I have learned fifteen different styles of handwriting. I have composed fifteen different messages in the Guest Book dated across an 18-month period. It’s all: local places visited, days of rain and sunshine, wildlife spotted, that kind of thing.
I now have my first real booking. I’m watching from the attic as they read out the entries in comical accents. They are cozy by the fire but not yet used to the shadows. It is an old cottage. It creaks, embalmed in the silence of uninhabited miles.
The night is drawing in. My guests are looking sleepy.