Rainy Night At Ivy Cottage: Relaxing Bedtime Retreat

In tonight's relaxing story for sleep, spend the night at Ivy Cottage in the Welsh Countryside. An ivy-covered stone cottage offers the perfect cozy refuge as rain falls on the rolling hills. Folklore, creativity, and quiet magic come alive by the fire as you settle with a cup of tea. The creative and whimsical influences of two artistic twins who serve as the cottage's caretakers are found in every nook. Let the rain sounds and the relaxing tale guides you into a deep, peaceful slumber. It's time to dream away.

Transcript

Let your cares drift away with the sounds of falling rain in this cozy sleep story.

You are listening to Rainy Night at Ivy Cottage.

Escape to the enchanting Welsh countryside for a holiday in a centuries-old ivy-covered cottage,

Nestled in the lush hills.

Every detail holds stories of olden times,

Offering a charming refuge as a curtain of silver rain falls on the shimmering slate roof.

Inside,

The air greets you with timeless layers of earthy warp,

The sweet-honeyed scent of beeswax candles carved into the shape of Welsh love spoons,

The smokiness of peat curling from the hearth,

The faint herbal traces of lavender and chamomile steeping on the stove.

Every corner of this cottage is alive with the history and magic of Wales,

A place to find solace and wonder and enjoy the perfect sleep.

So cuddle up and prepare for a mental holiday.

It's time to dream away.

Welcome to Michelle's Sanctuary,

Where you are free to let go of the day and drift into an imaginary comforting world,

Crafted just for you.

I'm Michelle,

Your guide on this dreamy journey.

Think of my voice as that of a long-time encouraging friend.

This is your time.

A sacred pause as you set the tone for your dreaming life.

It brings a moment to feel held by the comforting words of this practice and to find safety and bliss within the sanctuary of your mind.

Fall asleep whenever you desire and modify details as we go.

To suit your best interests.

Shift your attention to your breath,

Helping it to slow and deepen the more you settle.

Open your mouth and let out a dramatic sigh,

Inviting your nervous system to stand down and find ease.

Breathe in through your nose,

Drawing in a sense of coziness and calm as though you're breathing in the cool,

Misty air of the Welsh hills.

Yawn and then sigh with an exhale.

Imagine releasing any tension,

Letting it melt away like rain cascading down a waxy ivy leaf.

Continue to inhale,

Perhaps yawn and sigh at your own pace as I count you down.

Find the rhythm that feels right for you,

Aware that each breath draws you closer to the cozy haven of Ivy Cottage.

Five,

Focusing on nature's soporific sounds of falling rain,

Cleansing the world with a fresh slate.

Four,

Full of vitality and in tune with the healing powers of your imagination.

Three,

Instantly soothed by the smells of fresh rain and wood smoke.

Two,

Your muscles relax as you realize how nice it is to escape the demands of the outside world,

As you luxuriate in the sanctuary of your mind.

One,

Feeling safe and sound.

Two,

One last yawn leads to a sigh that prepares you to explore the magic of the Welsh countryside.

When you're ready,

Ease your breath back into a natural sleepy rhythm.

It's time for the story to begin.

To the Welsh,

The land is sacred,

A gift from the goddesses of yore.

The rain dissipates into a silky mist as you follow a winding country path to Ivy Cottage,

Your rubber boots leaving deep prints in the sodden earth.

The scent of petrichor is rich and complex,

Layered with the sweetness of fallen leaves left to decay months ago before winter took hold.

The unique aroma of wild heather is faint as it crushes underfoot,

Leaving a promise of sunnier days.

Dark clouds churn overhead,

Swirling and moving fast on this windy day.

Your personal mission to find beauty arouses curiosity,

With an understanding that even though this getaway is marred by rain,

You are about to enjoy one of the most cozy,

Charming escapes.

You pause atop a knoll to admire the dusky lilac clouds,

Rimmed with a rich dark purple gray.

The last light of day breaks through in white-gold streams,

Warming your face as you arrive at the Ivy Cottage.

The blue-gray cloak of evening moves in slowly,

Slipping over the rolling hills of Snowdonia.

The cottage and landscape resemble the quaint setting of a storybook you read long ago,

Far back in your youth.

Thick,

Dark,

Waxy green ivy blankets the stone walls of the cottage,

Each leaf glistening like emeralds in the fading light.

Rich,

Golden light pours through the diamond-painted windows,

Reflecting on small puddles on the slick stones of the garden path.

Your body surrenders in this moment.

A sigh escapes your lips and condenses in the cool winter air.

You inhale slowly,

Picking up the aromas of damp moss on the stone walls,

The faint peppery note of blooming winter jasmine,

And a trace of peat smoke curling from the chimney.

Slowly,

Your fingers grasp the cold black metal latch coated in raindrops to open the heavy oak door,

Its feathery wood surface worn by weather,

Time,

And the sea air.

The hinges groan softly as the gilded light spills out with a heavenly glow.

The air is dry and smells of cinnamon and dried flowers reaching around your body in a comforting embrace that lures you in.

Once indoors,

You place your bag down on a table in the foyer and slowly remove your many layers and boots.

Your feet are dressed in novelty socks,

As thick and fuzzy as slippers that land on the creaking floorboards.

The room is filled with feminine touches that honor the ancient,

Ethereal influences of Welsh folklore.

Beeswax candles,

Shaped into delicate daffodils,

The national flower of Wales,

Adorn the rustic wooden mantle.

Above the door,

A woven wreath of willow branches and dried herbs echoes the wisdom of Ceredwen,

The ancient Welsh goddess of transformation.

The scent of beeswax,

With its honeyed sweetness,

Mingles with the aroma of old books and antique wooden fixtures.

The hearth built from weathered stone,

Forged centuries ago from the nearby river,

Crackles with a peat fire that casts dancing shadows on the walls.

Above the mantle,

A wooden panel carved with a red dragon,

Its bold lines painted in crimson and deep ebony,

Glows faintly in the firelight.

Your eyes are drawn to a lectern in the front of the main room,

Positioned under exposed wooden beams,

Dripping in dry heather.

Its rich,

Dark wood has a soft sheen and reflects the dancing firelight.

For generations,

This lectern was a central figure at fireside gatherings,

Where magical stories about Welsh folklore were read.

Delicate knotwork weaves into the shapes of oak leaves and acorns along the bays.

The side edges rise in swirling patterns of rolling hills,

While the front panel features cresting waves.

A thick guestbook sits atop it,

Showcasing a well-worn mahogany velvet cover and delicate gold-edged pages.

Beside it,

Your fingers pass over a small book that reads,

The History of Ivy Cottage.

You open it to discover elegant calligraphy on creamy parchment paper.

Your fingertips warm as they slip between the soft pages,

And you learn about the women who tended to this cottage over time.

Ivy Cottage always served as a refuge and cozy home,

Where the laughter of children once echoed through the lofty space,

As they learned about their heritage from words spoken behind this lectern.

A Welsh painter named Eirwen was the most recent occupant of Ivy Cottage,

And now acts as the caretaker.

Her oil paintings rest in antique gold frames that adorn the stone walls,

Featuring ethereal goddesses,

In the most vibrant gilded hues in sun-cast settings,

And soft blues and silvers in moonlit scenes rife with flowers and a forest stream.

The art feels simultaneously real and otherworldly,

Adding to the magical essence of Ivy Cottage.

Eirwen,

In her 80s,

Lives in the neighboring cottage with her twin sister Mira,

A place where their grandparents once resided,

And now they connect with the best memories of their youth as new memories unfold.

Their once fiery,

Waist-length,

Strawberry-blonde hair has gradually silvered and whitened over time,

Much like the day-to-night transitions in the gallery of paintings on the walls.

Eirwen is a woman of the land,

A true daughter of Wales.

Each morning,

She walks the winding lanes with a sheepdog and her sister.

She knows the names of every tree and flower,

And every bird that sings out praises as a new morning unfolds.

In part,

She left the Ivy Cottage to spend more time with her sister,

Sharing nightly tea fireside.

But she also felt a burning urge to share the Ivy Cottage with others,

Opening it to those needing a little Welsh magic and a healing place to disconnect from modern demands and reconnect with nature.

She makes great effort to share hidden gems on the property by leaving handwritten notes in cupboards and drawers,

Some with inspiring quotes or questions.

The first folded slip of paper you find is positioned in the corner of the lectern and reads,

When was the last time you fell asleep to the sounds of falling rain?

You may not recall,

But are well aware tonight may bring that very experience.

You continue to explore the cottage and its built-in bookshelves overflowing with recipe books and collections of Welsh poets and artwork,

Some featuring Irwin's paintings and her sister Mira's poems.

Thick fuzzy blankets drape over inviting lounge chairs upholstered in teal and purple velvet.

On the farmhouse-style dining table,

A plate of warm vara-breath rests beside a pot of wildflower honey as amber hues catching the firelight.

Over time,

Vara-breath,

A traditional Welsh tea bread,

Has been removed from modern menus,

Yet it remains a staple at Ivy Cottage,

Thanks to a recipe passed down through generations and enjoyed by the twins in their childhood.

The scent of the bread is comforting and deep.

A blend of molasses,

Plump currants and raisins steeped in tea and baking spices.

Known as speckled bread in Welsh,

It is the perfect complement to the herbal chamomile and lavender tea that waits for you in a cast iron kettle that sits on the vintage stove from the 1950s.

You walk to the stove and pour the tea into a porcelain teacup atop a hand-painted saucer,

Preparing it to your liking with a fully stocked kitchen.

You gather a slice of vara-breath on a plate and enter the living room to settle in a cozy armchair by the fire,

Sinking into the fluffy blanket draped over it.

An antique grandfather clock chimes seven o'clock before returning to its soothing ticking that joins the crackling fire.

As you sink into the chair,

Every part of your body relaxes as the steam rises from the tea,

Inviting you to slow down.

You take your time,

Savoring each bite and sip.

Imagining the quietude of the cottage centuries ago.

You feel grateful for comforting places like this that still exist,

Far removed from electronic devices and demands.

They bring timeless experiences.

This moment brings a taste of what life has always been like in Ivy Cottage.

Frozen in time,

Every detail in the cottage serves to honor nature and the feminine influences on Welsh culture through time.

You sense their maternal energy.

You feel safe.

You feel tended to.

Unaware of how much time has passed,

You notice a break in the rain and a curious stillness.

Settles over the cottage.

The fire burns low,

Its embers glowing in shades of magenta and gold.

Drawn to the diamond-shaped window,

You gaze out at the garden.

Now glistening from a sliver of moonlight that passes through the clouds,

A nocturnal perfume drifts in a soft draft from the old window,

Bringing the scents from mineral-rich,

Rain-drenched stone,

The green aroma of ivy,

And the faint sweetness of damp wood.

You wrap yourself in a wool cape,

Draped over a brass door hook,

And step out into the garden.

The air is cool,

Carrying a hint of salt from the distant sea.

You hear the soft bleat of sheep,

And you catch the silhouette of Irwin and Mira's chimney in the neighboring stone cottage,

Having smoked into the misty night.

Heading through a bay window,

You see them situated on a plush sofa,

Facing the fire.

Their long,

Platinum hair seeming to glow in its light,

They sense your presence and turn,

Offering kind waves and smiles in your direction.

As their cat jumps onto a pillow on the windowsill,

Witnessing this tender moment inspires you as you take in the warmth and kindness of these sweet,

Aspirational sisters.

You continue to explore the property,

Knowing this night walk will help usher in the best sleep.

But time is limited,

As once more rain clouds move in,

This time more slowly and with less intensity.

The path beneath your feet becomes soft with moths,

Releasing a faint,

Green,

Peppery fragrance as it cushions your steps.

A slender fox darts across the garden wall,

The white fur of her underbelly and tail reflecting the moonlight as vibrantly as the glistening wet stones.

You come upon a stream at the edge of the property that gurgles softly,

Its surface catching glints of silver light from the moon.

An ancient yew tree at the edge of the garden stands tall and shadowy.

You pause beneath its branches,

Breathing in its resinous scent that has permeated the air for centuries.

The meadows roll endlessly toward the horizon,

Dappled with sheep in the distance.

So far away,

They appear to be opal specks scattered throughout the verdant fields.

You breathe in the night as a gentle wave of sleepiness arrives with the rain clouds,

Leaving you with a heady feeling.

The crescent moon hangs low in the sky,

Its soft,

Silver glow,

Casting delicate shadows across the wild garden and hills.

Soon the incoming storm clouds will obscure its light.

In Welsh folklore,

The crescent moon is a symbol of transition and renewal,

Bringing the promise of beginnings yet to come and endings gently closing.

It is a moon for dreamers,

A reminder of the cyclical nature of life.

Long ago,

Meera and Irwin would gather beneath such a moon in the fields and forests that surround the cottage.

The twins,

Then young women with fiery,

Strawberry blonde hair that flowed beyond their hips,

Would station themselves atop the highest hill on the land.

Meera would settle on a flannel blanket with her notebook and pen in hand,

While Irwin would stand behind a tripod and a fresh canvas to capture the magic of the night.

From her painter's palette,

Through the seasons,

The moonlit hours belonged to them,

As one sister scribbled lines of verse about all the love she had yet to know,

While her sister painted the ever-changing seasons,

Fully aware that she already felt the greatest love one could experience.

Beneath the crescent moon's glow,

They shared whispered dreams and hopes that came through in their work.

And even now,

With a passage of time etched into their faces,

They sometimes gather and create from a different point of view.

Feeling as if they are looking at life,

Love,

And the Welsh countryside from a different perspective.

Remembering all the versions that once were.

The rain begins to fall again,

Light at first.

In a slow patter,

You turn back toward the cottage,

The sound of your steps muffled by the damp earth.

By the time you reach the door,

The rain has grown heavier,

Drumming against the slate roof and cascading down the ivy.

Inside,

The warmth welcomes you once more.

You shed the cape,

Now speckled with iridescent droplets.

The fire has been stoked by the sisters,

And the room glows with orange-gold light,

Casting dancing shadows on the walls.

A woven basket of warm towels rests on a table,

With edges faintly embroidered with lacy waves.

You gather them along with your bag and make your way to the bathroom.

The space feels like a sanctuary,

Blending rustic charm with elegant details that whisper of Welsh heritage.

Slate tiles line the floor,

Their surface cool and smooth beneath your feet,

Glistening faintly in the light.

Above the clawfoot tub and walk-and-shower is a stained glass window depicting a pastoral and coastal scene,

A hillside dotted with grazing sheep rolling gently into a rugged cliffside overlooking the sea.

A white lighthouse stands on the distant horizon,

Its beacon eternally lit beneath a cloudy sky.

The colors are rich and vibrant,

Casting jewel-toned reflections onto the walls as the rain outside shifts the light.

On the wide windowsill rests a wrought-iron candelabra,

Its arms gracefully twisting like ivy.

You light the candles one by one,

Sensing yourself slowing down and becoming more sleepy.

Their flickering flames illuminate the room as you turn on the shower and steamy water sprays out of the rainfall showerhead.

The hot water cascades over you,

Easing away the remnants of the winter chill.

The herbal scent of locally made soap,

A blend of rosemary,

Heather,

And a hint of chamomile fills the air,

Its lather smooth and soothing.

You close your eyes,

Feeling the warp sink into your muscles,

Recognizing the splendor of the simple pleasure that is enhanced by the dreariness of this rainy night.

Feeling heavy and tired,

You step out of the shower and bury your face into the warm freshly laundered towel that smells of lavender soap.

You dry off slowly,

Enjoying its downy softness.

You put on your pajamas and brush your teeth,

So very ready for bed.

With an ornate rasp snuffer,

You put out each candle in the candelabra as the smell of melting wax fills the room and a dozen wisps of smoke curl magically toward the ceiling.

You ascend a narrow,

Winding staircase to the bedroom loft,

Each step creaking softly.

The room is a secluded haven,

Decorated by the sister's artistic touches.

A four-poster bed with intricately carved oak posts sits beneath a driftwood chandelier in the vaulted ceiling,

Featuring patterns of stars and moons,

A nod to Welsh folklore's fascination with the heavens.

Draped across the bed is a patchwork quilt,

Its deep indigo and silver threads forming constellations near the pillows and a rocky coastline at the foot of the bed.

One of Irwin's dreamy paintings of Ivy Cottage beneath the moon hangs above the fireplace on the mantel.

A framed embroidery reads,

A Foben Byd Bont,

A Welsh proverb meaning,

If you want to be a leader,

Be a bridge.

The motto encapsulates the twin sisters' nurturing presence,

Connecting the past and present with their care for Ivy Cottage.

Wood-framed mullioned windows rain streaming down their diamond panes,

Overlook the rolling hills and stream.

Lavender and cedar wood join the warm air.

On the bedside table is a handwritten note on homemade paper comprised of dried flowers,

Its edges slightly curled.

The flowing script reads,

May the rain mull you into a deep and peaceful sleep,

And may the morning sun greet you with a warmth that fills your soul.

Welcome to Ivy Cottage,

Where dreams are as boundless as the sea and as enduring as the hills.

You slip under the heavy quilt,

Its weight grounding you.

The warmth of the fire soothes you,

Its crackling embers lulling you into a state of tranquility.

The room's stillness is profound,

Broken only by the murmur of the stream outside and the steady patter of the rain.

Your heavy eyelids betray you,

No longer allowing you to take in the charm of this room visually as your head sinks into the pillow and the cottage offers the coziest refuge from the winter rain of whales.

Gentle visions come to you of moonlit hills and craggy coastlines,

Of flocks of sheep and Welsh fairies keeping peace in the valley.

You are held by the magic of Ivy Cottage.

Safe to dream your most sacred dreams and safe to surrender to sleep.

You imagine the sisters,

Tucked in their neighboring stone cottage,

Their love and creative energy filling every nook.

And tonight,

As the rain falls,

You dream alongside them in the enchanting hills surrounding Ivy Cottage.

With a steady rain,

Comes the promise of deep sleep and you welcome its arrival.

Finding comfort,

Finding bliss,

Finding enchantment,

Finding sleep.

It's time to dream away.

Good night.

Reviews

Very soothing and soon fell asleep. I wish I could visit the Ivy cottage. Thank you once again for helping me sleep xxx

Beautifully presented. Listening to you is very special. Describition of the scenery and your voice, gives me a good feeling inside of me. Thank you for your talents.🌹

I finally heard the entire story the third time listening. What a cozy and comforting cottage. I felt so at peace in this beautiful and quiet place. Thank you, Michelle, for another amazing story.

Thank you!

Thank you kindly Michelle for another beautiful bedtime story. I fell asleep so listened again this morning. Wishing I could stay in the Ivy cottage in the Welsh countryside!
🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗