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Places that soothe the soul:
Libraries - Because books. Books that you can just pick up and read, sit and browse through, meander through shelves of, muse with and write about (not in, though, because really no-no). Libraries with quiet and hush, and the sound of turning pages, and light and seats stuck behind shelves where you can hide with an old comfort read. Coughs and sneezes, hundreds of people in their own little worlds over the course of a day, meandering and half-lost between the shelves. But mostly the books. Pages and paper and crumbling covers, or bright and new, proud on the shelves, fat and squidgy and 60 pages long. In alphabetical order, the world organised and categorised for sharing, in bite-sized pieces. Books.
Bookshops - The good ones. Not the bestsellers-only, money-in-hand-please ones. No. The second hands, the back-street sellers, even the ones with coffee and seats and the invitation to browse on little signs. The ones that care about the books. The ones where shelves are overflowing, with books stacked on tables and tucked on top of shelves. The ones where books line the stairs up dim second-floors, where odd shelves and carousels and simple stacks poke out of odd corners, where you need the stool from behind the counter to reach the ones piled on top of the bookcases, and every twitch runs the risk of a book-quake. The ones where classical music or old rock plays on crappy radios behind the counter, and the old man in charge has to be guided back out of his own book before you can pay. The ones with no order or rhyme, beyond general genres, and random treasures lurking, waiting to be found. Proper bookshops.
Churches - Not religion. The buildings themselves. Well, some. The big ones, mostly, or the really quiet country ones. Denomination doesn't matter. A church is a place for listening, for being listened to. In the quiet, in your own head, talking to whatever you happen to believe is out there. Places of stone and quiet and shafts of light through cool shadows, places with candles wavering in the recess, and saints' statues watching calmly all that pass. Places designed to make you look up, to look out, to look beyond. Churches full of listening silence, patient and gentle, and the murmur of the cleaners. Old stone and old faith, and the belief that you can talk and someone will listen. There's one, near me, you don't even have to go inside. St Mary's, like a hollow sphinx on the hill, calm and quiet and bedrock-solid, facing ever upwards, belfrey-eyes looking up at the sky. Not sure of her denomination. C of I, I think. Doesn't matter. She listens, and lets you sit in her shadow and watch the sky.
Graveyards - Not as morbid as it sounds. Have you ever felt the silence in a graveyard? Especially the old ones. They're not places of sorrow, not really. That's only when it's fresh. Graveyards are places of rest, of peace, of gentle drifting back into the earth. Places of old stone and fresh earth, of moss and chipped pottery, water and withered flowers and words worn shallow in the stone. Names and remembrance, and the quiet acknowledgement that one day everyone finds peace. Birds and grass and yew trees, and peeks at new life, and the silence presence of the restful dead. Graveyards are gentle places.
High Places - Trees and stairs and towers and belfreys and rock faces and roofs. Places to perch, to sit above it all, to watch the sky and feel the air. Places to be alone, where no-one thinks to look, places to watch the world spread out, beneath and around you. Places of air and dust and bird-feathers, moss and fresh, unworn stone. Places of metal and quiet, and the smell of must, where cleaners haven't felt the need to go for months. The top of the stairs in school, in the hotel, in workplace, the floor no-one actually goes to, really, sitting on the top step and looking down the well to the people moving at the bottom. Old stairs in old buildings, old college buildings or hospitals or hotels or houses, sitting with a hand on aged wooden bannisters, looking up at grimy skylights. Perches of solitude, of light and air and the comfort of distance.
Train/Bus Stations/Ferry Terminals - The big ones. The really big, really busy ones, with boards up announcing departures and arrivals, and multiple platforms/bays, and cafes and sweetshops, and cold, uncomfortable metal seats. Bad coffee at outrageous prices, and cheap sandwiches with more butter than filling. Places to sit back, and watch the people flow through in controlled orbits, timed flows and organised panic. To hear the murmur of too many voices to distinguish, at cross-purposes with each other, echoing in the vast space and buoying you up towards the ceiling. Squeaking of foot after foot after foot on floors worn smooth and polished, smell cheap toilets and humanity, safe and insulated by absolute anonymity. No-one knows or cares about you in those places, and no-one minds that you watch. Humanity ebbs and flows around you while you huddle against the cold around your bad coffee, murmuring senselessly to itself, beautiful and purposefully pointless.
Trees Over Water - Flowing water, really. Rivers or streams, overhung by trees or surrounded by woods. Places where the roots can be seen poking out of the bank, tangled and reaching down into the water. Because of the combination of sounds, birds and flowing water and rustling leaves and wind, and smells, earth and water and moss, and feelings, cool and rough and soft and wet. Quiet. At peace. Touching something younger and older and ever-changing.
Hotel Lobbies - Yes, weird, I grant you. But there is something ... The old victorian-style ones, the station hotels and grand houses, with classical architecture and open space, and upholstered red armchairs scattered in clumps around tables, with outliers tucked in odd nooks. Places of polished wood and carpet, and stairs and brass, professional and full of the kind of quiet you get when you can hear people being busy at just one slight remove. Places with glass lighting and neutral country scenes and the air of refined isolation, an instant retreat from the world outside. Places designed to present an instant sense of haven, of safety and comfort and rest, places with no purpose save to serve as temporary rest for the traveller and the wandering resident. Places never very full, to be wandered through unless you have need to sit, islands of peace in the hectic swirl of the hotel and the outside world. Really, a hotel may have the best room-service in the business, but unless it has a tasteful lobby, there's just no point.
Gardens - Not house-gardens, little things squished into the backs of houses, littered with the detritus of family life. Public gardens, planned and sweeping and beautiful. Cared for and planted and tended, islands of peace in a busy world. Lawns and ponds, streams and pathways, arches and roses and beds of heathers. Sheltering trees, old as houses and older still. Japanese gardens, with the air of delicacy and elegance and shimmering beauty. Old English gardens, with the air of refinement and nobility, and the power and wealth to build a place in which to tell the world to sod off. Gardens with secret nooks, benches tucked under the arches, beside the pond, beneath the oak. If ever I become a millionaire, while I'd like the house to be small and mostly full of light, the garden will be big and professionally cared for, I promise you.
And you?