An old inn is five-star.

Old Inn. Ancient Poetry.

What is it about an old inn that makes me want to stay awhile, put my feet up, fold my nightgown into a woodsy dresser drawer, and take up residence with the lingering ghosts. The towels may be a bit thin and worn, the mattress devoid of pillow-top, the shower a little rickety and tinny, but when it comes to romance, to mystery, to nourishment for the soul, an old inn is five-star.

When I’m fortunate enough to stay a few nights in one of these enduring places, I bring a tattered notebook, a felt-tip pen, a camera, a bottle of lavender, and a book of poems. Never would I wear jeans, only long black skirts and engineer boots. The inn responds in kind, seems to recognize me, creak its approval, suggests I keep my eyes slightly blurred, my ears silent and open.

In early winter, when the fireplace in the tavern is blazing and the bare trees scratch the iced windows, I might sit in a well-worn wing chair, sip a late afternoon sherry, inhale the dusk, and smell the woodsmoke of a century of fires. I might settle my boots on the pine floor, knowing that others before me have worn the ridges and hollows and that others too have heard the shivering gusts outside and felt warm and safe under these low ceilings, within these ochre walls.

Later, I lie in the narrow bed and listen to the inn’s rustles and whispers, as it bobs like a ship in the wind, settles a bit more into the earth. I’ll try in the darkness to translate the ancient poetry, the arcane language of all the travelers who like me have found comfort here from the wears and tears of the world and who are grateful for the respite.

And when I leave (always reluctantly), my voice will thread through the narrow halls and up the steep steps, joining the others in an encomium for this endearing place, this old inn.