Past the bath, a narrow passage opens into a study. It’s quieter than a library and warmer than most homes. Shelves are carved directly into the stone, lined with weathered books and jars of sand from places he’s been.
The desk faces a small window cut low to the ground. From here, you can see grass waving above the cliff edge, light shimmering across the field outside.
“It’s grounding,” he says, tapping the limestone wall. “The weight above reminds me to stay patient.”
He writes here every morning—letters, sketches, fragments of dreams—all in a house that feels both prehistoric and impossibly modern.
