Page 17 - The Letter By Ann Newhouse

As I entered the parking area in front of the village green I sat and drank in the view. This is it I said to myself as I stepped out into the night air. I decided to take a tour of the area to see if I could get a feeling of belonging.
My eyes were drawn to the large spire that loamed over the village entrance it stood on top of the white washed church taking up a large corner of the village. Beside it was a square building with no windows just large wooden double doors that looked out of place beside the old church. The surrounding grounds were void of trees or any vegetation and the white pebbles that defined the path way glistened in the frosty moonlight I could hear the sound of my foot steps as the frost began to turn the dew into miniature pools of ice. Reminding me that winter was truly here. I passed a row of five cottages that were being used as quaint little businesses; butchers, bakery, grocery store, boutique and what looked like a fruit market, displaying their homegrown and craft produce.
An iron gate pointed the way to another four cottages with a connecting pathway winding up a small hill that over looked the village.
The second gate had a sign Penny hill B&B it was beside what seemed to be the local pub adorned with a beautiful stain glass window. There was the sound of laughter and good cheer as I approached the main doorway.
Sitting in the shadows on a wooded bench was an elderly gentleman smoking a pipe. ‘Good evening’, he called to me as if inviting me in to his home, ‘a cold night is this lass’, he called with a nod.
I nodded and smiled deciding to go in for a hot drink to warm my now frozen hands and feet.
The laughter seemed to die as I, an obvious stranger, stepped in to a very old and dimly light room.