I liked my b&b room, just across from the university in Galway, on the side furthest from the centre of town. There was a desk, mahogany, with cubbyholes of various lengths and tiny drawers you can lock, and a huge gilt mirror hung right above it. A tiny glass table set with a glass carafe of water and two glasses resting on a marble platter. A white wardrobe with absolutely nothing in it. The centerpiece was a four-poster bed, which dominated the room, vast and so high I need a stepladder to climb into it; a bed ideal for an orgy, or a bed in which high-born medieval virgins are deflowered surrounded by illustrious onlookers. It's quintessential Galway, simultaneously modern and antique, with its odd mix of plain, unstained battens at the head and dark acanthus-ornamented spears at the rear.

There was so much light in the room, I had to close the blinds. Sitting atop the lofty bed (no pea here!) in my underwear, I'd smugly survey my small, elegantly appointed realm, my life distilled down to a ratty, much used diary, two tiny, also ratty notebooks, a couple of novels, a few dresses. If there had been an electric kettle for instant coffee, it would have been perfect. (There was, however, a cafe downstairs.)

I liked my time in this room, during the hottest hours of the day, away from the heat and the crowds. I finally had space and time, to read and write at will, send texts to girlfriends, make plans according to my desire, or just drift, beholden to no one, no longer cramped inside but in a state of joyful anticipation.

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