DH and I are away together for relaxation for the first time in several years. DH is attending a two-day education conference five hours from home and I am along for the ride and a change of pace.
We are staying at a great old Victorian hotel. Someone at the registration desk must have been confused by my odd first name; we arrived at night in blowing snow to pick up our room key and our conference name tags, issued to “David” and “Spouse.” My name is often mangled and I am rarely concerned, but I did think it might be pushing my tolerance to be addressed as Spouse for several days. I politely requested a new tag.
The hotel is very quiet and old-fashioned, with logs burning in fireplaces at every turn, miles of long carpeted halls, framed Victorian engravings on the walls, and a pleasant, faintly musty peacefulness. DH has to be in meetings. I have no agenda at all. I can feel myself relaxing.
Life has been so hectic in the last few weeks, and arranging to leave farm and family so challenging, that I had no time to do more than throw my dress clothes in a bag and toss the bag in the car. I brought no books. Heaven forfend! A mini-vacation without books?
This morning I visited the hotel library. This is a small, cozy room with deep wing-backed chairs, a steam radiator ticking at 90°, the daily newspapers spread on an oak table, and a battered collection of books.
I was greatly pleased to find, shelved in the non-fiction section under BIOGRAPHY, a personal favorite — Richard Adams’s wonderful book Traveller. This is the story of Robert E. Lee in the Civil War, as dictated by his horse.
I think Adams would be tickled to know his book was considered non-fiction.