The sky rumbles overhead and a swift, cool, wind blows toward you across the wide clearing. It will rain heavily, soon. A few small outbuildings are dwarfed by a large, hexagonal, stone tower with wide widows set in each side and tall double doors of studded wood facing you. One door stands slightly ajar and a lilting sound of music drifts through.
"hello..."
says a dark-haired lady with an eye-squinching smile, "Welcome to my imaginary home." She steps aside on bare feet and pushes open the wide, wooden door. Inside you see a flicker of fire about a large fire-place in the far wall. The interior you see is made of uncut field-stone hung with handmade tapestries. Braided and woven rugs are strewn about the dark tile floors.
The room is wide and airy, pleasantly crowded with friendly faces. Instruments of all kinds are being played, and others are seen hanging upon the walls or set carefully on surfaces everywhere about. A man-sized, finely carved, celtic harp stands with a simple wooden chair in a bare corner.
Beside firm-backed, deep-cushioned chairs and sofas stand overflowing bookshelves and small tables set ready for tea. As steam rises from the neck of a blue teapot and a small loaf of fresh bread, you notice a jumble of books lying open together in the deep, cushioned sill of a tall, just-open window. Greetings and hellos sound through the room as folks catch your eye.
The hostess turns to face you, dark eyes glinting. "Won't you come in?" she asks.
