Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Winter Getaway

Episode Date: January 2, 2023

Our story tonight is called Winter Getaway and it’s a story about an invitation that arrives on the back of a postcard. It’s also about glittering snow and a cabin tucked into a mountainside, a stack of new books, and deep deep rest.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Season 11 of Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. I've just written the bonus episode for January for our Premium Plus subscribers, and it is such a lovely one.

Right now, Premium Plus is on sale. You get the full catalog of almost 200 episodes completely ad-free, plus a bonus app every month. It works out to just over a dime a day. It is a really meaningful way to support what we do. Learn more at nothingmuchappens.com. Now, the best way to fall asleep is not to try to fall asleep.

The trying puts you in the wrong state of mind. So the best approach here is do less. Just listen to the story I have for you, and let your mind rest on the words and the sound of my voice. And before long, you'll be carried off to Bedfordshire. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to turn me right back on, or just think through whatever you can remember from the story. Sometimes just saying the name of the story in your head is enough to shift you back into sleep.

Now, lights out. It's time to snuggle yourself down into the most comfortable position you can find. Notice how the sheets feel, how good it is to be in bed and about to fall asleep. And hear me say this, you aren't in trouble. No one is waiting. No one is angry.

Nothing needs your attention right now. You aren't in trouble. You are safe. Take a slow breath in through your nose and out through your mouth. One more. Breathe in. Let it out. Good. Our story tonight is called Winter Getaway. And it's a story about an invitation that arrives on the back of a postcard. It's also about glittering snow and a cabin tucked into a mountainside, a stack of new books, and deep, deep rest. Winter Getaway With the holiday rush over, the bookshop was quiet.

And I didn't mind it. I'd been run off my feet in the best possible way in the last few weeks. Our book clubs had all gotten together to share a holiday party, and it was fun to watch the romance readers mix with the murder mystery crew. The history fans and the sci-fi enthusiasts had turned out to have a lot in common. And besides sharing their favorite titles for the year, they had all eaten their way through a table of appetizers and dipped ladlefuls of punch from the bowl till it was empty. That had been a fun evening.

Every Saturday in December, the children's nook had been packed for our Clauses with the Clauses story hour, which was the brainchild of a few of the reading teachers from the elementary school. They dressed up in their red suits and read books to the kids with just a few grammar lessons folded in. There was also my annual

Top 100 Books of the Year list to curate, and displays to put out. The bell over the door had rung so much that I'd started to hear it in my sleep. So when the bustle finally died down, I found myself in need of a bit of respite. I often closed the shop down completely for a week or so at the beginning of the year and would just hole up in my house with a stack of books. I never did get tired of reading. I'd spend each day eating progressively staler Christmas cookies and falling asleep on the couch with a book on my chest.

I'd thought to do the same thing this year, but had gotten an invitation from a friend of mine that had been too tempting to resist. My friend was a chef and spent half the year cooking at the inn on the lake in our own little village, and the other half traveling and working in different places every other month. I'd gotten a postcard from them with a pretty picture on the front of a night scene on a mountain,

a ski slope strung with lights, and in the distance a cozy-looking lodge whose lit windows suggested roaring fires and hot drinks. On the back, they'd just written Bring Your Books and Happy Hanukkah. I'd stuck the postcard to the front of the cash register at the bookshop. And especially on busy days, the idea of getting away for a bit

had gotten me through. So I'd sent a card back, and we'd made some plans. I'd never been before, but remembered from Chef's stories that they had a large hotel, a beautiful place with a spa, and a big restaurant that looked out over the slopes where Chef worked most days. But they also had chalets and cabins, and that sounded even better.

I booked myself a little cabin with a king-size bed, a fireplace, and a big clawfoot tub. It was just a few minutes' walk from the hotel and looked like just the place to recoup for the week. So I closed up the bookshop, hung a sign in the window advising all those having literary emergencies to please consult with the library, and drove off on a cold, sunny afternoon.

The drive had been nice, too. I took back roads most of the way, and as I got farther and farther north, the snow on farmhouse rooftops and across fields got thicker. Finally, the mountains came into view, and I followed the signs till I was pulling into the resort. I checked in at the hotel, and the clerk asked if I needed help getting my bags to the funicular. Oh, what now? I asked, a little confused. I was guided through the grand lobby, which was still decorated with pine trees and poinsettias, past the restaurant where Chef must be working, and out onto a pretty covered patio where I was mesmerized for a moment,

looking up at the snow-covered mountain, watching skiers expertly shushing their way down. My guide paused with me and pointed out a grove of trees halfway up the mountain. Half a dozen log cabins were nestled in among the pines, and I was delighted to hear that one of them was mine. It turned out a funicular is a sort of diagonal train that carries you in a comfortable little carriage up a mountain.

The view from inside was fantastic, and only got more amazing as it climbed. The sun was dropping steadily down the horizon, and its rosy orange light was reflected on the snow. When the funicular stopped, and my guide helped me out onto the platform with my roller bag, mostly full of books, and a duffel with my clothes. He handed me my key, and I trundled down a short path to my door. I eagerly fitted the key in the lock and pushed the door open. What a dream I was in. The little place was cozy and warm with a fire already going in the grate. I locked the door behind me and wheeled my bag toward the giant bed and let myself just flop down for a few moments.

Now, I've tried, and I've even watched YouTube videos to learn more, but I just can't make a bed as well as a housekeeper in a hotel does. And this one had crisp white sheets and was piled with fluffy blankets. Besides the bathroom, with its beautiful tub, the cabin was all one room with plenty of space for me to stretch out and relax. There was a small kitchenette tucked along one wall, and I got up to explore it. I found a coffee pot and a bag of fresh grounds for my mornings, the usual mini-bar with drinks and sweets, and under a glass dome on the counter, a dozen black and white cookies with a note from my friend.

Rest up. Eat. Read books. Come by the restaurant later, and I'll fix you something special. Hmm. That all sounded like the best medicine. I lifted the dome and took a cookie and stepped over to the window to look out while I nibbled at it. The hotel was lit up like a Christmas tree, and people were skiing and snowboarding under the clear, dark sky, with a sliver of moon rising over the mountain.

I took in a deep breath and let out a sigh. Winter getaway. With the holiday rush over, the bookshop was quiet, and I didn't mind it. I'd been run off my feet in the last few weeks. Our book clubs had all gotten together to share a holiday party, and it was fun to watch the romance readers mix with the murder mystery crew, the history fans, with the murder mystery crew.

The history fans and the sci-fi enthusiasts had turned out to have a lot in common. And besides sharing their favorite titles for the year, they had all eaten their way through a table of appetizers and dipped ladlefuls of punch from the bowl till it was empty. That had been a fun evening. Every Saturday in December, the children's nook had been packed for our clauses with the clauses story hour, which was the brainchild of a few of the reading teachers from the elementary school. They dressed up in their red suits and read books to the kids,

with just a few grammar lessons folded in. Then there was also my annual top 100 books of the year list to curate and displays to put out. The bell over the door had rung so much that I'd started to hear it in my sleep. So when the bustle finally died down,

I found myself in need of a bit of respite. I often closed the shop down completely for a week or so at the beginning of the year and would just hole up in my house with a stack of books. I never did get tired of reading. I'd spend each day eating progressively staler Christmas cookies and falling asleep on the couch with a book on my chest. I'd thought to do the same thing this year, but had gotten an invitation from a friend of mine that had

been too tempting to resist. My friend was a chef and spent half of the year cooking at the inn on the lake in our own little village, and the other half traveling and working in different places every other month. I'd gotten a postcard from them with a pretty picture on the front of a night scene on a mountain.

A ski slope strung with lights and in the distance a cozy-looking lodge whose lit windows suggested roaring fires and hot drinks. On the back, they'd just written, Bring your books and happy Hanukkah. I'd stuck the postcard to the front of the cash register at the bookshop.

And, especially on the busy days, the idea of getting away for a bit had gotten me through. So I'd sent a card back when we'd made some plans. I'd never been before, but remembered from Chef's stories that they had a large hotel, a beautiful place with a spa and a big restaurant that looked out over the slopes where Chef worked most days. But they also had chalets and cabins, and that sounded even better. I'd booked myself a little cabin with a king-size bed, a fireplace, and a big clawfoot tub.

It was just a few minutes' walk from the hotel and looked like just the place to recoup for the week. So I closed up the bookshop, hung a sign in the window advising all those having literary emergencies to please consult with the library, and drove off on a cold, sunny afternoon. And the drive had been nice, too. I took back roads most of the way. And as I got farther and farther north,

the snow on farmhouse rooftops and across fields got thicker. Finally, mountains came into view and I followed the signs till I was pulling into the resort I checked in at the hotel and the clerk asked if I needed help getting my bags to the funicular.

What now? I asked, a little confused. I was guided through the grand lobby, which was still decorated with pine trees and poinsettias, past the restaurant where Chef must be working, and out onto a pretty covered patio, where I was mesmerized for a moment, looking up at the snow-covered mountain, watching skiers expertly shushing their way down. My guide paused with me and pointed out a grove of trees halfway up the mountain. Half a dozen log cabins

were nestled in among the pines, and I was delighted to hear that one of them was mine. It turned out that a funicular is a sort of diagonal train that carries you in a comfortable little carriage up a mountain. The view from inside was fantastic, and only got more amazing as it climbed. The sun was dropping steadily down the horizon,

and its rosy orange light was reflected on the snow. When the funicular stopped and my guide helped me out onto the platform with my roller bag mostly full of books and a duffel with my clothes. He handed me my key and I trundled down a short path to my door. I eagerly fitted the key in the lock and pushed the door open. What a dream I was in. The little place was cozy and warm, with a fire already going in the grate. I locked the door behind me and wheeled my bag toward the giant bed.

I just let myself flop down for a few moments. Now, I've tried, and I've even watched YouTube videos to learn more, but I can't make a bed as well as a housekeeper in a hotel does. And this one had crisp white sheets and was piled with fluffy blankets. Besides the bathroom with its beautiful tub, the cabin was all one room with plenty of space for me to stretch out and relax. There was a small kitchenette along one wall, and I got up to explore it. I found a coffee pot and a bag of fresh grounds for my mornings, the usual mini-bar with drinks and sweets,

and under a glass dome on the counter, a dozen black-and-white cookies With a note from my friend. Rest up. Eat. Read books. Come by the restaurant later. And I'll fix you something special. Oh, that all sounded like the best medicine.

I lifted the dome and took a cookie and stepped over to the window to look out while I nibbled at it. The hotel was lit up like a Christmas tree, and people were skiing and snowboarding under the clear sky, with a sliver of moon rising over the mountains. I took a deep breath in and let it out with a sigh. Sweet dreams.