This guided story takes you back to the quiet magic of The Haven in Midwinter.
Begin by settling down.
Ready for sleep.
Or a nap.
And get comfortable.
Close your eyes.
And take a deep,
Steady breath in.
And gently let it go.
Allow yourself now to be here.
In this quiet moment.
The gentle sanctuary of stillness.
With each breath you take.
Let go of the present.
Let go of its noise.
Its demands.
Its weight.
This is your time.
For peace.
Rest.
Renewal.
Breathe in the soft wave of calm.
Breathe out,
Releasing all tension.
And now.
With your eyes closed.
Or gently resting.
You return to the haven.
It has been a bright,
Crisp day in the haven.
But the sun is sinking now.
Red in the sky.
As you and the old lady walk down the quiet lane to the village.
You are going first to the inn.
Then to the manor at the invitation of the old gentleman.
You talk comfortably about this and that as you walk.
Your breaths forming little puffs of cloud in the crisp night air.
Bare branches show black and stark against the sunset sky.
The birds have gone to their roosts.
And the night is quiet,
But for the occasional soft call of an owl.
Drifting across the fields.
The old lady sniffs the air and asks if you can smell the approaching snow.
You think you can.
It's a dusty,
Cold,
Dry kind of scent.
Turning your head toward the moors.
You make out the first line of clouds approaching.
You walk on companionably.
Passing the first scattered houses of the village.
Turning a bend in the lane.
You see the harbour.
The fishermen have strung lights along it.
And they twinkle merrily.
Green.
Soft yellow.
As the darkness falls.
Opposite,
The door of the old inn is open.
Throwing warm light.
Out onto the village street.
Warmth greets you as you both step inside.
The fire crackles.
Casting flickering shadows across the wooden beams above.
The scent of wood smoke,
Spices and pine fills the air.
The innkeeper welcomes you both as you slip off your warm coats and take a seat others,
Talking among themselves,
Nod and smile at you and the old lady.
And hot drinks are brought.
You settle back.
Sipping the drink,
As gradually more villagers enter,
Greeting one another in soft voices.
After a while.
The old lady touches your hand and you both get up putting your coats back on.
At the unseen signal.
The villages follow.
And you go out into the night.
All light has vanished from the sky now.
And the stars are brilliant.
The sea hushing against the harbour walls.
There is a moon which illuminates the lane as she walks.
But the cloud is gradually spreading across the sky.
The scent of oncoming snow is sharper.
Your eyes drop from the sky over the moors and you see at the top of the lane the unmistakable shape of the great white stag,
Standing still as a statue of snow.
With a sudden gathering of muscles and a leap.
It jumps over the hedge into the field.
You turn down the path towards the manor.
Its windows lit like warm jewels.
And the door opens.
The old gentleman is waiting to greet you as you pass inside to the large entrance hall.
Lit by lamps and candles.
You remove your coats again and go into the great dining room.
It is a familiar room now.
As you have come several times for afternoon tea with the old lady.
Despite its size.
It is a comfortable and welcoming room.
With many sofas,
Chairs,
And beds.
And peaceful pictures on the walls The curtains are drawn over the long windows.
But the tall French doors are uncovered,
Looking out into the dark gardens.
The huge stone fireplace is adorned with garlands of holly and evergreen.
And near it,
In a dim corner,
Stands a huge and beautiful harp.
Someone sits on a low stall behind it,
Shrouded in a long cloak and hood.
You glance at the old lady in faint surprise,
Since the mysterious figure looks like the pony-trap driver.
Part of the old and accepted magic of the Haven.
Mysterious but familiar.
The old lady smiles and nods and beckons you to the long table.
Upon the snowy cloth it is laid with steaming mugs of mulled wine,
Tea,
Coffee,
And rich hot chocolate.
Plates hold a variety of food,
Both sweet and savory.
Once everyone has come in.
And the old gentleman shuts the door.
You are invited to help yourself.
You choose a drink and something to eat.
And sit beside the old lady on a comfortable sofa.
The various conversations are low as people eat and drink.
Logs settle into the fire as flames crackle softly.
The old gentleman walks around,
Having a quiet word with everyone.
Before getting a drink of his own.
And coming to speak to you and the old lady.
He thanks you for coming and sits down.
Slowly the quiet murmurs fade and in his corner.
The harpist begins to play.
As he does so you look at the long windows and see snow starting to fall as if he has summoned it the old gentleman rises from his seat.
And goes to the French doors,
Opening them.
You and the old lady join him.
Feeling the crisp bite of the air.
In silence and beauty,
The snow comes down.
It settles on the garden and soon veils the short grass.
Magic seems to be drifting out of the sky.
And the air is filled with the scent of snow and pine.
Then the snow seems to coalesce into shapes or perhaps,
Shapes walk out of the darkness and into the snow.
They are graceful,
Shining and tall.
And you have seen them before.
In the depths of the fairy wood.
They move as if part of the land and air itself.
Like the movement of wind and snow and flowing water and clouds across the face of the moon you feel drawn.
Or perhaps invited into the dance.
Not feeling the cold,
Only the brightness of the air and the lightness of your body.
As you step through the French doors.
Patterns like symmetry of snowflakes appear on the snow as you dance.
You feel buoyant as if in a dream.
Moving effortlessly.
The music threads softly into the air.
Until it is part of the snow.
Slowly you come to a stop.
The snow falls thicker and the dancers vanish into the whiteness.
You return to the warm room,
Thinking you have to stab the snow from your feet and brush it from your head.
But there is nothing.
And neither do you feel chilled The door is closed.
Once again.
The guests return to their seats.
Sipping at their hot drinks.
The old lady gives you a smile.
That holds both affection and secrets.
You notice that the hooded harpist has gone You notice that the hooded harpist has gone now.
Only the great harp stands in the corner.
You have some thoughts about it.
But it can wait.
You will weave them into your own personal story of the haven later.
As the night deepens.
The fire and candles burn low.
Guests drift into quiet conversation,
Some resting by the fire,
Others gazing out at the falling snow.
You too,
Feel a deep stillness settling within you.
The time grows late and people begin to stir ready to make their way home in the whole way.
The old gentleman is waiting beside a table.
On which sits a pile of brightly wrapped gifts.
He hands one to you as you pass and thanks you for coming his smile is as kind and knowledgeable as the old ladies.
On the lane,
The pony trap waits.
The driver helping both you and the old lady into it.
You wave to the villagers who wave back and the pony starts forward The old lady tells you that the snow dance has not been performed in the haven for many long years.
And smiles again as if satisfied.
The pony trap moves on through the thickening snow.
Stopping beside the old lady's cottage.
And then continuing up the lane to your own house.
The driver hands you out and inclines their head.
As if both nodding you goodbye and thanking you.
You watch as the pony trap drives off.
Up the line.
Then you go inside to the warmth and gentle welcome of your home.
You have much to think about.
But the crisp air.
And the dance has made you pleasantly tired.
And you go upstairs and prepare for bed.
From your window.
You see the snow coming down.
Tomorrow it will lay like white velvet.
Over the meadows and woods.
And the village.
The old lady will come for a hot drink in the morning you will both prepare a meal and open your gifts.
Now it is time to sleep.
Perhaps to dream.
As the snow falls.
You stretch out in bed.
And draw the covers up.
Closing your eyes.
Warmth wraps around you.
And your limbs soften into relaxation.
You think of dancing in the snow,
Of harp music,
And think you hear it faintly.
Drifting over the land.
Like snow.
You sleep.
Sleep.
Sleep.
