Everyone needs a bolt-hole.
When I'm visiting my grandmother (she of the vegetables boiled to mush) I stay in a little place a few miles out of town. Its a converted church, run as a hobby by a widow (its not as if she needs the income - when I arrived today, she was proudly showing off her latest acquisition; an Aston Martin DB7. This woman is 70 going on 17.)
And its fab.
You see, this lady travelled the world with her husband and they filled this space with stuff they collected. Wierd, wonderful stuff. You can spend all day just poking around the two rooms that form the accomodation. I've stayed in suites in 5 star hotels that can't hold a candle to this place.
The thing it does is this: you turn up, you're asked what you'd like for your evening meal, what you'd like for breakfast, when you'd like breakfast brought and then have a chat (the owner's other hobby is as a herbalist - complain about an ache or pain, and you can guarantee that a little sachet will be provided within the hour, fresh from the garden.) And then you sit down and relax... it even works for first-born. After an hour or so of sitting around you're mellow.
I love it.
Thing is, I'm not going to tell you where it is. 2 reasons. Firstly, the owner doesn't take bookings anymore from people who haven't stayed before. And the other, is that if I wrote it here, it wouldn't be my secret bolt-hole anymore.
I'm a git. What am I?
