When we first got here, we thought it would be the big stuff that would matter. You know, the view from the top of the hill, the old stone walls, the garden plans we sketched out on napkins in cafés. But it turned out… it’s the smaller things we ended up loving most.
Like how the floor in the hallway dips ever so slightly, and no one’s ever fixed it, and somehow it feels better that way. Or the way the fog rolls in across the back field on some mornings, slow and soft like it’s forgotten something.
We thought people would come for luxury, but what they really come for is stillness. A kind of pause. One woman said it felt like “the inside of a sigh.” We didn’t even know what that meant, but then we stepped outside just after rain, and yeah… it kind of made sense.
The Vale isn’t fancy. Not in the way brochures like to sell you. We’ve got mismatched mugs and books with notes scribbled in the margins. There’s an old rocking chair in the sunroom that groans like a tired uncle. But there’s comfort in that. Honesty. Familiarity.
We used to worry about the cracks in the walls or the way the curtains don’t quite match. But now we just leave them. Because life isn’t perfect, and neither are we, and this place? It’s not trying to be anything else. It’s just here. Waiting. Like it always has been.
Guests sometimes leave behind small things. A pebble on the windowsill. A note in the guestbook that feels more like a secret. One time someone left a four-leaf clover between the pages of a novel. We left it there.
We didn’t expect to fall in love with rainy Tuesdays. Or the smell of toast and firewood in the same breath. Or the sound of someone laughing downstairs at breakfast, not knowing we can hear them, and not caring.
So no, this isn’t the place we thought we were building. It’s better. Because it’s slower. Softer. Realer.
We hope, if you ever end up here, you’ll find something you didn’t expect to love too.
Quietly yours,
—The Vale
