge, The land drops gently away to reveal the distant coast You can see the faint shapes of cottages scattered across the landscape Their rooftops small and pale against the patchwork of fields and moorlands You take off your pack and stand for a moment, Just breathing it all in The stillness The smell of the air The wide openness of it all This is perfect Setting up the tent doesn't take long Your hands know what they're doing Pegs into the ground, Fabric clipped onto the poles The tent standing upright with a satisfying ripple as the breeze catches it You crawl inside for a quick check Sleeping mat unrolled Sleeping bag fluffed out and ready Torch clipped to the little loop hanging from the roof It's already starting to feel like home That small sheltered space against all the vastness outside You sit for just a moment And it hits you how tired your body feels from hiking all day You're so grateful to have found this little idyllic clearing on the headland And at just the right time When you crawl back out You notice the light has changed from the weak silvery glow To softer and warmer More golden around the edges of the fog You set up your folding chair just outside the tent facing the view And pull out your little camping stove The faint metallic clink of the ignition sounds loud in the forest And quiet, Followed by the gentle hiss as the flame catches and settles into a steady blue ring You open a tin of soup with your Swiss army knife Thick vegetable, The sort that's more like a stew really And pour it into your little pan The smell rises almost immediately Rich and savoury, Mingling with the faint scent of heather and damp grass While it warms, You tear off a chunk of bread from the loaf you packed this morning It's a bit squashed from being in your rucksack all day, But somehow that makes it taste better Rustic, Chewy and perfect for dipping You eat slowly, Blowing on each spoonful before it goes in your mouth Watching the fog roll in low waves over the distant hills The warmth of the soup spreads through your chest and down into your stomach Giving you a bit of a second wind It's a deep satisfaction, Knowing you carried it all here yourself Every bit of it, On your own back And you worked up an appetite in the cold to enjoy it even more When the pan's empty, You give it a quick rinse with water from your bottle Shaking the droplets off into the grass Then comes pudding, Makeshift s'mores The sort of thing you'd never bother with at home, But that feels exactly right out here You crumble a few digestive biscuits into the pan to make a sort of base Sprinkle a handful of chocolate chips over the top and drop a few marshmallows on They start to melt almost at once, The chocolate going all glossy The marshmallows turning sticky and golden around the edges of the pan You stir it all together with your spoon until it forms a warm, Sweet mess And eat it straight from the pan It tastes wonderful You're getting pretty sleepy now Your belly is full, And the lovely hearty food has you so content That you can't imagine feeling any happier than you are right now You let your eyes slide out of focus Your tongue running along the roof of your mouth to savour the last of the chocolatey goodness After you've rinsed it a second time You set the pan back on the stove with a little water in it to boil for tea As it heats, You pull your blanket around your shoulders And sit back in the chair, Your legs stretched out in front of you The day is fading fast now, As the afternoons are short this time of year The fog is turning from white to blue-grey And the horizon glows faintly where the sun is sinking, Hidden somewhere behind all that mist It never did come out all the way today But that's okay, You warmed yourself with the long hike and the delicious hearty food When the water boils, You pour it carefully into your mug Watching the steam curl upward and disappear into the cold air It warms your hands as you hold the mug between your palms You sip slowly, Letting the quiet soak into you Not thinking about much at all Somewhere in the trees behind you, A wood pigeon coos its soft, Rhythmic call A breeze stirs the branches and sends a few last leaves drifting down Tumbling end over end before they land in the grass You can hear the rustle of dry stems A far-off sigh of wind moving across the hills And once or twice, The faint bark of a fox calling out somewhere in the valley When the light has almost gone, Just a faint glow left on the horizon You tidy away what's left The pan, The mug, The chair Everything gets stowed or wiped down or tucked away Then you crawl into your tent, Zipping the door closed behind you You get ready for bed And then the sleeping bag welcomes you With its familiar rustle as you wriggle down into it Pulling it up until only your face is poking out The air against your cheeks is cool, But the rest of you is warm and cocooned You click off your lantern and lie still Listening Outside, The night creates its own sort of lullaby The trees creak a little as they settle for the night Somewhere nearby, A small animal scurries through the undergrowth Its movements quick and light The wind threads itself through the branches, Steady and low A constant backdrop to everything else You can feel the day's walk in your legs That pleasant heaviness that comes from real movement From fresh air and distance covered Your body feels properly moved in the best way Tired but content It makes sleep feel like a reward The warmth of your sleeping bag wraps around you And as you close your eyes You picture the fog outside thickening again Hiding the hills, The coast The whole quiet world you've walked through today Everything becomes still Like the land itself has let out a long, Slow breath You breathe out once more And the last of your thoughts drift away with it Tomorrow can wait For now, You sleep The brambles in the garden You stand at the back door looking out at your garden The lawn is still green but covered in brown leaves from the cherry tree That started giving up its leaves a few weeks ago The air is cool on your face as you step outside And you can hear water dripping from the gutter after the rain earlier You've got a pair of secateurs in one hand And thick gloves tucked under your arm The job at hand is trimming back the brambles They've grown too far into the flowerbeds and across the lawn It seems like everyone in your street is experiencing this Only a couple of days ago you noticed the lady on the corner's rosebush getting overtaken by the thick vines The blackberries are finished now You picked the last ones a week or two ago Some sweet, Some sharp You remember plucking them and eating them straight off the vine With the purple juice staining your fingers Now all that's left are just the stems Long, Arching canes with thorns that catch on everything You pull the gloves on The leather is stiff but it moulds to your hands after a moment You know better than to do this without gloves Some of the bigger thorns even manage to break through the thick leather sometimes That first cut is satisfying You press the secateurs against the thick stem And hear the crunch as it parts The cane falls to the ground The cut end smells faintly green Though the air still smells mostly of damp leaves and earth You work your way along the patch, Cutting piece by piece The brambles cling to each other Thorns hooked together So each one has to be pulled free very carefully The sound is snapping, Tearing, Rustling Sometimes a cane comes loose suddenly And the dry leaves brush your arms The stems are heavier than they look When you lift them, They're thick with moisture from all the rain You toss them onto a pile at the side, Keeping them clear of the path Your neighbour, Janet, Appears at the fence She's in her sixties, Always out in her garden Tackling the brambles are you? She calls over Yeah, Finally getting round to it, You say, Straightening up I should do mine, She says, Looking at her own tangle along the back wall Though I keep telling myself they're good for the birds They are, You agree I saw a blackbird in there yesterday Every time you mention blackbirds You think back to a few years ago When your cherry tree started sprouting out of where the thick hedge grows You mentioned it to someone Who said it was probably nesting blackbirds that had dropped a cherry stone And then of course the rest was history Still, They do take over, Don't they? She watches you work for a moment Then says, I've got the kettle on if you want a cup after I might take you up on that, You say She goes back inside, And you return to the brambles As you work, You notice details A few dried blackberries still cling to the higher stems Those ones that you can't quite reach And they're shriveled and dark At the base there's a nest of dry leaves Where something small has been through Maybe a hedgehog You're careful not to disturb it too much Just in case The brambles are a nuisance But they're not all bad In summer, The flowers were covered in bees You'd see butterflies landing on them Opening and closing their wings slowly Later, The berries fed the blackbirds And thrushes that came in from the hedge Even now, The brambles shelter the wrens and robins But left alone, They take over the whole garden So you keep cutting, Pulling, Stacking There's a rhythm to it Your breath makes small clouds in the air Your body warms up with effort Every so often, You pause and listen Somewhere down the lane, A dog barks A wood pigeon leaves the cherry tree With a clatter of wings Otherwise, It's just the wind in the hedge Your partner opens the back door and leans out How's it going? Nearly there, You say You want a hand? I'm alright, Nearly done now They nod Don't forget, We've got those bulbs to plant I know, I was thinking I'd put them here once this is cleared Daffodils? Yeah They go back inside And de-finish the last few stems When you're done, There's a clear patch where the brambles were The soil looks raw and disturbed, But it'll settle The pile of cut stems looks almost like a war Thorns tangled together Waiting to go to the compost heap You peel off your gloves Your hands are a bit sore There are red scratches on your wrists where thorns got past the leather You can smell damp soil on your clothes And a faint sweetness from the cut stems You remember your grandmother doing this same job when you were younger She'd spend whole afternoons out in her own unusual circular-shaped garden that you loved so much She was methodical, Working through the borders one by one Her hands, Veined and spotted with age, Would grip the secateurs firmly Stubborn things, She'd mutter, But she never got rid of them completely They'll be back next year, She'd say with a slight smile, Always are She was right, They will be back And when they are, They'll bring flowers and berries again, And work Back inside, You set the gloves and secateurs by the door Through the window, You look at the garden once more It looks tidier, Though you know the brambles will return They always do There's something balanced about that The work and the reward The nuisance and the fruit All in the same plant You think about going next door for that cup of tea But first, You wash your hands at the kitchen sink The water runs brown at first, Then clear Your hands are cold from being outside The warm water feels good You dry your hands and look at the clock Nearly four! The light will start going soon You pull on a clean jumper and head out the front door Walking the few steps to Janet's gate The path is wet and there are leaves stuck to it You can smell more wood smoke now, Probably from a few gardens down Janet answers before you've finished knocking Come in, Come in, Tea's ready Her kitchen is warm There's condensation on the windows And the radio is on low Some programme about gardening She pours from a pot that's been sat under a cosy The tea dark and strong Milk? Please? She hands you the mug and you wrap both hands around it The heat seeps into your fingers Which are still cold from being outside Sit down, She says, Gesturing to the table You sit The chair is old and wooden and creaks slightly Janet sits across from you with her own mug There's a plate of biscuits between you Digestives, Plain ones Get it all done then, She asks Yeah, Took longer than I thought It always does She dunks a biscuit in her tea I'll have to do mine before the frost comes Though I keep putting it off They're not going anywhere, You say She laughs at that No, They're certainly not You sit in comfortable quiet for a moment The radio murmurs in the background Outside the window you can see her garden Which is tidier than yours but still has that same tangle of brambles at the back Janet talks a bit about her son who's supposed to visit next week And about the frost that's forecast for later in the week You half listen, Half watch the light starting to fade outside The garden is going grey A blackbird lands on her fence, Looks around and flies off The mug is warm in your hands Your body feels tired now The good kind of tired from being outside and doing something physical Your shoulders are a bit stiff Your fingers are warming up slowly After a while you finish the tea and stand up Thanks for that Anytime, Said Janet, You know where I am You walk back to your house The garden looks different in the fading light The pile of brambles is just a dark shape now The cleared patch of soil has disappeared into shadow Inside it's warm You close the door behind you And stand for a moment in the quiet The day feels complete somehow The work done, The tea drunk, The light going You think about the bulbs you'll plant tomorrow or the day after Daffodils They'll come up in spring, Yellow and bright in the space where the brambles were But that's for tomorrow For now, You're just warm and tired and ready to settle in for the evening The garden is done The brambles are cut back And outside, The light is nearly gone Sweet dreams A frosty stroll for Crumble Flexing his big fluffy paws so his toes spread out in a big fan Crumble stretched out his legs and rubbed the top of his head against the soft blanket he was laying on Just a couple more minutes After all, Cats didn't really need to fill their days with much other than laying, Eating, Washing and occasionally playing if the mood struck There was nowhere his owner expected him to be In fact, It seemed like laying dozily and purring now and again was exactly what they wanted from him And that suited Crumble just fine After napping for a little while longer, Crumble felt the urge to get up from his spot on the sofa in front of the crackling fire and hunt for some food Of course, Hunting, According to Crumble, Meant he simply needed to check his bowl in the kitchen His humans had learned that if there was even a glimpse of the bottom of his ceramic dish, A few loud and persistent meows would have it topped up again in no time He gave one more large arch of his big fluffy back and a dramatic yawn, Leaping carefully down from the sofa He sauntered across the living room rug and into the kitchen to investigate the food situation The icy stone tiles were a bit of a shock to his feet, But he got used to it after a few seconds After a few mouthfuls of food, A crisp breeze from outside wafted through the gaps in his cat flap, Making his whiskers twitch Although chilly, The wind carried tempting smells that only a cat would notice The scent of a distant chicken being roasted, The smell of nature and birds and grass, The nip of frost on the air Crumble's eyes went big, And intrigued, He squeezed himself through the doorway that was only just big enough for him He wasn't an overly fat cat, But appeared rotund because of his dense orange fur, Like a big fluffy pumpkin with ears and a tail The day was brisk with bright sunshine giving the impression that it was warmer than it really was Spring wasn't far away, Yet there was frost dusting the ground like sugared shortbread under his paws Snowdrops and crocuses had begun to poke their heads out from the earth in neighbours' flowerbeds after their year-long slumber It wasn't quite time for them to bloom yet, Though The morning frosts would come back for a few weeks still, Until this corner of the world gently thawed The plump ginger cat set off down the street, Nose in the air and eyes alert He spied the tabby laying on the windowsill a few doors down from his own house And when it didn't stir at his presence, He continued on A solitary robin sat and watched him from the top of a brick wall to someone's front garden That is, Until Crumble hopped up, Not in a predatory way, But just out of curiosity Crumble, Unlike many cats, Was a bit of a pacifist When other cats would chirp longingly at the birds hopping about in the trees, Crumble would gaze half-interested and then turn his attention to something else He effortlessly tiptoed along the wall, And then up again to a higher piece of fence For a large cat, He certainly didn't struggle to balance himself on the thin fence panels From up here, He could nosily peer into the other gardens in his neighbourhood Of course, He believed it was all his territory, A king surveying his estate He leisurely licked his front paw as a light breeze blew against him Wafting those earlier smells of roasting chicken from a neighbour's kitchen, Where they were probably getting an early start on a Sunday roast As a cat, Crumble didn't understand the calendar that humans used But he knew that once every few days there was a particularly delicious aroma of food whirling through the streets And on these days, His owners sometimes dropped a little bit of chicken onto a plate for him to enjoy With this thought in his mind, He graciously stretched his body vertically down the other side of the fence Holding out his paws in front of him to stop himself from falling Giving it a quick pluck with his claws, And flumping down onto the patch of grass, Crunchy with frost Blades of grass like desiccated coconuts sticking up out of the ground It was too cold for the grass to begin growing again Still the same length as it had been in the autumn, When the people here last cut it down Taking a few steps with the hard earth underfoot, A wave of energy overtook him, As it seems to be the way with cats Wiggling his behind, His ears flat against his head, With huge pupils He darted on top of a rogue leaf, And caught it underneath his feet I told you he's a pacifist, Except when it comes to fallen leaves apparently Using his big, Soft paw pads, He played with it a while Running back and repeating the same pouncing predator dance over and over, Until another, More interesting sound pricked his ears He could hear his biscuit box being shaken down the street At the click of a finger, Or the rattle of a dry cat food box He abandoned the leaf, Now in tatters, And leapt up onto the fence, Striding along the brick wall Two blackbirds now sat, And promptly flew away when they caught sight of the cat coming towards them The frost on the pavement was gradually melting, But still just as cold Hopping merrily with his nose in the air, And his tail curled into a shepherd's hook He bolted back through the cat flap, And into the warmth of his kitchen The stone floor now seemed pleasant compared to the frostbitten ground outside He weaved between the legs of his owner, As she fussed him on top of his head And poured a generous helping of biscuits into his dish Playing with leaves and leaping up and down on fences all morning, Had got Crumble's stomach rumbling So he contented himself, By eating half a bowl of food in one sitting Swallowing some biscuits whole, And taking some out of the dish individually Giving them a good shake before crunching them up Feeling sleepy, Warm and content, He strode back into the living room Across the hard wood floor, And woven rug Saving the rugs inviting tassels for another time He could attack them any time he wanted to But right now, He wanted nothing more than to curl up in his favourite spot Next to the fire, And gently fall asleep And Crumble did just that The End This is Log Cabin in Snowsap Forest I trudge slowly through Snowsap Forest A thick blanket of snow underfoot, And the chill wind nipping my nose Around me is a wondrous forest of majestic fir trees Standing tall and mighty, Unfazed by the blistering cold Shades of deepest emerald, Moss and velvet, Iced with a thick layer of snow I spot full holly bushes with their cheerful berries and shiny leaves Nestled around the lower trunks of the formidable trees Snow is falling around me Those big fluffy flakes, Silent and soft They catch the breeze, And spiral on their journey to the ground Some seem quick to land, While others take their time Carelessly catching the breeze, And floating down in their own time Luckily, The thick trees are stopping most of the breeze from blowing through my long coat So despite the weather, I feel quite warm The piney fresh scent of the trees around me fills my nostrils And the fresh, Undisturbed snow crunches and compacts under my feet It's therapeutic to listen to my rhythmic footsteps My cheeks and nose are red from the cold But thankfully I'm bundled up in a cosy woolen scarf and hat A gift from my friend in a faraway place Who knits the cosiest, Wonderful pieces from soft, Thick yarn There's a comfortable, Peaceful silence in the forest As if it's holding its breath for me as I make my way through Patiently it waits, Guiding me on my way I feel safe and secure to go at my own pace Distant birds that brave the harsh weather before the sun sets Sing their echoing songs in amongst the forest canopy In this moment, Although I walk alone I know I have the forest creatures to keep me company As I walk steadily through a frosty clearing I spot a small log cabin off a little way in the distance The windows have a warm, Cosy orange glow And there's a small stream of smoke coming from the chimney Seeing this log cabin up ahead fills me with warmth and a sense of relaxation It's the lighting, I think The orangey-yellow glow of a fire or candles, Perhaps It instantly washes a sense of cosiness and calm over you, Doesn't it? I'm trying to imagine what might be inside It's a welcome sight as the light is fading fast and I'm looking forward to resting my feet Picking up the pace a little I continue to trudge through the beautifully untouched layer of snow Closer and closer to the cabin Once I reach it, I stomp my heavy boots up the outside wooden steps of the porch Surrounded now by twinkling fairy lights and warm candlelit lanterns Knocking the snow off my feet before walking up to the front door Filled with anticipation, I spot a small handwritten note stuck to the door Leaning in, I notice the paper is freshly torn out of a pretty notepad, Judging by the floral pattern And in loopy handwriting, It reads A hearty welcome to the cabin nestled in the heart of Snowsap Forest Inside is everything you need to relax and rest Enjoy and stay as long as you like I recognise the handwriting It's my close friend It seems they've decided to treat me to a little break from the cold weather, For which I'm extremely grateful Somehow the cabin feels like home, But I've never been here before I turn the brass doorknob and the warmth hits my cold face immediately as I open the door Just like sinking into a hot bubble bath after a long day Walking inside, I notice the cabin is lit up entirely by the roaring fire in the log burner And a few clustered candles in little nooks around the room Just like I suspected A gigantic squashy sofa beckons with a woollen throw and cushions First, With some effort through achy joints and cold muscles I pull off my heavy coat, Hat, Scarf and gloves, Setting my boots to one side There is a small rustic table in the little kitchen area, Laid out with a cup and a plate Along a wooden shelf are kilner jars, Filled with all kinds of teas and even hot chocolate powder On serving plates on the countertop, There are freshly baked cookies, Still warm And a delicious cake cut into generous slices The sweet vanilla and chocolate fill the air with a delicious scent, Making my stomach rumble I help myself to a slice of cake and a cookie, Boil the little stovetop kettle And fill my cup with boiling water, Dunking a tea bag in and taking it to the squashy sofa in front of the fire I sink down into the plush sofa and pop my food and drink on the wood slice coffee table I already feel so much warmer, Sinking my tired feet into the sheepskin rug that's decorating the floor in front of the fire The warm mug heats up my cold fingertips and I inhale the scent and steam rising from it Taking a gulp, I feel the warm, Comforting tea soothe my throat, Feeling its warmth radiate my body Spreading down into my chest, My stomach and spreading through my arms and legs Relief and tranquility wash over me, Taking a few moments to sit in the quiet All I can hear is the crackling fire and slight whistle of wind from outside I hadn't realised how tired my body feels until I sat down and took the weight off my feet I suppose trudging through the snow in blustery winter weather takes its toll I'm so glad for the time to rest and recharge with a warm drink and some delicious treats I spend the next hour or so relaxing, Drinking my steaming mug of tea and finishing the delicious baked treats In this moment I am so grateful to have my friend arrange something that I sorely needed A wave of tiredness flows over me and my body is heavy and not ready to leave just yet My eyes are drooping and I'm finding it tricky to keep them open I'll lay down, Just for a few moments I get up briefly to blow out the candles and settle back down The fire has burned down now to a low glow of embers Lifting my heavy legs onto the sofa, I grab the thick tartan throw from the back cushion and drape it around me I lay back and rest my head on the soft cushions The crackle of the fire lulls me further into relaxation My eyes drifting out of focus as the amber glow from the fireplace dances on the cabin walls I gently close my eyes and drift off The end The Cosy Witch Café In the heart of a forest in springtime, Where the flowers peeked through the soil and there were dozens of beautiful and interesting creatures living together in harmony There stood a quaint little witch café nestled in the thick trees It looked to be the shape of a giant toadstool with windows and a crooked chimney poking through the cap roof It was a place of magic, Mystery and warmth where the air was always infused with the scent of spices and herbs and the walls were adorned with twinkling fairy lights It was hard to say how long the café had stood there but it felt like it could have been there a hundred years Even being in its presence gave its visitors a sense of calm and happiness On this spring afternoon, As you approached the café down a winding muddy path through the trees you noticed that the windows were foggy and steamy and the sounds of bubbling cauldrons and soft whispers could be heard from within Broomsticks stood outside on a stand, Just like you would find for bicycles and there was a hearty wooden sign above the door saying, Welcome! You pushed open the door and a bell tinkled on the frame to gently announce your arrival You were greeted by a cosy fire-lit room filled with comfy armchairs, Little mismatched tables shelves lined with spellbooks and a bar made of polished dark wood The domed roof really was a giant toadstool cap with a hole in the centre for a skylight Down from the ceiling trailed ivy, Its green leaves catching the afternoon light As you looked around the café for a place to sit you saw all sorts of magical creatures and beings gathered together enjoying each other's company A group of fairies fluttered by, Leaving a trail of glitter in their wake A wise old tawny owl perched on a shelf watching over the patrons with his piercing eyes A trio of mischievous gnomes played a game of cards in the corner cackling and teasing each other You glanced into the very far corner of the café if round rooms do have corners and spotted a giant, Squashy armchair with a table made from a chunk of tree trunk next to it You made your way over and sunk deeply into the comfortable chair noticing how it hugged your body and supported your weight You never remember feeling so comfortable in your whole life Not only did the chair take your physical weight it seemed to absorb some of your mental worries and settle your emotions too As you settled into your seat you noticed that the air was filled with a soft murmur of conversation The patrons were chatting about everything from the latest spells and potions to the newest fairy tales and legends You could hear snippets of laughter and excitement and every so often a burst of magic would light up the room Although you arrived alone you knew that this was a place of comfort and belonging You knew you were wanted here and if you had needed, Any one of these friendly creatures would lend a hand or an ear The scent of cinnamon and cloves wafted from the kitchen making your mouth water You heard the clinking of teacups and the sizzling of something delicious on the stove You felt the warmth of the fire on your skin and the softness of the cushions beneath you It was as if you were wrapped up in a cosy blanket of magic and comfort After a few moments a kind wrinkled old witch approached you offering you a steaming mug of spiced apple cider The steam rising from the mug seemed to have a pearlescent quality to it and when you breathed it in it cleansed your nose, Throat and lungs spreading warmth and contentment throughout your body You took a sip and felt that warm comforting glow continue to spread through your body and you began to relax even further letting your mind wander and dance with the flames in the fire As you sat there sipping your cider and listening to the chatter around you you began to feel a sense of peace wash over you The stress and worries of the outside world faded away replaced by a feeling of contentment and tranquility As the afternoon turned into evening you found yourself growing more and more sleepy The gentle atmosphere of the cafe lulled you into a peaceful state of mind and before you knew it you were nodding off in your chair The last thing you heard before drifting off was the soft rustle of pages turning and the distant sound of a lullaby and as you closed your eyes you felt a sense of gratitude for this little haven of magic and warmth nestled in the heart of the forest Sweet dreams Friends of the Forest Once upon a time in a far off land there was a magical forest The trees in the forest were ancient and wise and they were said to possess magical powers It was a place of great beauty where the light filtered through the leaves to create a dappled enchanted glow The rumours were through the ages that within the bark and leaves and branches the trees possessed healing powers and many people believed that spending time in the forest could help to soothe the mind, Body and spirit It was home to many hidden paths and secret glades making it an exciting place to explore and discover new things It was a place of wonder and magic that had the power to captivate and enchant all those who entered it The forest was home to many creatures big and small, Mysterious and enchanted One of those creatures was a young doe named Mavis Mavis was a kind and gentle creature who loved to roam the forest and explore One day, As Mavis was wandering through the forest she stumbled across a clearing In the middle of the clearing stood a large and ancient oak tree This formidable tree was unlike any other in the forest with wide branches that stretched out in all directions It had lived through many seasons and countless years The tree had seen much and had grown to be very large and strong Its thick boughs and gnarled bark provided a home and shelter to many creatures in the forest The trunk had deep grooves and ridges that told the story of its long life This mighty oak held a sense of wisdom and serenity about it making it a peaceful and calming place to be Its presence was also different from the other trees as it seemed to have a stronger connection to the land and the forest around it Mavis was awestruck by the magical aura of the tree She decided to take a closer look She carefully approached the tree She noticed that there was a small hollow at the base of the trunk The hollow looked like it would be the perfect place to rest and take a nap Mavis settled down in the hollow and closed her eyes As she drifted off to sleep she felt a sense of peace and contentment wash over her The sound of the wind rustling through the trees and the gentle sway of the branches rocked her to sleep As Mavis slept in the hollow of the ancient oak tree she dreamt of all the wonderful things she had seen and experienced in the forest She dreamed of the babbling brooks and the colourful flowers of the playful squirrels and the majestic eagles She dreamt of the sunsets the warm rays of the sun the cool breeze and the gentle sway of the branches Mavis thought about the different seasons the lush green leaves of summer the orange, Red and yellow leaves of autumn the bare branches of winter and the new buds of spring She dreamt of all the different animals she had met the butterflies, The bees the birds and the rabbits She dreamt of the different scents of the forest the pine needles the wild berries the wood smoke and the decay of the damp earth Mavis's mind drifted to her friends the other deer animals and mysterious creatures she had met in the forest and how they all lived together in harmony She remembered the adventures and the explorations she had made the hidden paths and secret glades she had discovered and how it felt to be free and wild Her dream was a reflection of her love and connection to the forest the memories and experiences she had gathered and how it had shaped her as an individual It was a dream that made her feel peaceful and content and connected to the nature around her When she woke she felt refreshed and rejuvenated She knew that the ancient oak tree would always be a special place for her a place where she could go to rest and dream and so Mavis thanked the tree and set off to continue her adventures Books in the Attic You lean the trusty old ladder up against the ledge of the attic hatch we call it a loft in the UK by the way but for the purpose of the story I'm going to call it an attic and test it for its sturdiness on the landing floor You've got to go up there at some point and clear some space ready for the roof work so it may as well be today while you have some free time Lantern in hand you ascend the steps one by one and rest the light on one of the higher steps that you haven't reached yet With a free hand you push the hatch lid off and into the attic which sends a little plume of dust along down with the rush of warm air Taking a quick peek you continue up the steps now with your lantern in your hand ready to hook onto the nail sticking out of one of the nearby beams that the previous owner must have hammered in for that exact purpose many years ago The old bulb casts a warm, Soft glow over all of the bags and boxes piled high in your attic It's a bit messier than you remember but that's what attics are for, Aren't they? You think back and you can't really remember anyone having a perfect looking attic It's comfortably messy though, You don't mind and that smell the dusty, Warm scent of familiar belongings that haven't been moved around much gives you that content feeling Getting your footing on the supporting joists you take a look around you Here's where everything you've ever collected rests ready to be picked through when you need that old camping gear or Christmas decorations at the end of the year You can spot the tree, The tinsel and the baubles in their marked boxes You still can't believe it all fits inside that old sound bar packaging you saved There are suitcases filled with boxes that you can't bear to part with bin bags of old clothes and, Of course, Piles of your old childhood toys You told yourself that at some point, When you make the time you'll hang some shelves and arrange your old favourites on them to display You smile at the idea of bringing all that nostalgia down into the rest of your house to enjoy looking at For now, You know you need to focus on clearing some of it out of the way so that when the workers come to repair that little spot on the roof they'll have room to move about There's no windows up here like some of the bigger, Older houses so you'll have to rely on the light from your lantern to organise the mess into piles You decide that it makes most sense to move some of the smaller items out of the way into the deeper parts of the attic and then take down boxes and bags that are closest to the hatch first to clear a little path You set to work, Shifting piles of old magazines tubs of Lego clothes packed into vacuum-sealed bags and boxes of random cables until there's a bit more room to move about It doesn't take long and the warm attic isn't stifling like you anticipated It's a comforting sort of warmth a contrast to the sharp air of early spring outside You're getting close to the spot where the repairs need doing now and this is where a lot of your childhood belongings are stored You catch your breath for a moment and kneel down to get a closer look at everything You run your hand over the tattered cardboard reading the labels school written on one toys on another and one that doesn't have anything written on it at all You can't help but let your curiosity get the better of you and tear off the sticky tape holding the unmarked box shut It's a bit tricky considering its age and the fact it's been taped over several times by the looks of things You pick at the edges and finally get it open It looks like loads of old books stacked up in a pile and some filling the spare spaces around it Your old books! You treasured these as a little kid remembering how proudly you organised them on your little bookshelf in your bedroom You can instantly smell that old book smell like the scent of the old second hand bookshop in town sort of a dusty decay smell but a pleasant one, Not damp You start picking up each title turning them over to marvel at the old cover designs Some have cheerful printed images faded with time others have leather covers and gold writing You leaf through your old favourites the pretty illustrations and passages instantly taking you back to your younger years when you'd sit on your beanbag chair surrounded by teddy bears reading until bedtime And of course there were the books you read as you reached your teenage years too The novels with dog-eared corners and spell books with some of the corners folded down to mark the important parts A box filled with memories from different points in your life As you reach the very bottom of the box a thin, Fabric-bound book catches your eye and you pull it out You don't remember owning it but it looks like the oldest book in the box by far Perhaps it was one of your gran's old books mixed in with yours The olive green cover is a little worn at the edges but you can still make out the navy and emerald painting of a mermaid on the front with the words The Sandman's Hour by Abbey Phillips Walker Intrigued, You pull a moving blanket onto the floor to make a comfy spot to sit and in the dim but comfy glow of the lantern you open the cover and begin to leaf through the yellowed pages The binding is a little fragile so you take care not to detach the pages from the threads The first story you settle on is called Mr Possum Mr Possum lived in a tree in the woods where Mr Bear lived and one morning just before spring Mr Possum awoke very hungry He ran around to Mr Squirrel's house and tried to get an invitation to breakfast but Mr Squirrel had only enough for himself He knew that Mr Possum always lived on his neighbours when he could so he said, Of course you have been to breakfast long ago, Mr Possum You are such a smart fellow so I will not offer you any Mr Possum of course said he had and that he only dropped in to make a call He was on his way to Mr Rabbit's house But he met with no better success at Mr Rabbit's for he only put his nose out of the door and when he saw who was there said I am as busy as I can be getting ready for my spring planting Will you come in and help sort seeds? Mr Rabbit knew the easiest way to be rid of Mr Possum was to ask him to work I would gladly help you replied Mr Possum but I am in a great hurry this morning I have some important business with Mr Bear and I only stop to say how do you do Mr Bear I am afraid will not be receiving today said Mr Rabbit It is rather early for him to be up isn't it? I thought as the sun was nice and warm he might venture out and I thought it would please him to have me there to welcome him said Mr Possum Besides that I wish to see him on business Now Mr Possum knew well enough that Mr Bear would not be up he wanted to find him sleeping and soundly too He went to the door and knocked softly then he waited and as he did not hear any moving inside he went to a window and looked in There was Mr Bear's chair and pipe just as he had left them when he went to bed He looked in the bedroom window and he could see in the bed a big heap of bed clothes and just the tiniest tip of Mr Bear's nose Mr Possum listened and he trembled a little for he could hear Mr Bear breathing very loud and it sounded anything but pleasant Oh he is sound asleep for another week said Mr Possum What is the use of being afraid? He walked around the house until he came to the pantry window then he stopped and raised the sash He put in one foot and sat on the sill and listened All was still so he slid off to the floor Mr Possum looked around Mr Bear's well filled pantry He did not know where to begin he was so hungry He became so interested and was so greedy that he forgot all about that he was in Mr Bear's pantry and he stayed on and on and ate and ate Then he fell asleep and the first thing he knew a pair of shining eyes were looking in the window and a big head with a red mouth full of long white teeth was poked into the pantry Mr Possum thought his time had come so he just closed his eyes and pretended he was dead but he peeked a little so as to see what happened The big head was followed by a body and when it was on the sill Mr Possum saw it was Mr Fox and the next thing he knew Mr Fox came off the sill with a bang and hit a pan of beans and then knocked over a jar of preserves The noise was enough to awaken all the bears for miles around and Mr Possum was frightened nearly to death for he heard Mr Bear growling in the next room While Mr Fox was on the floor and trying to get up on his feet Mr Possum jumped up and was out of the window like a flash Mr Fox saw something but he did not know what Before he could make his escape the door of the pantry opened and there stood Mr Bear with a candle in his hand looking in Oh ho! He growled So you are trying to rob me while I'm taking my sleep and he sprang at Mr Fox Wait, Wait, Wait! Said Mr Fox Let me explain my dear Mr Bear You are mistaken I was trying to protect your home I saw your window open and knew you were asleep and when I got in the window the thief attacked me and nearly killed me and now you are blaming me for it You are most ungrateful I shall know another time what to do Mr Bear looked at him His mouth did not show any signs of food and Mr Fox opened his mouth and told him to look I wonder who it could have been he said When he was satisfied that Mr Fox was not the thief It may have been that Possum fellow I'll go over to his house in the morning The next morning Mr Bear called on Mr Possum He found him sleeping soundly and when he at last opened the door he was rubbing his eyes as though he was not half awake Why, How do you do? He said when he saw Mr Bear I did not suppose you were up yet You didn't? Asked Mr Bear and then he stared at Mr Possum's coat What's the matter with your coat? He asked You have white hairs sticking out all over you and the rest of your coat is almost white too Now Mr Possum had a black coat before and he ran to the mirror and looked at himself It was true, He was almost white He knew what had happened He was so frightened when he was caught in Mr Bear's pantry by Mr Fox and he heard Mr Bear growl that he had turned nearly white with fright I've been terribly ill he told Mr Bear going back to the door I've been here all alone this winter It was a terrible sickness I guess that is what has caused it Mr Bear went away shaking his head That fellow is crafty he said I feel sure he was the thief and yet he certainly does look sick After that all the Opossums were of dull white colour with long white hairs scattered here and there over their fur They were never able to outgrow the mark the thieving Mr Possum left upon his race What a fun little story you think and then flick through the pages to land on another story to see if somehow it will jog your memory of this book and up to this point you're pretty sure you've never read it before You land next on The Mirror's Dream and scan read the first line How fun that this should be the story of an old attic when I'm up here doing mine The Mirror's Dream The very idea of putting me in the attic said the little old fashioned table as it spread out both leaves in a gesture of despair I have stood in the parlour downstairs for fifty years and now I am consigned to the rubbish room and it dropped its leaves at its side with a sigh I was there longer than that said the sofa many a courtship I have helped along What do you think of me? Asked an old mirror that stood on the floor leaning against the wall to be brought to the attic after reflecting generation after generation all the famous beauties have looked into my face it is a degradation from which I can never recover This young mistress who has come here to live does not seem to understand the dignity of our position Why, I was in the family when her husband's grandmother was a girl and she has doomed me to a dusty attic to dream out the rest of my days The shadows deepened in the room and gradually the discarded mirror ceased to complain it had fallen asleep but later the moonlight streamed in through the window and showed that its dreams were pleasant ones for it dreamed of the old and happy days The door opened softly and a young girl entered Her hair was dark and hung in curls over her white shoulders Her dark eyes wandered over the room until she saw the old mirror She ran across the room and stood in front of it She wore a hoop skirt over which hung her dress of pale grey with tiny pink ruffles that began at her slender waist and ended at the bottom of her wide skirt Tiny pink rosebuds were dotted over the waist and skirt and she also wore them in her dark curls where one stray blossom bolder than the others rested against her soft cheek She stood before the mirror and gazed at her reflection a minute Then she curtsied and said with a laugh I think you will do, He must speak tonight She seemed to fade away in the moonlight The door opened again and a lady entered and with her came five handsome children They went to the mirror and one little girl with dark curls and pink cheeks went close and touched it with her finger Look, She said to the others I look just like the picture of mother when she was a girl And as they stood there a gentleman appeared beside them and put his arm around the lady and the children gathered around them They seemed to walk along the moonlight path and disappear through the window Softly the door opened again and an old lady entered leaning on the arm of an old gentleman They walked to the mirror and he put his arms around her and kissed her with a cheek You are always young and fair to me, He said and her face smiled into the depths of the old mirror The moonlight made a halo around their heads as they faded away The morning light streamed in through the window and the mirror's dream was ended By and by the door opened and a young girl came into the room Her dark hair was piled high on her head and her dark eyes looked over the room until they fell upon a chest in the corner She went to it and opened it and took out a pale grey dress with pink ruffles She put it on and she let down her hair which fell in curls over her shoulders She ran to the old mirror and looked at herself I do look like grandmother, She said I will wear this to the old folks party tonight Grandfather proposed to grandmother the night she wore this dress Her cheeks turned very pink as she said this and she ran out of the room Then one day the door opened again and a bride entered leaning on the arm of her young husband There were tears in her eyes although she was smiling She led him in front of the old mirror This old mirror, She said has seen all the brides in our family for generations and I am going far away and may never look into it again My brother's wife does not want it downstairs and I may be the last bride it will ever see and she passed her hand over its frame caressingly and then she went away and the old mirror was left to its dreams for many years Then one day the door opened again and a lady entered With her was a young girl The lady looked around the attic room until she saw the mirror There it is, She said Come and look in it dear The young girl followed her The last time I looked into this dear old mirror, The lady said was the day your father and I were married I never expected to have it for my own then But your uncle's wife wants to remodel the house and these things are in the way She does not want old fashioned things and they are willing I should have them Oh mother, They are beautiful, Said the girl looking around the room We will never part with them We will take them to our home and make them forget they were ever discarded And so the mirror and the sofa and the table and many other pieces of bygone days went to live where they were loved and the old mirror still reflects dark haired girls and ladies who smile into its depths and see its beauty as well as their own You sit for a moment thinking again about all the stories the items around you hold What would have been the last thing they would have each heard or seen before being stored up here and having blankets thrown over them You sit in a bit of a daze for a few minutes your mind drifting to this and that before settling on one more story from the little olive coloured book Tearful Once upon a time there was a little girl named Tearful because she cried so often If she could not have her own way she cried If she could not have everything for which she wished she cried Her mother told her one day that she would melt away in tears if she cried so often You are like the boy who cried for the moon she told her and if it has been given to him it would have not made him happy for what possible use could the moon be to anyone out of its proper place and that is the way with you half the things for which you cry would be of no use to you if you got them Tearful did not take warning or heed her mother's words of wisdom and kept on crying just the same One morning she was crying as she walked along to school because she wanted to stay at home when she noticed a frog hopping along beside her Why are you following me? She asked looking at him through her tears Because you will soon form a pond around you with your tears replied the frog and I have always wanted a pond all to myself I shall not make any pond for you said Tearful and I do not want you following me either The frog continued to hop along beside her and Tearful stopped crying and began to run but the frog hopped faster and she could not get away from him so she began to cry again Go away you horrid green frog she said At last she was so tired she sat on a stone by the roadside crying all the time Now replied the frog I shall soon have my pond Tearful cried harder than ever Then she could not see her tears fell so fast and by and by she heard a splashing sound She opened her eyes and saw water all around her She was on a small island in the middle of the pond The frog hopped out of the pond making a terrible grimace as he sat down beside her I hope you are satisfied said Tearful You have your pond why don't you stay in it Alas replied the frog I have wished for something which I cannot use now that I have it Your tears are salt and my pond which I have all by myself is so salty I cannot enjoy it If only your tears had been fresh I should have been a most fortunate fellow You needn't stay if you don't like it said Tearful And you needn't find fault with my tears either she said beginning to cry again Stop! Stop! Cried the frog hopping about excitedly You will have a flood if you keep on crying Tearful saw the water rising around her so she stopped a minute What shall I do? She asked I cannot swim and I will die if I have to stay here And then she began to cry again The frog hopped up and down in front of her Waving his front legs and telling her to hush If you would only stop crying he said I might be able to help you But I cannot do a thing if you cover me with your salt tears Tearful listened and promised she would not cry if he would get her away from the island There is only one way that I know of said the frog You must smile that will dry the pond and we can escape But I do not feel like smiling said Tearful and her eyes filled with tears again Look out said the frog you will surely be drowned in your own tears if you cry again Tearful began to laugh That would be strange wouldn't it to be drowned in my own tears she said That is right keep on smiling said the frog the pond is smaller already And he stood up on his hind legs and began to dance for joy Tearful laughed again oh you are so funny she said I wish I had your picture I never saw a frog dance before You have a slate under your arm said the frog why don't you draw a picture of me The frog picked up a stick and stuck it in the ground And then he leaned on it with one arm or front leg and crossing his feet he stood very still Tearful drew him in that position and then he kicked up his legs as if he were dancing And she tried to draw him that way but it was not a very good likeness Do you like that she asked the frog when she held the slate for him to see He looked so surprised that Tearful laughed again You did not think you were handsome did you she asked I had never thought I looked as bad as those pictures replied the frog Let me try drawing your picture he said Now look pleasant he said as he seated himself in front of Tearful and do smile Tearful did as he requested and in a few minutes he handed her the slate Where is my nose asked Tearful laughing Oh I forgot the nose said the frog but you don't think your eyes are nice and large and your mouth too They are certainly big in this picture said Tearful I hope I do not look just like that I do not think either of us are artists replied the frog Tearful looked around her why where is the pond she asked it's gone I thought it would dry up if you would only smile said the frog And I think both of us have learned a lesson I shall never again wish for a pond of my own I should be lonely without my companions and then it might be salt just as this one was And you will surely never cry over little things again for you see what might happen to you I feel much happier smiling and I do not want to be on an island again even with such a pleasant companion as you were Look out for the tears then said the frog as he hopped away On that note you shut the book thinking about what a funny little story about friendship that was You're sure you've never heard it before but it was very sweet and a nice message all the same In a bit of a daze you pop the book back in its box where you found it and close the flaps You figure time must be getting on and you were only supposed to be up here to clear a little space for when the repair people come Never mind you've done most of it now To finish the job you grab those boxes the ones labelled school, Toys and the blank one that contains all your books And carefully bring them down from the attic one by one You're surprised that on descending the ladder it seems to be getting dark The bright sun is now low casting warmer colours through the windows like when logs in a fire have burned down to embers It's a cosy sort of light, A light that makes you want to switch the lamps on in the house and start cooking something comforting for dinner Which you think it must be about time for Grabbing your lantern and shutting the hatch you come back down to the landing and down the stairs How dusty your clothes are, What a perfect excuse to get into something more cosy Your dressing gown perhaps and make a comfy spot on the sofa First you head to the kitchen, Pull out some veggies from the cupboard under the drainer and begin chopping With a heavy pan on the heat you add a little bit of butter Fry off some onions and let the savoury smell mingle with the comforting dusty smell of the attic that's on your clothes Crumble your plump orange cat, Weaves between your legs as you prepare food Purring his joy at having some company after a day on the sofa fast asleep You'll pop some biscuits in his bowl after In a few moments you've added the celery, The leeks, Peas, Mushrooms, Carrots and potatoes to the pot along with some stock Your stomach rumbles loudly, After all you've been upstairs for a long while With a twist of a bunch of dried herbs you grew yourself added in for good measure You pop a lid on the pot and turn it down to a simmer You take a moment to appreciate the fact that you got what you needed done in the attic Dinner's smelling moorish already And you're off to have a nice hot shower while it simmers down into a thick gravy and soft sweet veggies You should feel proud of that Plus you indulged in some forgotten childhood tales too Bickies in the cat bowl satisfy Crumble as he trots straight to it at the tinkle of the kibble hitting the ceramic And now all you have to do is get comfy and relax with your meal After you've washed the attic smell and dust away What a perfectly contented end To a productive day The End