When we took over the building on Calder Street, the ground floor was still covered in the grey concrete the printers poured in 1931. It was cracked in a dozen places and stained black where the presses had leaked for sixty years.

Every contractor told us to grind it down. We sealed it instead. The stains are a map of where the machines stood, and guests walk across that map every morning on the way to breakfast.

What the floor remembers

The darkest patch, near the front desk, is where the big cylinder press ran. The four bolt holes beside the stairs held the guillotine. We marked both with small brass plates so you can find them.

It is not a perfect floor. It is the right one.