Come with me. We’ll take a short journey. We follow the winding path deep into the woods. Further now. Stay on the path. Who knows what terrors and mysteries the wood may hold?
There, in the distance. Surely you can see it now? It blends in, but it stands tall. A log cabin, a thin stream of smoke curling from its chimney before being carried away by the gentle breeze. Behind it, you catch the reflections of the evening sun from the glassy surface of the lake. I know you want to stop and stare, but come along. It’s time to go in.
You’re still with me? Good. Shut the door behind you, I’m sure you weren’t born in a barn. Now, put the security chain on please. Nobody wants to be disturbed here.
Welcome to the holiday home. It’s got everything anybody could need. A solid wifi connection, games consoles, shotguns if you fancy some clay pigeon shooting, bows if you fancy some archery. Boots for walking, a fully stocked wine cellar. A stable, a kayak, everything you can dream of for you adventure.
Because that’s my dream holiday. An adventure. But an adventure that’s mine. It’s quiet, it’s secluded. And it’s mine.
If I want to come here to get away, to live out in the wilds, I could. If I needed a break to chill by a beach, there’s one by the lake, permanently lite by the early evening sun. If I want to write, I can come here for inspiration, procrastination, everything and anything I could possibly want.
And she’ll be here too. Our place.
The Idiot in Tin Foil