An afternoon in Thistlewood

Thistlewood Journal Entry - 5

When I looked up from the books, the light had changed. The sun had begun its slow descent.

I looked at my watch and realized it was evening, yet the date had not changed.

I remember being surprised. It seemed impossible that only a few hours had elapsed.

I had wandered through provinces whose names had once existed only upon old maps. I had listened to philosophers debating questions without answers, followed explorers along forgotten paths, admired remarkable collections, and lingered in gardens where the ordinary and the impossible appeared to coexist quite naturally.

I had crossed mushroom groves where reality seemed unusually thin, stood among curious birds unlike any I had ever encountered, and walked landscapes stitched together from memory, dream, and imagination.

I had met scholars, collectors, naturalists, explorers, and a poet who may never have existed.

It felt less like an afternoon than an entire chapter of my life. Perhaps months had passed. Perhaps years.

And yet, when I finally rose from my chair, I was still seated beside the Blue Window.

The books remained open upon the table. The fire still glowed softly in the hearth. Dust drifted lazily through the evening light.

The cottage had not changed at all. I cannot explain this. I only know that when I left the library that evening, Thistlewood felt less like a place I had read about and more like a place I had visited. The distinction has become increasingly difficult to make in the years since.

When I finally stepped outside, I turned back only once. The Blue Window reflected the last light of the evening. I remember that clearly.

What happened afterward is less certain. I know I eventually found my way home. I know I returned many times in search of the cottage.

And I know that I never found it again.

Fortunately, some fragments survived the journey home. A copied map and one small slip of paper were enough, at least at first, to help me reconstruct the rest.

The pages that follow are my attempt to reconstruct that afternoon as faithfully as memory allows.