My dream place is a metaphorical island, a small bungalow type building perched on a ledge high up on a mountain, over viewing a vast sea of forest and greenery. The house itself is small in its own cosy kind of way. It is almost entirely made up of wood the thick panelled mahogany walls and the varnished floor shimmer in the light of the regularly tilting lanterns drifting from side to side hypnotically hanging from the ceiling like the water in a small mountain stream rippling on an early morning. The roof stretches up for what seems miles and miles, it has five thick beams across it and the unfinished trunk of a tree stands in the middle of the floor where it takes most of the responsibility of holding up the roof, tall and proud like a king of old, is bark still attached to the trunk and large knot holes where branches once were. There are several chairs arranged in a communal circle around the fire. A large ornate fireguard stands in front of the fireplace, its polished brass work the skillmanship of a true master. On the guard on either side sits two heavily detailed bronze lions there bodies as life like as the real things down to the last