I have always enjoyed staying in hotels, especially those blessed with raffish guests - I imagine myself engaging in shy conversation with a charming rogue, or smouldering chanteuse - I relish the moment when I see, opening up before me, a lounge with slowly revolving fans -
Once, when I was in Venice, I stayed for a few brooding nights in a small hotel, near the Fenice - my room was approached through a dim labyrinth - narrow lurching stairs took me almost onto the leads - I had the most fearful dreams there - each morning, I would emerge, shaken, into the merciful sunlight -
We came across the Lancrigg Hotel on the lower slopes of Helm Crag - we'd climbed to the summit, high over the lake - all around were other, higher, fells - we saw brave fell walkers, negotiating wind swept ridges - clouds came towards us, bringing rain - their chill vapour shrouded the heights -
We were making our way down, past ruined sheep folds - dry stone walls were half hidden by icy delicate ferns - a wrought iron gate opened onto an avenue of immense pines - their trunks were marked with the shapes of eyes -
Then we saw a hidden velvety lawn, with a roller - pergolas dripped rainwater - there was the hotel - we left our sodden boots in the porch - prints and eccentric statuary decorated the hall - we entered a room heated by ornate radiators - an archipelago of sofas stretched out before us -
I lolled at my ease, scribbling in my diary - the slender Polish girl told me she'd kept a diary - you have beautiful handwriting - what are you writing - she had shining blonde hair -
After a lunch fit for a jaded pasha, I read my Wainwright - tea things gleamed on a silver tray - rain drops coursed down the ceiling high sash windows -
Later, I roamed around the hotel - to my delight, there were secret corridors, mysterious landings - I saw two girls making up a bed in a room filled with dark wooden furniture -
I returned to my table downstairs, picking up my Wainwright, content -
No comments:
Post a Comment