"Would you like a rug?"

 I've mentioned how I love creating a sense of home in a short term rental, or campsite. Here's a recent BC story from August of last year. But last May, I made a home in London's Kensington area, and herein lies a cozy story. 

My tiny home was in a 5-storey Victorian terrace in a good area bordered by Kensington Church Street on the west, and Kensington High Street to the south. Kensington Palace was a long block east along the High Street. Here's a detailed history of the development of the area, which evolved from the grounds of a Georgian mansion and the Glebe lands of the local St. Mary Abbots church (a beautiful Gothic Revival church right on Kensington Street) into quiet streets and closes, in the latter half of the nineteenth century,

My door was the red one

  

I found my 'home from home' on AirBnB, the fifth floor (my budget was fifth floor) of a yellow brick Italianate terrace (with no elevator,) a former private home now dubbed the Pocket Apartments. The terrace was dignified by white window trims, iron railings and granite pillars with Ionic capitals gracing the entrances. 

 

And the pocket apartments were aptly named. The room, which was the width of my single bed's length, was delightfully painted and decorated; amenities just enough, the bathroom superb. Clean. Quiet. Smelled good. I could lie in my wee bed and look out at matching terraces across the street through the boulevard of mature trees. It was all I needed to be 'home'.

I piled the pillow up, and pulled a soft orange fringed blanket over my knees. Instant warmth and cuddle. I had a closer look at my lovely rug. Soft, sturdy, produced by a traditional British weaving mill run by Bethan and John, a young brother and sister team.  And before I knew it, I was ordering mine from The British Blanket Company in Bristol, which is where I was headed next. I directed the package to my sweet niece, who lives in a village near the New Forest and added it to my bag.

And each time I settle into my reading chair, piles of books around me, my blue blanket is there for immediate warmth, security, memories. 

One of the lovely memories: my UK family loves the garden, and socializing is often on benches and seats in the lovely garden surrounding their 1700s barn conversion. The Brits are not wimps, they don't head indoors when the light fades and evening damp descends. They reach for 'rugs', cozy woolen lap blankets. 

And whenever I snuggle under my blue blanket, I hear my sweet sister-in-law in a rarely heard north of England accent, ask "would you like a rug?" And that is very warm indeed.