Inn at Spanish Bay

The Inn greets the night like a toothy old crone dreaming bygone steaks. Pretentiously clinging to the rock face, the scattered lights belie prosperous days. The steeply stacked balconies have seen too many winters and their facades are cracked and peeling. Still yearning for the early seasons of glory, when where the road bottlenecks the Inn opened wide to enfold wave upon wave of happy holidaymakers, the signs near and along approaching highways beg trendy travellers to remember the event space and restaurant as added bonuses. But in the haze and mist of a sunset told only by the almanac, a veil slips and the Inn watches bereft as memories outweigh dreams.