The smell is so familiar, so comfortable. It is like a warm hug from your mother, like putting on an old pair of jeans. It is a distinctive smell only found in places like this, of pages steadily collecting dust and ink beginning to delete passages enclosed line by line.
This is my favourite place to be. A place where the walls are barely visible, but that you know will be the darkest shade of wood, echoing the creaking floorboards that nestle underfoot. A bell tolls somewhere in the distance as the door stammers it's way open declaring the arrival of another kindred spirit.
In a far off corner looms a proud, battered armchair, holes have formed in the arms where the material has grown weary with age and over use. The ornately carved wooden feet are slightly scuffed and sit upon a vast, faded threadbare rug. Waist high pillars of books teeter precariously either side of the regal throne, making it the centre of an already decaying empire. The entire corner of this room feels so homely it makes my heart throb and ache with a deep longing.
The air is thick and heavy with age old volumes of preloved history, slicing through this is the soft smell of burning wood pumping out of the cast iron wood burner that's tucked away beyond the counter.
From floor to ceiling the walls are lined with novels from every corner of the globe, every time period you could imagine. My hand idly finds a well thumbed copy of "The Grapes Of Wrath", it's front cover stripped from the main body. Below the greying title reads the delicately carved inscription, "May you find what you're looking for. H." I hold the bound, yellowing pages in my palms and try to imagine the life this book has lead. It's years in existence exceed mine by over a decade, it will have been loved by so many and travelled well, better than most people. There must be thousands of books here with hundreds more heartfelt messages adorning the pages.
This is what I love. The feeling that I'm surrounding by a lifetime of old souls, a lifetime of work poured into every sentence and a lifetime of love as each sentence is read and analysed time and again.
Time has frozen. The room has looked this way for decades and for all I know I have been standing here for as long. I know before I have picked it up which delicacy I shall call my own. The cover is a striking yellow, as glorious as the sun and filled with just as much happiness and promise as a summers day. I pluck the text from the top shelf and fan the pages in front of my nose.
The smell is so familiar, so comfortable. Like a warm hug from my mother.
For my Mum who made me love reading and appreciate every written word and who I can't wait to see again. Thank you.
