Down a cobbled street there hides a place cloaked in a blanket of fog. With only the faint glow of street lights to outline its shape it resides next to s shoe makers, which once cobbled footwear for the royal house hold.
Opposite is a bakery, with the constant smell of freshly baked bread, omitting from within, and it has a glow through the window, that flickers in the darkness.
I walked passed this ally way every day, and noticed the same signs, and the same beautiful old English Tudor shops.
On this day, there was something different, something so magical, that when I strolled past, it captured my inner soul, as it drew me into the door way, I opened it and then entered.
There stood a whole new world right before me. I was surrounded by shelves that were full to the brim with books; most shelves were at least seven feet high. This is my own quiet place of solitude away from the madness outside.
There is a clock, as old as time itself that stands proud against a wall in the far corner, it towers over me, like an ancient god that waits to be idolised.
Its ornate golden fixtures of carved figures seam to watch over the shop's visitors, like guardians, on top of a fortified castle.
As the pendulum swings from side to side I gaze in admiration, fascinated by its shear beauty.
The smell of old world history and education surrounds the interior of this quaint place of bewilderment, as I look through mesmerised at the delights in my little book shop.
