Hardback Truth

Copyright. Not my image. 

When I enter, it’s home. Hit with the refreshing smell of freshly printed pages, and ink. I can touch every book as I go -- in awe of every single one. Studying the look on people’s faces in each section tells me their story. Mostly the young girls in the Teen Fiction section giggling over the newest flick. “The girl who loves the boy and wins him.” Is it their first book? A favourite author maybe? Children picking out their first books, looking up at their parents in excitement. “This one, Mommy? And THIS ONE TOO?” A small toddler latched onto we’re Going on a Bear hunt and cheering as his mom says “We’re going on a bear hunt, it’s going to be a big one. We’re not scared!” Book clerks always happy to see people and asking if everybody found what they’re looking for. Silly question really, everything I could ever want was right there in front of me.

Up the steep steps, I feel as if I am climbing Malvern Hills. I find the coffee shop. Best friends slurping coffee, people trying before they buy books, toddlers with their baby-chinos, lonely men with their newspapers, the teenager staring into her hot chocolate. The milk steam squeals, the cups clunk, the barista shouts “LATTE!” The laughs, the coughs, the noise of people making me feel as if this small place barely exists. As if I walked into some place in my imagination. The rustic bookstore is a setting for everybody. Entering the world of Waterstones is like heaven on earth.  I am not only presented with the most beautiful books, I’m also surrounded by people who want to go on an adventure. The adventure of words, a collision of letters that has somehow become someone’s safe-haven.

After two sips of coffee, the adventure goes on. The further I get into the depths of the building the more invested I become. The petite spiralled staircase takes me higher. Classic fiction. The confined section suited to the classic era. I close my eyes and try and imagine Shakespeare admiring his own books upon a shelf. Jane Austen smiling because it was her name being remembered. People that once walked this earth in another time, almost another world.

My little world, my safe-haven. I make my way down each step, taking in every nook and cranny. Did the book clerks understand how lucky they were to work here? A place that is so peaceful, and sometimes quiet, but helps when the world, and your thoughts are so loud. Past the coffee shop, where the coffee stained cups remain. Such picturesque mess. Down to the first floor, the fresh air seeping through wooden doors, it’s time to go home. I look back at the heavenly, archaic building, and tell myself I’ll be back so soon.

Copyright. Not my Image.

Several weeks later, I’m going back. Back to the fresh books, the toddlers and teens, the shouting barista, and the happy book clerks. Don’t you want to come? It all seems so inviting. Only when I get the building that was so close to being my home, I’m greeted with a flag, hanging where there was once with the most beautifully painted golden ‘W’ on a matte black slate. The white flag hung there flowing so aggressively in the bitterly cold wind, as it swayed one more time I saw something I wish I hadn’t. A grey apple sign.