It was restful to hide in the replica of WS Graham’s cottage. Tucked away in there, it would have been easy to forget that I was actually sitting in the wider arms of the National Poetry Library, London, just a few hundred yards from streams of red buses and black cabs criss-crossing the Thames.
The physical space was simplicity itself: bare wooden boards; a fireplace; two simple wooden bookshelves above the bedhead. And a few quiet paces away, a generous wooden writing desk, ready with a typewriter and blank sheets of paper. In fact, the only major difference between this and my own writing space at home was the sea (replicated by a cool blue undulating projection just beyond the wooden window frame) and the particular book titles on the shelf, taken from Graham’s own personal library. (Like him, I sleep and write in the same room.)
I took off my boots and made myself at home.