This place is holy, you know. Sunlight courting dandelions that poke through the scattered patches of encaustic tiles, once separate rooms with functions and secrets and smells; the warm wind tickling what is a veritable feast of honeysuckle in the old refectory. Not a window nor door in sight.
A large stoneware salt cellar for your grandchildren to fight over. It’ll fit a kilo of salt and stand proud in a kitchen that nobody leaves hungry.
Dishwasher safe, but it’ll probably feel nicer to treat it with the tenderness you’d show a newborn.
