The Cosy Cats Of Maplewood Cottage: A Gentle-Time Story

A cosy, gentle story about a group of snug little cats living together in a lovely old cottage in the English countryside, complete with a crackling fireplace and plenty of warm, comforting charm.

A slow, gentle, magical story perfect for bedtime or anytime.

Transcript

Hello and welcome to this gentle time story about a group of snug little cats living together in a lovely old cottage in the English countryside,

Complete with a crackling fireplace and plenty of warm,

Comforting chow.

Before we begin,

I invite you to take a moment to become aware of your weight on the surface beneath you.

Whether you are sitting or lying,

Do you perhaps feel a sense of being supported?

Letting the weight of your body relax and feel held.

Imagining how deep the earth beneath you goes down,

Down.

Also taking a moment to become aware of the vast sky above you,

All of the stars and galaxies and possibility and magic.

Then bringing these two directions back into your body,

Meeting in your heart space.

Feeling your heart as open,

Warm,

Relaxed and ready to listen and receive the words of this story.

The Cosy Cats of Maplewood Cottage Tucked between the rolling green hills and golden fields of wildflowers,

Nestled at the end of a winding lane,

Lined with mossy stones and blackberry brambles,

There sat a little cottage.

It had ivy on its walls,

Roses blooming around the windows and smoke curling from its crooked chimney.

This was Maplewood Cottage and it was home to six cats.

Not ordinary cats,

Mind you.

These were Cosy Cats.

The kind who loved soft blankets,

Warm bread,

Gentle music and curling up with a good book.

Even if they couldn't read it,

They claimed the best books were the ones you simply napped on.

Their names were Marmalade,

The oldest,

Orange as a sunset and fond of knitting,

Mostly scarves that ended in tangled balls.

Tilly,

Who was small,

Grey and quiet,

But loved tea parties and could balance a sugar cube on her head.

Pip,

A black and white mischief-maker,

Who often wore spectacles even though he didn't need them.

Crumb,

The fluffiest and roundest,

Who always had biscuit crumbs on his whiskers.

Flotty,

Sleek and elegant,

Who enjoyed classical music and always smelled faintly of lavender.

And finally,

Bramble,

The youngest,

A tiny tabby kitten who had just moved in.

The cats had lived at Maplewood Cottage for as long as anyone could remember.

No one really knew where the cottage came from.

It was simply there,

With a crackling fireplace,

Teapots that never ran dry,

And a cupboard full of socks,

Which Marmalade insisted she was organising.

Every morning,

The cats would gather in the kitchen.

The floor was warm from the AGA stove and the kettle was always singing.

Tilly poured imaginary tea.

Pip read the morning news upside down.

And Crumb brought out a tray of warm scones.

Somehow,

Always perfectly baked,

Even though no one ever saw him using the oven.

Bramble,

Being new,

Was still learning the ways of cottage life.

Why do we always light the fire,

Even in spring?

She asked one morning,

Watching Marmalade poke the flames.

Because a cottage without a fire is like a teacup without tea,

Marmalade replied.

And the fire keeps the magic awake,

Tilly whispered,

Her paws wrapped around her tiny teacup.

Bramble didn't understand at first.

But as the days went by,

She began to notice things.

How the flames seemed to purr when the cats curled up nearby.

How the sound of the fire lulled even Pip into quiet snoozes.

How,

On rainy days,

When the clouds draped themselves across the hills like blankets,

The cottage glowed from the inside out.

She noticed how each cat had a role.

Marmalade,

The matron of Mischief and Yarn.

Tilly,

The peacekeeper,

With her silent smiles and dainty manners.

Pip,

Always in motion,

His spectacles askew,

His curiosity boundless.

Crumb,

Whose belly nearly dragged on the floor,

Always managing to find the coziest spot,

Often already occupied.

Lottie,

Who sashayed as if the cottage were her ballroom.

And Bramble,

Discovering it all with wide eyes and a twitching tail.

Some days,

The cats held book club meetings.

They'd gather in the library,

Really just a sunroom lined with shelves.

Curl up on cushions and take turns pretending to read.

Bramble always picked the thickest books,

Convinced they held the deepest dreams.

Other days were adventure days.

Pip would declare to the attic and they'd climb the rickety ladder and explore dusty trunks.

They found old hats,

Forgotten postcards,

Feather boas and a single roller skate.

Bramble tried it once and ended up rolling straight into a stack of books.

There was also a garden,

Tangled and bursting with herbs and wildflowers.

Lottie tended the lavender while humming softly.

Crumb lounged in the thyme patch,

Belly up to the sun.

Bramble followed butterflies with her nose in the air,

Wondering if she could learn to fly.

Tilly hosted tea parties on the porch,

Complete with acorn cups and flower petal napkins.

The bees buzzed politely around her sugar cubes and the butterflies fluttered in approval.

Crumb ran a bakery from the basket in the pantry.

He would nap on warm loaves and wake with the scent of cinnamon in his fur.

Bramble once caught him whispering to a particularly delicious scone,

Calling it darling.

On quiet afternoons,

Pip hosted mystery games.

He'd fashion clues from old buttons and thimbles,

Hiding them around the cottage.

Bramble took it very seriously,

Donning a paper hat and declaring herself Detective Bramble of the Blanket Borough.

Lottie taught Bramble how to groom properly.

Always behind the ears,

Darling.

Elegance starts with hygiene.

Marmalade in the evenings would tell stories by the fire.

She'd spin tales of cats who sailed the seas,

Danced on rooftops or rode on broomsticks with witches.

Bramble would listen,

Wide-eyed,

Imagining herself in each tale.

And some evenings were meant for nothing at all.

The cats would simply lay in the golden quiet,

Letting the light flicker over them,

Feeling the soft thrum of the cottage heartbeat beneath their paws.

On those nights,

Even the wind outside would hush.

One twilight,

They discovered an old photograph in the attic.

Pip fixed it up and Lottie found a stack of dusty records.

They danced slowly around the sitting room,

Whiskers brushing,

Tales twinning in rhythm.

Bramble tried to waltz,

Stepping all over Crumb's feet,

Who only laughed and gave her a spin.

Another day,

It snowed.

The world turned white and muffled.

The cats built a tiny snow cottage beside the garden.

Bramble insisted it needed curtains,

So they used fallen leaves.

Tiddy made a snowcat that looked suspiciously like Pip.

Spectacles and all.

One night,

A storm rolled in.

The wind howled through the hedgerows and rain splattered against the windows like handfuls of pebbles.

The power blinked off.

The cats,

Unfazed,

Lit lanterns and gathered in front of the fireplace.

Lottie brought out a basket of yarn.

Pip attempted to read poetry by candlelight.

Tilly served chamomile tea with imaginary biscuits.

Crumb handed out slippers.

None of them matched,

But no one minded.

Bramble nestled between them,

Her tail tucked in tight.

Marmalade,

She asked softly,

Have you always lived here?

Marmalade's eyes,

The colour of old honey,

Twinkled.

Oh yes,

Little one,

I arrived many years ago on a foggy morning.

The cottage welcomed me in,

Just like it did you.

But who built the cottage?

Bramble asked.

The cats looked at one another.

No one knows,

Says Lottie.

Maybe it built itself,

Said Pip.

Maybe it was dreamed up by someone who needed it,

Tilly whispered.

Crumb just purred and passed around more slippers.

The fire crackled and the storm beat gently against the windows.

The cats began to drift off one by one.

Lottie curled into her velvet armchair.

Pip slid down from his bookshelf perch.

Tilly fell asleep mid-paw,

Her tiny teapot tipping over.

Crumb was already snoring,

Biscuit crumbs fluttering with each breath.

Even Marmalade rested her chin on her needles.

A half-knitted scarf dangling like a sleepy vine.

Bramble,

Still wide-eyed,

Watched the flames dance.

She thought about how the cottage never creaked in a frightening way.

How it smelt of cinnamon and soap and rain on stone.

How even in the middle of a storm,

She felt warm,

Safe.

Loved.

And just as her eyes fluttered closed,

She heard something.

Very faint.

The cottage hummed.

It wasn't a song,

Exactly.

More like the sound of deep,

Contented sleep.

As if the walls themselves were dreaming along with them.

Bramble smiled and curled up tighter.

The next morning,

The world was quiet.

The storm had passed,

And the garden outside sparkled with raindrops.

Birds chirped cheerfully,

As if they'd waited all night for their cue.

The cats stretched and yawned.

Pip immediately lost his spectacles,

Which were sitting on his head.

Crumb found a whole biscuit tucked under his chin.

Marmalade started knitting again.

Though she was now accidentally creating a sock with three toes.

Tilly made breakfast tea.

Lottie put on a scratchy old record.

Bramble helped open the windows to let in the fresh air.

Did the cottage always hum?

Bramble asked.

Yes,

Said Marmalade.

But only when it's full.

Full of what?

Of love,

Said Tilly.

Of toast crumbs,

Said Crumb.

Of naps,

Warm paws,

And good books,

Added Pip.

Bramble looked around.

The teacups.

The fireplace.

The crooked old walls.

The cats.

And she knew,

Without a doubt,

That Maplewood Cottage wasn't just a place to live.

It was a home.

And if you ever find yourself wandering the countryside,

And you see smoke curling from a chimney just beyond the hedgerows and the faint smell of tea and toast in the air,

Peek through the window.

You might just spot Marmalade dozing in her chair.

Or Crumb,

Chasing a rolling biscuit.

Or Bramble,

Curled on the hearth,

Tail flicking gently in her sleep.

But don't knock.

Unless you're a cat.

Or at least bring some cream.

Because Maplewood Cottage is,

And always has been,

A home for cosy cats and their dreams.

The End

Reviews

Charming, relaxing and restful. You have a lovely voice for storytelling.