Come away to a charming watermill cottage at the height of autumn,
Where the trees are ablaze in scarlet,
Copper,
And gold,
And horses graze in rolling pastures within a storybook setting.
You are listening to Autumn at the Watermill Cottage.
A cozy bedtime story for grown-ups that invites you to step away from the complexities of modern life and spend an autumn holiday surrounded by the simple pleasures of the season.
Wandering through an apple orchard and pumpkin patch to returning to a historic cottage where a centuries-old waterwheel continues to turn just beyond your window.
Every detail.
Brings you back to the basics.
The soporific sounds of cascading water and a crackling fire.
Bring you into the kind of sleep that a crisp fall night promises.
Discover the comfort of a place that seems to exist serenely somewhere beyond the reaches of time.
It's time to dream away.
Welcome to Michelle's Sanctuary.
I am Michelle and I am so grateful you are here.
Lets my voice land like a longtime friend.
Helping you envision beauty.
As you drift across the bridge.
Between your waking life and slumber.
This story belongs to you and you are free to change any detail in your imagination.
So it becomes exactly as you wish.
Sleep may arrive at any point.
You can always come back to listen again.
You settle into your bed.
Take a moment to appreciate the comfort already surrounding you.
You created this moment and deserve to honor the work it took to make it here.
Ending yet another day.
Let out a sigh,
Releasing anything that may be lingering.
Like cobwebs in your mind,
Erasing thoughts that have no place in this sanctuary.
Free yourself from them.
As you make a sound and let out another sigh.
Slowly inhale through your nose,
Sensing a shift in the air.
Imagine the cool freshness of autumn.
Carrying the sweetness of leaves and cider.
The flinty tang of an ice-cold stream.
Maybe invite a yawn.
Before you open your mouth.
And release another.
Long,
Satisfied sigh.
Every inhalation brings expansion and possibility.
And every exhale brings a delicious release.
Breathe in whatever way feels best.
As I count us down.
Each number carry you deeper into comfort.
Farther into the autumn countryside.
Five,
Feel the tiny muscles around your eyes soften,
Smoothing your brow,
Loosening your jaw.
As you feel the coolness of the autumn air caressing your cheeks while the rest of you remains toasty and comfortable.
4.
The softness travels through your neck and shoulders and down the length of your arms as you imagine yourself wrapped in the comforting weight of the perfect sweater.
The sensation and weight feel reassuring.
Fabrics creating their own little sanctuary around your body.
3.
.
.
Feel your chest and abdomen soften.
As your attention travels along your back.
Down the entire length of your spine.
Each vertebra settling like smooth stones along the bed of a stream.
From your shoulders to the very base of your spine.
Every muscle leans into the support below you,
Soft and soothed.
Too.
This comfortable heaviness flows through your hips and thighs and down your legs too.
As the essence of the autumn countryside.
Begins to mingle with the sanctuary of your room.
Your lower body grows heavier.
And more content to remain.
Exactly where it is.
One.
This easing reaches your ankles and feet.
From the crown of your head to the very soles.
Every part of you is safe and comforted.
You may very well feel the safest and coziest you have all day.
As our journey begins.
Long before Watermill Cottage.
Became a place where a weary soul might find respite.
Escaping for a few days to enjoy a simpler kind of holiday.
These old stone walls belonged to a working mill.
Perhaps you have seen one of those timeless oil paintings of a water wheel turning beside an old stone cottage.
The same idyllic scene rendered beneath the first pastel blossoms of spring.
Emerald lushness of summer,
Fiery foliage of autumn,
Or the icy blue coating and downy white winter snow.
Watermill Cottage truly is that painting of a perfect world come to life.
Cast in all of autumn's opulent gold.
Built directly along the stream.
The flowing deep blue water once turned the great wooden wheel still attached to its sides.
Generations of farmers from the surrounding countryside.
Arrived with grain to be milled here.
The wheel spun through autumn rains and winter snows,
Spring thaws,
And long hot summer afternoons,
Becoming a familiar part of the bucolic world beyond.
But one day,
The millstones grew quiet.
The rooms once devoted to the work of milling.
Began a second life as a cottage.
Though the transformation never erased what had come before.
The heavy beams and stone walls remained.
Along with a great water wheel.
And little by little.
The comforts of modern life.
Found their way within these centuries-old walls.
Without changing the soul of the dwelling.
Part of the enchantment of Watermill Cottage.
That the past never needed to be recreated here.
Because in an unspoken and enchanting way.
It's never entirely lab.
Over 300 years have passed since those earliest days.
And the world beyond these hills has changed in almost every imaginable way.
It's the moment you arrive.
You feel transported to a quieter time.
The road has been narrowing for miles.
Leaving busier thoroughfares behind.
As it winds deeper into the countryside.
Following the rise and fall of rolling pastures divided by old stone walls and wooded hills transformed by the seasons.
You crack the window slightly.
Take in the sweet,
Crisp perfume of fall.
With every turn,
Another sweep of autumn color appears from cayenne and sienna.
To flaming pink.
Flashes of green catching the sunlight.
Among leaves just beginning to change.
Distant chimney sends a pale ribbon of smoke above the treetops.
From a farmhouse nestled among orderly rows of old fruit trees.
Where baskets are scattered beneath twisting branches.
Slowly filled by others,
Seeking to make the most of this October day.
The trees begin to thin yet still perfectly frame the edges of your first encounter with Watermill Cottage.
The rich honeyed sunlight pours through.
Leaving an otherworldly shimmer and everything it touches.
The rambling old mill stretches along the stream in pale stone and weathered timber.
Rising beneath steep irregular roof lines and little gables.
At one end,
The great wooden water wheel.
Is the color of freshly tempered dark chocolate turning steadily against the building.
Water spills from its broad wooden slats.
Silver sheets,
The water tumbles into a pool abundant with colorful leaves that bob without a care.
Deeply recessed windows punctuate the walls,
Some tucked beneath the eaves and others overlooking the water.
Framed by iris shutters.
A narrow footbridge crosses the stream near the mill.
Disappears into the blazing trees beyond.
Moss has softened the stones nearest the water.
Climbing vines trace portions of the wall.
Closer to the entrance.
Great pots of mums in burgundy,
Plum,
And creamy ivory.
Gather among pumpkins and winter squash.
Shades of orange,
Pale sage,
And chalky white.
Some are arranged along the old steps.
While others remain nestled in boxes.
Beneath the fading vines of a little kitchen garden.
Across the stream,
Two horses graze in a pasture.
Bordered by a weathered wooden fence.
Chestnut coats catching the heavenly light.
Whenever they graze outside the shadows of maple trees.
Closer to the cottage.
Atop a stone wall scattered with fallen leaves.
A long-haired cat sits with her fluffy tail wrapped around her white paws.
Her coat is such an autumnal tapestry.
Copper,
Black,
Cream,
And russet.
She nearly disappears into the landscape.
As you step out of the car and gather your bags.
Inhale the scent of the stream,
The leaves and wood smoke.
Hope to always be brought to this place when those scents find you in your daily routine.
Serendipity is the name of the cat.
Evangeline,
The caretaker of Watermill Cottage.
That she might be your new best friend if you're open to making one.
Her bright eyes follow you.
As you approach the cottage.
But she makes no effort to move from her perch.
Seemingly perfectly content.
To let you prove yourself worthy of her attention.
Just as promised.
There is no one waiting for your arrival.
And beside the heavy wooden door.
You find a tiny metal box.
Where an old brass key waits.
Cool and reassuring in your poem.
As you slide it into the loft.
The old mechanism resists for just a moment.
Before successfully turning with a loud click.
As the door opens.
Warmth of the autumn Sun.
Gives way to the cool air within.
Carrying cinnamon and baking spices.
From a freshly baked apple cake.
The earthy sweetness of pumpkin and fall squash.
Slowly stewing with fragrant masala.
The clean resinous scent of freshly splintered wood.
Stacked beside the hearth.
For the fire you will make when evening arrives.
" It takes only a moment.
For your eyes to adjust to the dimmer light.
Discover all the little comforts arranged to greet you.
From the freshly baked apple cake beneath a glass dome.
To a heavy crock filled with autumn stew.
Alongside a loaf of crusty bread wrapped in linen.
Beside the hearth.
Split logs have been neatly stacked with kindling.
And everything needed to bring the wood stove to life.
When you return this evening.
The thought of coming back after an afternoon outdoors.
Lighting the fire.
And lifting the lid from the waiting crock.
Gives you something cozy to anticipate.
Before you have even begun to explore.
The cottage possesses the kind of charm that has been shaped by generations of use and care.
With broad stretches of exposed stone and old red bricks.
Timber beams crossing the ceiling.
The shade of fresh gingerbread.
Wide wooden floorboards polished smooth beneath thick piled rugs.
Ivory curtains soften the deeply recessed windows.
Handmade pottery fills open shelves beside copper pans and wooden bowls.
And a deep sofa faces the wood stove.
A pitcher filled with branches of turning maple leaves rests on the dining table.
Tiny gourds decorate the window sills.
The spirit of autumn is found in every cozy nook and cranny.
You discover a note left by Evangeline.
Written in elegant loops and scrolls,
It reads,
Welcome to Watermill Cottage.
I hope the magic of this special place brings you comfort.
There's a basket near the door for picking apples.
And again,
Don't be surprised if Serendipity finds her way into night.
And if you need anything at all.
Feel free to ring.
The kitchen continues.
The same charming blend of age and comfort,
With cream cabinets featuring hand-painted flowers.
Fitted between sections of stone.
An abroad farmhouse sing.
Beneath a window of slightly wavy glass.
When you lift your eyes toward the window above the sink.
The water wheel nearly fills the view.
Dark wooden slats glistening.
As they rise and fall beside the cottage.
Sunlight angles to create a halo.
Prisms in the mist.
Hundreds if not thousands of dancing little rainbows.
There will be plenty of time.
To hunker down in Watermill Cottage later.
But the fading golden light beyond the windows.
Makes you yearn to revel.
And every final drop of sunshine.
And this beautiful autumn afternoon.
You wrap your scarf a little tighter.
Button up your jacket.
Take the basket from the wooden peg to head off to the orchards.
The warmth of the afternoon.
Brings you back to the beauty of the day.
Sunlight falls across your face.
And you cross the little stone footbridge over the stream.
Halfway across.
You pause and look back.
Seeing Watermill Cottage from this new vantage point.
Its reflection wavering beneath the turning wheel.
As colorful leaves travel with the current.
There is something lovely.
About looking back at a place you know you will return to.
In fact,
Yearn to return to.
Into the empty basket swinging from your hands.
You continue toward the orchard.
The path curves beyond the pasture.
Passing a patch with the final pumpkins of the season.
Remain beneath fading vines.
Their shapes emerging between broad leaves and deep orange.
A few have already been gathered beside a gate.
Crooked-necked squash and gourds waiting to be carried inside another day.
Beyond them the hillside rises.
Into orderly rows of apple trees.
Whose twisting branches are visible against the blue sky.
As you draw closer.
The orchard opens around you.
The grass beneath the trees,
Long and soft at the edges.
You can't resist running your fingers through them.
Ladders rest against several trunks.
Along with the occasional basket.
Slowly being filled.
The branches bow beneath late-season fruit.
Garnet,
Rose,
Chartreuse,
And striped crimson.
Some apples tucked among leaves still touched with green.
Others glowing openly in the slanting sunlight,
Their fragrance becomes sweeter as you step beneath the first tree.
Mingling with some warmed bark.
The cool earth beneath your boots.
For the first time since leaving the cottage.
You set your empty basket on the ground.
Reach into the branches.
Begin to choose the apples you will carry back.
There's something so grounding.
In reaching your hand around the shiny orbs.
Feeling their cool ways.
And the way the branch yields to your strength.
Before the stem snaps.
The tree finds stillness once more.
One apple becomes two and then several more.
Each chosen for some small reason that catches your eye.
A blush of candy red.
A perfectly round shape hidden beneath a canopy of leaves.
Are one growing so high?
You have to stretch onto the tips of your toes.
Pull the branch closer.
The empty basket gradually takes on weight.
Its woven handle pressing more firmly into the crook of your arm.
The apples gather inside.
Cool and smooth against one another.
You wander without following the rose in.
Allowing the tease of the perfect apple.
Glimpsed beyond the curtain of leaves to guide you.
Sunlight reaches through the branches.
Kiss the Earth in this final hour.
Illuminating leaves from behind.
So that their veins become visible.
Or a fleeting moment.
Then the breeze turns them over again.
Revealing flashes of green,
Yellow,
And bronze.
Beneath your boots.
Your ass is soft and uneven.
Scattered with fallen leaves.
The occasional mushy apple surrendered before anyone could reach it.
Sweet fermenting fragrance.
Mingling with the earth and silky ribbons of grass.
Just beyond.
The stream continues its passage.
Prevalent soundscape.
Throughout this entire holiday.
A burst of laughter rises from farther down the hill.
Where a family has been gathering apples.
Beneath another row of trees.
A little one in a puffy autumn coat.
Huddles intently with a puppy bounding alongside.
The two seem equally delighted.
By absolutely everything around them.
The pup darts ahead and circles back.
And in the excitement,
Little legs lose their balance.
Tumble harmlessly into a cushion of fallen leaves.
There is a moment of surprise.
Before a peal of laughter erupts.
Followed by the puppy enthusiastically joining the heap.
His tail wags so furiously.
That's the leaves scatter around them.
You cannot help but smile as a parent reaches down to help.
And this core memory is formed.
The toddler seems in no particular hurry to stand.
Having discovered.
Falling into autumn.
Can be every bit as satisfying as walking through it.
By the time your basket is full.
The afternoon has begun its slow transformation toward evening.
Sunlight travels low through the orchard.
Deep tangerine dusting of light.
You choose one last apple.
Before beginning the walk back.
Polishing it against your sleeve.
And taking a crunchy bite.
As you descend the hillside.
Back to Watermill Cottage.
The sweet and tart juice.
Enlivens your palate.
You continue.
Two horses graze farther out in the pasture.
As the sky shifts from apricot and rose near the horizon.
Into lavender and marine blue.
The cooling air chills your nose.
Carrying a faint trace of wood smoke from somewhere across the valley.
The path descends the sound of flowing water crescendos.
His watermill cottage appears through the trees.
Its windows glowing warmly against the deepening blue of evening.
As the water wheel turns steadily beside it.
You finish the last bite of the apple.
Before crossing the footbridge.
Feeling the quiet pleasure.
Returning somewhere.
Already feels a lot like home.
Serendipity.
Is curled up on the welcome mat.
Her long fur.
Soft and inviting.
With the sound of your footsteps.
Her golden eyes open.
She rises into a luxurious stretch.
Before turning expectantly toward the door.
It seems Evangeline was right.
You won't be alone tonight,
After all.
Serendipity slips through the wooden door ahead of you.
As though this arrangement had been settled long before your arrival.
While she begins her inspection of the cottage.
You set your basket of apples on the kitchen counter.
And turn your attention to the evening.
Creating an autumn ritual.
Just for you.
And perhaps your new friend.
One by one you light the candles.
Tucked into cubbies in the stone walls.
Scattered across old wooden tables.
Watching their glow gather.
Daylight disappears from the windows.
Soon a long match catches the kindling in the wood stove.
Leaving a trace of sulfur in the air.
The first flames climb around the wood.
Soon engulfing the splintered logs.
Bringing warmth to the cool stone space.
Filling it with a comforting aroma of a fire.
There's a glass jar of cat food on the counter.
Next to a tiny pottery bowl.
You spoon some into the little dish.
And set it down for serendipity.
Before serving yourself the waiting stew,
Rich with squash and an exotic blend of flavors,
You enjoy it with some bread.
Glass of cloudy cider.
You take your time.
Enjoying this meal beside the wood stove as the fire crackles.
Serendipity eats and then settles nearby.
You occasionally lift your gaze toward the window.
Where the waterwheel continues to churn beneath the blue cast of night.
Its wet boards catch flashes of moonlight.
Water spills endlessly into the stream.
After some apple cake and tea.
A heady wave of tiredness settles over you.
Kind that comes from a day well spent.
You slowly ascend the creaking,
Winding wooden stairs.
Discover the rooms you saved for night.
The bathroom is an elegant surprise of black and white.
With gleaming tiles.
Polished gold fixtures.
And an ebony clawfoot tub.
Balanced on ornate golden feet,
Its interior a luminous white.
You turn the brass taps.
Watch steam rise as the tub fills.
Adding a scoop of bath salts from a jar.
Smelling of autumnal spice.
Serendipity curls into a soft heap beside the door.
Purring affectionately.
Apparently having decided.
That wherever you go this evening,
She won't be far behind.
From the bath.
Another view of the waterwheel awaits.
Through tall mullioned windows.
Somehow it seems more enchanting to observe from above.
Beyond the old pains.
The wheel turns through silvery darkness.
Beneath a sky scattered with stars.
A crescent moon.
The stream catches their light.
Trembling ribbons.
Carrying it away.
You sink into the warmth.
Letting the water surround you.
The wheel rises and falls outside.
Two currents moving beside one another.
Until you can scarcely distinguish the faint splash beyond the glass.
From the water shifting around your body.
By the time you step.
To the bedroom.
A little while later.
Sleep feels wonderfully near.
Heavy beams cross the sloping ceiling.
Above a tall bed dressed in crisp linen.
Marshmallow soft duvet.
And a mountain of pillows.
Seem almost excessive.
Until you climb among them.
Discover that they are exactly enough.
Serendipity finds a place near the foot of the bed.
To leave the window slightly cracked.
Invading a thread of cool autumn air.
And the uninterrupted sound of the stream below.
Into the perfect room and moment for sleep.
Moonlight slips through the window and stretches across the floor.
Touching the folds of the duvet.
Shimmering on the water beyond the glass.
Somewhere within that silver reflection.
The old wheel continues to faithfully turn.
And from beneath the covers.
You no longer need to see it.
Know it is there.
You hear the endless tumble of the stream.
The occasional settling of the fire below.
Serendipity softly purring at your feet.
Wrapped beneath the weightless warmth of the duvet.
The cottage grows softer around you.
Till the stone walls moonlight the flowing water.
And the last thoughts of the day.
Begin to blur at their edges.
You surrender on this sleepy stream.
Weightless as a fallen leaf.
Gently going downstream.
To a quiet place within.
You drift between one soothing rush of water and the next.
Sleep and you reunite.
At Watermill Cottage.
Finding serenity.
Finding hope.
Finding comfort.
Finding sleep.
It's time to dream away.
