Old houses in books fascinate me. Most old houses in fiction always seem to have a huge, HUGE library with a small ladder that slides. Many fireplaces, especially in the library; spreading the feeling of warmth and comfort, extending its warm golden arms towards you to grab a book and settle down cozily into that great big arm chair facing the fireplace. Accompanied by of course, a hot cup of cocoa or coffee with cream. Old houses with their creaky stairways and door hinges, their innumerable rooms (or so I’d like to believe), old paintings hanging alongside some great ancient carpet from some far away exotic lands, the history that oozes from every hallway and so forth. Old houses. Sigh. Works of fiction make old houses open up to us readers who cling on every tasteful description, every old story that’s associated with it, every character who once inhabited that old mansion, and perhaps even the strange current butler who serves his old master, that old master who’s eyes reveal only the existence of a storehouse of secrets within, never the secrets itself. Also, lets not forget the old hill upon which this house stands. A hill on which it always rains.
What I would have grown up to be without these works of fiction, I know not. They made me. This is a piece dedicated to all those writers who made us welcome when we entered their domain, their old mansion; and helped us settle comfortably into our chairs and absorb their stories however long or short.
Please don’t be a stranger in my place ~ Travelling, Paper Lions