Journal Entry for Runnymede Library (1930)

I’m journalling live from the south room of Runnymede’s upper story, which doubles as a study area and art gallery. For me, this attic has the ideal combination of austerity and artistic style, placing it on a par with Gerrard/Ashdale and Main Street‘s dramatic attics.

A simple hearth lies a few yards in front of me under a sloping eave. Above the carved wooden mantle is a quilted runner that celebrates Runnymede’s postage stamp stardom in 1989.

An image of the grey stone building anchors the centre of the runner, and the inner panels are framed by the famous totem poles that flank the library’s actual entrance.

I’d like to see the room on the north side of the attic, but the door is closed and I can hear the murmur of a meeting in progress. I decide to return later and explore the rest of the library in the meantime.

As I descend to the main level from the gallery, I enjoy how the wall separating the flights of stairs contains square windows with amber glass; they give people the opportunity to make funny faces at each other as they come and go between floors.

Now I’m perched on a low wooden bench on the north side of the main floor. The bench fronts a very tall window with dignified dark-brown frames that harmonize with Runnymede’s classy furnishings. These include built-in bookshelves that would look right at home in Mr. Rochester’s study (or any other brooding aristocrat’s den). And the imaginary study need not be limited to Rochester’s England, for books at Runnymede are available in Ukrainian, German, Polish, French, and Russian.

Following the row of shelves until the foreign-language books transition into large art volumes, I’ve now reached the south wall. Mostly glass, it offers a view of a square piece of lawn and a collection of respectable houses.

One section of the south wall has been covered by a floor-to-ceiling sheet of copper with nine square windows cut from it. Near the base of the copper structure is a long sturdy window seat, perfect for leaning against the copper while looking out a window. (Fingerprints on the glass testify to moments of inattention and the desire to be outdoors).

The staff’s private room is near the Children’s area, and four portholes in the office’s Kermit green wall indicate submarine playfulness or possibly mild surveillance.

No librarians are peering through the round windows in a disapproving manner, although some of them might object to a young couple who appear fused together in a studious love-heap. The affectionate pair are huddled on a bench that backs up against the Teen Section’s wide computer table. (In this context, the high portholes in the library remind me of a 19th-century parlour that I once read about. It had a tiny window above the door for parents standing on chairs in the adjacent room to better monitor courting couples).

Shaking off outdated notions of repressed librarians, I return to the upstairs gallery to see if the meeting room across the hall is empty. I find it unoccupied and enjoy a few minutes sitting by the windows. Under the eaves, a piano and puppet theatre wait for the next entertaining yet educational event, and three lovely dormer windows show bare tree branches and a dark blue sky. I feel peaceful here.