We talk a lot about breakfast. Maybe more than we should. But around here, it’s not just a meal—it’s kind of the whole point.
It starts early, before most guests are awake. The kettle’s already grumbling, and the smell of coffee begins creeping into the halls. There’s something sacred about those first few quiet minutes. Like the house is holding its breath before the day begins.
The bread’s usually still warm when we slice it. We bake it ourselves now—wasn’t always that way, but once we started, we couldn’t stop. The butter’s thick and unapologetic. Jam’s homemade (though sometimes we burn a batch, and it smells like a bad decision). We’re okay with that.
Eggs come from the farm down the road, where chickens wander a bit too freely and have names like “Marge” and “Beans.” We never planned to care about chickens. Life’s funny like that.
One of our guests once said, “It’s like breakfast is a love letter you write every morning.” And yeah, that stuck with us. Because it is a kind of love. A small, warm, edible kind. We don’t always get it perfect, but we care. We really do.
Sometimes we try something new—a twist on porridge, or a perfect poached egg. Doesn’t always land. But there’s laughter, and seconds, and someone always asks what’s in the muffins. (We’ll never tell. Mostly because we don’t remember.)
We set the table with mismatched plates. The cutlery came from two different grandmothers. One of the teapots leaks if you don’t pour it just right. But somehow, it all comes together.
We’ve had proposals over breakfast. Breakups too. People read books, or write postcards they never send. One man sat for two hours just watching the steam rise from his cup. We didn’t ask why. Didn’t need to.
What we’re saying is—breakfast isn’t a detail here. It’s the heart of things. The way we welcome you. The way we say, “you matter.” Even if we never say it out loud.
Hope you’re hungry.
—The Vale
