The Old Cottage In Cornwall: Rainy Sleepy Journey

Everyone deserves time away in a cozy cottage by the sea. Travel to the charming seaside village of St. Ives, England. If you enjoyed 'Stormy Night in the Cotswolds,' you'll find comfort in this sleepy tale set in historic Cornwall. Spend the afternoon exploring the harbor and quaint shops as you indulge in tea and scones with clotted cream and jam.

Walk along a winding path leads you to an old cottage on the craggy cliffs. As a storm takes hold, you'll nestle by the fire and drift off to the sound of the ocean, soothing rain, and distant thunder. It's time to dream away.

Transcript

Every now and then we all need to step away from everyday life and journey to a cottage by the sea.

Tonight that very longing has led you here.

You're listening to The Old Cottage in Cornwall.

A soothing journey for sleep,

Set in a wild and beautiful landscape along the coast with historic charm.

Before a storm arrives,

Spend the morning exploring the town,

Enjoying afternoon tea with a scone topped with clotted cream and strawberries.

Enjoy the village's cobbled streets,

Meandering in and out of quaint independent shops.

The air grows cooler and saltier as you leave the heart of the village on a coastal path.

Before the rain begins,

Find comfort in a beautiful old stone cottage atop the cliffs with a dramatic panorama of the sea below.

As the afternoon darkens and a gentle rain begins to fall,

You start a fire and settle in to watch the dramatic contrast of the dark stormy clouds against the frothing sea,

The distant sounds of the ocean,

And the soporific patter of rain on the mullioned windows invite a deep peaceful sleep.

It's time to dream away.

Welcome to Michelle's Sanctuary.

I'm Michelle and I hope my voice feels like an old trusted friend.

I invite you to lie back and trust that a sanctuary sleep story will only lead us to the most soothing and safe places,

Ensuring your comfort and tranquility come first.

I'm so grateful you've chosen to be here during this delicate time between your waking and sleeping life in the sanctuary of your room and mind.

You're safe to conjure imagery and journeys that will transition you into the best dreams.

One of my most well-received stories is Stormy Night in the Cotswolds and in the spirit of that tale from long ago,

I've decided to explore another historic charming English setting in Cornwall.

I often find just being amongst historic stone dwellings and cobbled streets is enough to take me out of the modern world and imagine a slower,

Quieter,

And maybe easier time.

Let the story unfold like a dream where you are free to change any details.

Imagination is a gift that may always be the pathway to serene settings,

If that's what you choose.

And if there is any time you most deserve and need to use your creative mind to envision comfort,

It's the sacred time before sleep.

Celebrate making it to the end of yet another day and settle into deep peace as you are welcome to fall asleep whenever it feels right.

We're going to enjoy a brief relaxation together to set the tone for the night.

Release a sigh,

Making a sound as you exhale,

Then sip in the air slowly,

Imagining the briny aromas of the English coastline.

Picture your space softening,

Becoming the heart of an old stone cottage.

Nestle just above the eaves on a dramatic cliffside.

Let out a long,

Gentle sigh,

Releasing any tension or lingering thoughts from the day.

Appreciate the stillness of this moment as the energy of Cornwall finds its way to your space.

Continue to inhale,

Maybe yawn and sigh at the rhythm and pacing that feels good to you now as I count us down.

Each breath becomes softer and more grounding.

As you inhale slowly and deeply through your nose,

Connecting with the scent of low tide,

Of sandy and rocky beaches alike,

Smelling of dried seaweed and saltwater tidal pools.

The vast sea is awe-inspiring,

Making everything that clouds your mind suddenly feel small and easy to release and cast off with the waves.

For a deep sense of gratitude washes over you,

Appreciating this time for yourself.

A peaceful pause from the day's demands.

The distant crash of the waves stirs a longing to remain in this cozy sanctuary for as long as you can.

Three,

A wave of comfort and warmth spreads through you,

Feeling utterly safe and nurtured by the crackling fire nearby which deepens your relaxation.

Two,

Your muscles soften,

Your jaw relaxes and you find it effortless to surrender.

The coziness of a fire in an old stone cottage spreads a warm glow that gently flows from the ground of your head down your spine and the front of your torso.

It continues to soothe your arms and legs,

Leaving a delightful sensation in your palms and the soles of your feet.

A gentle release from head to toe occurs,

Preparing you for the most idyllic holiday in a small fishing village.

One,

You return to your inner peace and all your needs with a quiet knowing that tonight you are hunkered down in a cozy old stone cottage by the sea.

As you inhale,

Yawn,

And sigh.

One last time,

Ease your breath back to its most natural sleepy tempo as the story unfolds.

Daphne du Maurier once penned about Cornwall,

I walk this land with a dreamer's freedom and with a waking man's perception.

Places,

Houses whispered to me their secrets and shared with me their sorrows and their joys.

With endless stories carried on the sea mist,

You can feel Cornwall's wild energy in the cool breeze off the Atlantic.

Its craggy cliffs and stone villages along the western coast are connected by winding narrow roads and paths that offer breathtaking views and steep climbs.

Generations of seafarers found refuge in its harbors and beach coves while fishing villages grew over time.

In the nineteenth century,

Cornwall was one of the world's most important mining districts,

Abundant with tin and copper.

The moods of its quaint villages and towns are shaped by the sea and the storm clouds that roll in on their own accord.

Verdant emerald hills weave throughout the sweeping cliffs,

Creating a space that balances ruggedness and charm.

Cornwall has a fierce,

Independent spirit that invites us to slow down and pay attention to the lively,

Powerful,

And beautiful forces of nature all around us.

St.

Ives is a town of captivating contrasts,

Where the fierce power of the Atlantic meets the quiet charm of a sheltered harbor and a thriving art community.

It's the perfect Cornish holiday destination,

Offering a chance to engage in cozy village life and yet still escape to quietude along the coast,

Where you have rented a historic cottage.

Morning walks to the village create an ideal start to each day,

And as you arrive at its harbor,

The weather feels too perfect to last.

The air is crisp and clean,

With a scent of salt and fresh pasties.

And a sun so bright,

It seems to promise an endless day.

There is no hint in the vast blue of the sky that by afternoon,

The serene scene will give way to a dramatic Atlantic storm.

The cool morning breeze carries the pleasant,

Rich scent of the ocean,

Mixed with a rich,

Yeasty aroma of fresh-baked bread from a village bakery.

The air of St.

Ives keeps time,

With the ever-changing scents from early morning baked goods and coffee to afternoon tea to the evening trails of wood smoke,

Tracking the passage of hours as reliably as a grandfather clock.

The soundtrack of the morning keeps time as well.

The distant,

Rhythmic clang of a mast against a boat joins the soft rustle of a newspaper being unfolded by a rugged older man in a plaid wool baker's cap perched on a bench nearby,

And the distinctive cry of a gull soaring overhead.

And you peer out at the harbor,

Covered in the slightest mist that has inspired many Cornish oil paintings throughout the centuries.

A few fishing boats and sailboats remain in the harbor,

Their ropes coiled neatly,

Their paint peeling in places from years of salt and sun.

The water is a brilliant turquoise in the shallows,

Deepening to an impossible sapphire blue farther out.

On the opposite side of the harbor,

Dozens of stone cottages and fisherman's houses climb the steep hill,

Their slate and thatched roofs catching the morning light.

The unfolding scene presents the perfect picture of quiet,

Simple charm.

You find an old,

Weathered wooden bench along the quay and amongst a few seabirds that look at you with curiosity.

You run your hand over its salt-smooth surface,

Feeling the cool,

Grainy texture against your palm.

The bench creaks a soft hello as you sit,

And you take a moment to simply absorb the morning.

Your eyes trace the activity unfolding before you.

A fisherman mends his nets,

His fingers moving with a practiced fluid rhythm.

The ropes coiled on his boat are wet and glistening,

Their scent of salt and tar carried on the breeze.

Across the water,

Two children not yet old enough for school splash at the water's edge,

Their excited shouts muffled by the distance.

As a guardian looks after them,

A few seagulls stand patiently on the harbor wall,

Waiting for an opportune moment to swoop.

The cool bench warms beneath you as the sun rises higher,

And you feel its warmth on your face and arms.

The waves laugh ever so gently in a soothing rhythm,

Representing the town's quiet heartbeat on easy mornings like today.

After a while,

A desire to explore begins to stir,

And you rise and stretch your arms overhead,

Your chest open to the Atlantic.

In Cornwall,

Layers are a must,

And you remove your windbreaker.

Stepping away from the harbor,

You follow a cobbled street that winds its way between ancient stone buildings.

The stone pathways are worn smooth by centuries of footsteps,

And you can feel the uneven texture beneath your feet.

You take your time,

Letting the pace of the village guide you.

The narrowness of the streets creates a sense of intimacy,

And requires negotiation with the occasional vehicle and other passers-by as you share the space.

You find yourself drawn to the white mullioned bay windows of a cafe.

You settle into a plush floral cushion chair with a perfect vantage point to watch the village go about its day from a quiet place.

Chopin plays softly in the background,

And the doors remain open,

Allowing the cool breeze to circulate with the pleasant,

Riney scent of the sea,

Mixed with the intoxicating aroma of earl grey tea.

Rustic wooden shelves are filled to the brim with colorful nautical cups and teapots for sale,

Alongside glass jars of tea leaves and coffee beans.

The interior is vibrant,

Managing to capture the essence of English gardens,

Coastal charm,

And artistic communities with its decor and settings.

A waitress in a long,

Flowy navy skirt and a cream sweater approaches with a warm smile,

And you decide to indulge in afternoon tea.

Soon,

A steaming purple pot of your preferred blend is placed before you,

Along with a plate of warm scones,

A small dish of clotted cream,

And a generous lavender pot of strawberry jam.

You pour yourself a cup,

The delicate floral scent of the tea mingling with the sweet aroma of the jam.

As you spread the rich,

Thick clotted cream onto a scone,

You savor the moment,

Reveling in this afternoon tradition.

It's a time to wind down,

To sip and indulge.

The clinking teacups on saucers,

And small metal knives dipping into pots of cream.

Join the soft murmurs of guests,

Enjoying this local gem of a spot.

As you finish your tea,

Warm,

Satiated,

And replenished,

You feel ready to venture out to explore the charming village of St.

Ives.

You pay and thank the friendly cafe owner,

Who smiles and wishes you a lovely day.

Small,

Delightful shops fill the narrow,

Winding lanes.

The tall stone buildings close in overhead,

Giving the streets a sense of cozy enclosure.

A wave of savory,

Peppery steam and baked pastry greets you as you pass by a pasty shop.

The Iconic Cornish Pasty,

A hearty meal in a crumpled pastry case,

Was the staple food for miners.

A self-contained lunch they could eat without cutlery,

Holding the thick pastry edge in their dirty hands,

Tossing it away after.

The scent of pasties gives way to the familiar,

Comforting,

Sweet smell of books and dusty wooden shelves as you pass a small bookshop.

It's window a chaotic,

But charming display of well-loved classics and local history books.

Next door,

A shop window displays hand-crafted pottery with mugs and bowls and soft,

Earthy tones.

You step inside,

And the air is cool and still,

Smelling of clay and the subtle scent of fresh flowers in a ceramic vase on the counter.

Your fingers trace the smooth,

Cool surface of a mug,

Feeling the care with which it was made.

Next door,

A small art gallery is filled with vibrant paintings of the Cornish coast,

Each one capturing the dynamic energy of the sea and the sky.

You linger,

Allowing your eyes to drink in the bold blues,

Greens,

And blending of the two,

Showcased on the painted landscapes.

As you wander,

You encounter fellow travelers and friendly locals.

Everyone seems to be in a similarly peaceful mood,

Sharing quiet nods as they pass.

You overhear a couple planning a coastal walk,

And a woman asking a shopkeeper for directions to a specific path.

There is a sense of shared purpose,

A quiet understanding,

That everyone here is seeking a moment of afternoon peace,

Committed to taking it easy.

This neighborliness goes beyond greetings,

And can be sensed in the unhurried way people move,

In the shared glances of appreciation for the village,

And in the unspoken permission to simply slow down.

The sun continues to climb,

And its light illuminates every detail.

The tiny wildflowers,

Growing from cracks in the stone walls,

The bright scarlet door of a cottage,

The glimmer of sea glass in a shop window.

By late afternoon,

You feel a subtle shift in the air,

The bright sun is still there,

But a thin,

Almost imperceptible haze has begun to soften its light.

A new scent emerges,

A damp,

Mineral-like smell carried on a slight increase in the wind.

It hints of rain and distant storms.

You realize this is your signal to begin the walk back to the cottage.

With a final,

Content look at the village,

You begin your ascent,

Turning away from the bustling streets and toward the rugged coastal path.

This walk is different.

The sounds of the village,

The gulls,

The conversations,

The distant church bell proceed,

Replaced by the deep,

Rhythmic roar of the Atlantic.

The path winds along the cliffside,

Its grassy edges giving way to gorse and heather.

You can feel the wind move more directly here,

A cool,

Steady push against your body.

The sky,

Which was once a brilliant,

Uniform blue,

Is now a tumultuous canvas of change.

Far out over the horizon,

A band of deep,

Stormy,

Purple-grey stretches across the water,

A stark contrast to the brilliant blue overhead.

The streaks of steely grey and pearlescent white bleed into the sky,

Giving it a dramatic,

Moody depth.

Each step feels purposeful,

And the rhythm of your walking begins to match the rhythm of the waves below.

Left foot,

Right foot.

The physical exertion of the walk,

Combined with the wild beauty of the surroundings,

Brings you back to yourself in this moment.

The world narrows to just this moment.

The feel of the wind,

The sound of the ocean,

And the path beneath your feet.

A comfortable heaviness begins to settle in your limbs,

A natural weariness that promises a deep and restorative sleep.

It is not an unpleasant exhaustion,

But a welcome,

Gentle wave of sleepiness that washes over you with each step.

Perched high on the cliff,

The old stone cottage peeks out from behind a grassy hill,

A small,

Sturdy silhouette against the churning sea.

The hill is abundant with native flowers,

Purple thistles,

Yellow gorse,

And tiny white blossoms,

Their delicate shapes swaying in the wind.

The cottage is built of thick,

Weathered stone,

Its slate roof a deep charcoal color.

A small,

Sturdy chimney sheds out against the stormy clouds,

And will soon send a plume of smoke into the darkening sky.

The cottage looks as though it has always belonged there.

Born of the craggy cliffs,

It's a natural extension of the coastline.

This timeless,

Charming dwelling has been a refuge for many souls,

Carved into the rich,

Cornish earth.

Sensing you have a little time before the storm begins,

You relish a few more moments outside,

And stop at a small,

Secluded beach below.

The path winds down through a fissure in the cliffside,

And you descend to a strip of soft,

Dark,

Golden sand.

You remove your shoes,

Grounding yourself in the cool,

Damp sand,

As the fine grains rise between your toes.

The waves roll in gently here,

A soft,

Hushed lapping,

Compared to the roar you heard on the path above.

You sit down on a smooth,

Flat stone,

And simply watch the sea as it licks at the soles of your feet.

The water becomes a deep,

Brooding,

Purple-gray now,

Mirroring the sky above.

You stay for a few moments,

Allowing the last of the day's light to fade into the gathering storm.

The sea air is heavy and fresh,

And the coolness of the sand beneath you anchors you to this moment.

Reluctantly,

You begin your final ascent to the cottage.

The path becomes a series of stairs,

Built directly into the cliff face,

From old logs and sturdy stone.

The wood is worn smooth and gray,

And the steps are uneven.

The climb requires your full attention,

A rhythmic,

Steady effort.

As you ascend,

The light fades further,

And the plum-gray sky deepens to a rich,

Velvety color.

You can feel the moisture in the air increasing,

A cool,

Clinging feeling on your skin.

With each step,

The wind seems to moan,

Echoing the coming storm.

The last few steps are the steepest,

And as you reach the top,

You feel the final,

Wonderful wave of exhaustion wash over you.

Just as you arrive at the sturdy,

Gray cottage door,

Its wood slightly frayed and soft.

The storm arrives with a sudden gust of wind.

A single,

Fat,

Cool raindrop hits your cheek,

Then another lands on your arm,

And another,

Quickly journeying into a steady downpour.

You reach for the heavy iron handle,

And as the door opens into the restored interior,

The sound of the storm is immediate and intense.

The ancient roar of the wind around the chimney,

And the steady,

Hypnotic drumming of rain on the leaded glass windows.

A Maine coon named Mrs.

Danvers is the resident cat,

And she sits demurely on the welcome mat,

Waiting to be greeted.

She purrs against the palm of your hand,

The vibrations felt deeply.

The old cottage is the perfect haven from the storm,

A sanctuary that has stood the test of many.

The thick stone walls are painted a creamy white,

And the ceilings are low and beamed with dark,

Old wood.

The floorboards are wide and worn,

Polished smooth by time.

In the corner,

A small fireplace is filled with kindling,

And a few sturdy logs,

Just waiting to be lit.

You light a long wooden match,

And a tiny flame leaps to life,

Catching the kindling,

And then the wood.

The fire begins to crackle and pop,

A cheerful,

Warm sound that fills the room.

The scent of burning wood mixes with the salty air,

And the clean rain you brought in with you.

Mrs.

Danvers watches from a comfortable overstuffed navy armchair by the fire,

Her fluffy tail twitching slowly.

This cottage,

You learn from a note that's framed on the mantelpiece,

Once belonged to a writer.

It was a place she came to find peace,

To write,

And to watch the storms roll in over the Atlantic.

Now,

It is your haven.

He watched the dancing flames of the fire,

The way the orange-gold light flickers across the stone walls,

And the shadowy movement of the branches of the tree outside the window,

Tossed by the wind.

You feel your body begin to relax completely.

The weariness from your walk has settled into a comfortable,

Heavy warmth in your limbs.

The music of the storm outside,

The rain,

The wind,

The crash of the waves,

Invites you to get cozier and hunker down.

You consider all the souls who have weathered storms like this at sea,

Longing to return to the safe harbors of Cornwall.

You find yourself listening with your whole being to the ancient song of the Atlantic.

Your muscles soften,

Your jaw relaxes,

And your mind becomes still.

Eventually you stand and make your way into a modest bedroom,

Designed for comfort and simplicity.

A small leaded pane window looks out over the stormy sea.

It's dozens of diamond-glass panes framing the scene as the falling rain softly distorts the views.

A high,

Elegant ivory bed frame features a plush mattress,

Covered with a navy blue and white nautical comforter.

The walls are a calming blue-gray,

And the floor is a single wide plank of dark wood.

On a small nightstand sits an antique brass lantern that glows softly as the room becomes darker.

You step into the washroom and enjoy a quick hot shower.

You towel off and change into a pair of soft,

Comfortable loungewear pants and a cozy long-sleeved shirt.

The fabric feels gentle against your skin,

A welcome relief after the day's walk.

The chill of the room is quickly replaced by the warmth of the fire from the next room.

Before you climb into bed,

Mrs.

Danvers settles in the middle,

Ready to snuggle as you find your way beneath the crisper calsheets and comforter.

Unaware of time,

You simply respond to the delicate invitation to sleep.

As the fire crackles,

The rain falls,

And you are held in this perfect moment,

Ready to let go.

You give in to the easy tug of sleepiness as the storm rages outside,

The wind whistling around the cottage,

And the rain falling steadily on the roof.

The sounds serve to make you feel safer,

Sleepier,

And you allow them to bring you into the hopeful,

Healing,

Restoration of sleep.

Finding comfort.

Finding serenity.

Finding sleep.

It's time to dream away.

Good night.

Reviews

Thank you, Michelle🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻I think I have finally heard most of the story. I have never been to Cornwall, it definitely is a region I want to experience and explore for myself. Some of my all time favorite novels take place over there. You have captured it so very well.
Have you had the pleasure of being there or is this all part of your incredible imagination?🙏🏻🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🙏🏻

I remember thinking that I had to tell you what I loved about this but for the life of me, I can’t remember it! I remember visualizing the scenery as you read and thinking how lovely it was and then I fell into a deep sleep. Thank you, Michelle, for this beautiful story. I will be listening to it again, and my hope is that I remember the details the next day.💙💙💙

Michelle, thank you kindly for this story about Cornwall! One of my favourite British TV series was Doc Martin. It was filmed in the Cornish fishing village of Port Isaac, located on the north coast of Cornwall, England, I could easily picture myself living in such a beautiful town by the sea! Scones, clotted cream & strawberry jam would be heavenly! I listened to your track on repeat all night & caught some more this morning before the alarm went off. Feeling calm & rested!
🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗

Very relaxing and so easy to fall asleep up I grew up having holidays in Cornwall so this will be a regular one for me to listen to. Thank you xx