Arriving at least 10 minutes early at the door of Heywood Hill to be punctual (and maybe a personal browse through literary treasures) I was greeted by a sense of nostalgia, despite having no preconceived claim to it.
The bookshop is quaint, just big enough to pace from wall to wall several times in under a minute and has a lived-in kind of feeling that makes you want to kick your feet up and stay for an hour or five. From the second I settle in, it becomes clear that the space has taken on the character of its inhabitants through the years. And its inhabitants of course are books – some of the finest in the world.