A small studio sits on the east side of the property, in a room that used to be a shed. Clay from a local pit, a kick wheel, and a wood kiln we fire a few times a year. Plates, bowls, cups — nothing editioned, nothing sold in a shop.
When a piece fails, it goes back into the slip. What reaches the table has a slight irregularity we like. Guests sometimes ask to watch. Mornings are best; afternoons the studio is closed so the house can stay quiet.
We are not a craft school. We are a hotel that would rather live with objects that remember the same dirt as the walls.