Back to The Red House

Some people seem to have the most fantastic dreams virtually every time they visit The Land of Nod. Whether delightfully erotic or simply surreal, they wake with clear memories of their dreams with which to regale their audience.

I am not such a person. Oh, I will accept what the scientists tell us, that we all dream every night, but I don't remember them. I don't even wake with memories of dreams that I soon forget unless I write them down at once; I simply don't often recall dreaming.

You'd think that this would be especially so at the moment, given how tired I am, yet last night I actually had a dream that stuck around after I woke.

It wasn't a particularly exciting dream, or a particularly long one, but it was still a little ... disturbing. It went something like this ... {please imagine wavy lines}

I was driving along the winding lanes of the Welsh borders. On the left was broken moorland of scrub-grass and gnarled trees, populated mainly by clusters of sheep and the occasional granite-stone cottage. On the right, the hills reached upwards to scrape the low, grey sky.

I almost missed the turning on the right and had to brake sharply and reverse before making the turn. The narrow road started upwards and the hills spread apart to make room for it. Abruptly, rounding a bend, the hillside spread out before me revealing, near the crest, a substantial building of glass and stone and slate.

At that moment, the clouds parted and the rays of the setting sun shone through; the light, reflecting off the glass and the mica-laden stones gave the house a strong, red hue.

{more wavy lines, please}

And that's where the dream ended. Despite that, I can tell you with utter certainty that the building was a hotel, it was called (with great imagination) The Red House ... and it was mine.

You see, about six years ago I had this dream or a variant on it every night for a couple of weeks. It drove me nuts. I don't believe that dreams tell the future, but I do believe that they are messages from our own subconscious, reflecting our hopes and our desires, our fears and deepest concerns. At the same time, I am aware that dreams are rarely literal, but carry messages hidden behind symbolism.

So what did my dream mean? I never did manage to figure that out. My biggest fear, in one sense, was that this dream was literal, that my subconscious wanted me to find happiness in running a hotel. I've never wanted to do that, consciously at least. That's a hard job!

Deep in meditation I had a talk with myself and the dreams eased; they stopped entirely when I started to write a series of short stories set at and around the hotel. Perhaps, then, this is nothing more than a nudge, a suggestion that I should return to those stories with fresh eyes and a new energy?

If you have any other suggestions, please feel free to offer them. I just hope that no one tells me that they know where I can find that building: that would worry me!