Francesca

OPENING NIGHT AT LAST. I'VE waited for this moment for so long. The Manor is teeming with guests for the first time and I'm feeling blessed. That's the word I've written in my journal, which I write in every day to root myself in the now (I'm really good at living in the now). I'll let you in on a little secret here: blessed is actually the word I write most days. I know it's become something of an Instagram cliché. But it's true for me and that's the important thing. Authenticity is key, isn't it?

I'm sitting in my meditation space in our apartment at the top of The Manor, looking out through the windows. It's still gloriously warm. Climate change is a terrible thing but one has to stay positive and you can't deny it's good for business. The sky's as clear as I've ever seen it, the stars so bright and close the night sky reminds me of the black opal that's set into a gold ring on my left hand. My crystals never fail me. They're so important, actually, that every one of our rooms here has a little selection of hand-picked stones in them, to help meet our guests' needs. It's touches like that, I know, that set The Manor apart from the rest. Black opal signifies purification for the body and soul, did you know that? "Not that you need it," my new husband, Owen, told me. Oh, and it provides you with a shield against negative energy.

I felt the need for that a couple of hours ago. That little scene at the welcome drinks—those trespassers stumbling across the beautiful woodland idyll we'd created. I'm not going to dwell. But really, you would think by now they would just accept that they lost, fair and square. It's the countryside, for goodness' sake—they've got plenty of space to ramble about in without having to trample over private land.

I run my fingertips over the black stone. Breathe in, breathe out. I look down at the lawns and the shimmering silver of the sea beyond, bathed in the light of the gibbous moon. My queendom.

Everything here is utterly perfect, save a couple of niggles. The first is Seaview Farm, just down the road. The farmer... I don't want to speak ill of anyone—it just isn't in my nature—but my goodness, he's such a wild-looking brute and the farm is an eyesore, too. And don't get me started on the smell! The animals look sad, like they're begging for a better life. They honestly do! It's the last thing one would expect to see before turning into our gates. The things I could do with it! Think super clean and beautiful: Soho Farmhouse meets Daylesford Organic. Our guests could wander across in the special wellies we provide, take tours and feed baby lambs from bottles and select their own eggs for breakfast. All just a dream right now—but I came across some interesting documents among my grandfather's papers suggesting there's a question over the man's ownership of a large chunk of that land. I've had a little chat with my lawyers, lodged something with the local council. So, watch this space! I've got a couple of new friends on the council now. Nothing's impossible: I learned that when I got the footpath rerouted.

You see, I've always found that everything works out for me in life, better than works out. Take this place: fully booked for six months from the day we opened reservations! We're starting as we mean to go on, with a magnificent celebration. When I realized our opening weekend fell over the solstice it felt fated. Here was our way to say we'd arrived, with something curated, experiential. An alfresco "midnight feast." It's not enough these days to offer all the creature comforts and top-quality food. Guests expect something more. A little magic. Something they can feel part of, something they can talk about when they return home, something, yes... to stir envy in friends and family, social media followers (though officially we do discourage use of phones here, to make sure our guests really connect and ground themselves). A little healthy envy, we can work with that!

And there's a lot of local pagan history that I want to tap into, old rural traditions of celebrating the seasons... but with a fresh, modern touch. Nothing macabre, you know? Some of the local legends are a little on the darker side. And nothing crusty. "Pagan chic," you could say. I have this vision of Saturday night's celebrations taking place outside under a clear, starlit sky. The forecast suggests I've manifested my desire. See? I always get what I want. It's going to be fabulous. I can feel it.

I close my eyes to truly experience the moon's energy on my face. It's so important to engage all your senses, to check in with your environment. But it's only now that I become aware of the thump thump thump of distant bass. A shout, some laughter. It's coming from the beach below the hotel, I know it. They're back. I didn't think they'd have the audacity to trespass once The Manor was actually open. That's my beach.

I pick up my phone and call Michelle. "Hello, lovely," I say, lightly. "It's happening again. Can you sort?"

"You've got it Francesca. No problem!" Michelle. So eager to be of service. I can hear she's practically vibrating with excitement at this opportunity to prove herself. She has been by my side every day for the last six months in the run-up to opening. As loyal and obedient as a trained spaniel.

"You're a star," I say. "You know that, don't you? Thank you."

Another thundering of bass, just as I hang up. And whoosh—a flame of pure rage leaps up inside me so fast it leaves me breathless.

No Francesca. Inhale. That's not who you are. You are so much bigger than this. Reach for the light. Find the still place. Exhale.