"... led up to a small gate, painted green, that led into the wood, those to the left to another small gate, painted blue, leading into the garden of the inn. This garden, merging gradually into the orchard upon the landward side, had old-fashioned box-bordered flower-beds that were a tangled mass of scented red wallflowers growing round rose-bushes, gooseberry bushes, rosemary bushes and currant bushes, all incongruously but gloriously mixed together upon either side of the stone-paved path that led to the inn door. The inn itself was a fair-sized old house, with bulging, white-washed, buttressed walls and a steep, uneven roof of amber tiles patched with golden lichen. Windows looked out of the white walls and the wavy roof at the most unexpected levels. There did not seem a straight line anywhere, and yet the old place gave no impression of decay. On the contrary, it looked immensely strong - as strong as a fortress - glowing and safe, friendly and warm, and most deeply alive. The front door was of very old oak, and looked as though it had once been a ship's door. Over it a painted sign was fastened to the wall of the house. It was dim and weather-worn, and from where they sat in the car they could not see anything of it except a soft blur of blue and green. Yet they none of them seemed able to move. The beauty of this place had laid a spell upon them. It seemed too good to be true. They were afraid that if they moved it would all vanish."
Elizabeth Goudge, The Herb of Grace
