Here be dragons

I'm underground, standing on a old stones pontoon. The only light comes from a arched window on the wall on my left, half covered with ivy and fitted with metal bars. There isn't any boat on the dark waters, but a narrow stones path run along the wall to another potoon with a old wooden door. It's pretty cold but I'm warmly dressed, and the place have a deep, heartly smell of soil, wet stones and thick foliage, with a sweet undertone of decay, like the floor of a forest.
I walk up to the door, careful not to fall in the water. I knock on the door and a middle aged blonde woman open it, asking me if I'm here to visit. I agree and she let me in. It's a old house, but well-loved; the wooden floor have the color and the shine of honey, and the walls are painted white. The ceiling are impossibly high, with long, swirling staircase going up to the upper level. There is very little furnitures, and the little that are scattered around are pretty broken down. I walk around, sometime crossing path with the owner. I reach a narrow, tall wooden door in a art déco style, and the owner agree to open it for me. It lead to a garden, big and untamed, yet I can spot littles details that tell me that it's a deliberate look, everything in it's exact place. I smile at the big almond tree, aware that in the spring its flowers smells amazing.

A very comtemplative dream, without a lot going on, but with beautiful sceneries.