To me it is a potting shed, somewhere that I might work in secret. A place where my pen can flow uninterrupted. It is a bolt hole from those individuals in society who call, just to be able to tell their friends that they had met me. Even that they are responsible for inspiring a well known character in my latest poem.
When in fact all they did was to dine at my table, stare at my wife, and criticise the weather. They just can not understand that I need to write. That writing pays the bills. Puts food on the table. That writing built the roof that sheltered them from the thick mists that form here.
Fortunately when I purchased the old farm, I started planting trees. Now my potting shed is hidden for their gaze. When I am here, they can no longer gawp at my old fashioned accent. No longer say to my face that my home is quaint. I know that I am fortunate that my poems are well received, that this county offers such a rich history for me to turn into poetry.
Nay lad stop gawping at the heather, ‘Tis time to work.