There’s a moment I get before I write — usually when I’m staring at the blank page — when I remind myself of something simple: I never meant to share Rowendrey at all.

The interior of Linnea's Arboretum in Rowendrey

The village keeps its time by bells, not by clocks. From the Council House tower, twelve notes mark the day—simple, clear, and certain enough that even the lake seems to take its cues from them.

Opening 

Seeing passages appear on the page brings burning questions that demand answers. How, why, when, who, where?My English teachers always harped on the five W’s, but I was one of those obstinate students who could spell — and I knew that how began with an H.My obstinacy aside, I now see the wisdom of those questions. All four W’s — and that all-important H — have become impossible to ignore.

I cannot say when Rowendrey began. I only know it came on like a torrent — a rush of images and ideas that seemed to build themselves faster than I could write them down. Wonderful imaginings kept feeding the joy of creation until I was thoroughly enamored with my own world.

Before there were parchments and seals, there was a mountain made of concrete and glass.I imagined an adventure park — a place where people could walk a story, not read it, but feel it underfoot.