The Vicky Metcalf Award!

Well, THIS is the most wonderful thing that has happened to me in many a year!

I have been honoured with one of Canada's most prestigious literary awards — the Vicky Metcalf Award for Literature for Young People! Here's the formal description from the Writers' Trust of Canada:

"The Vicky Metcalf Award for Literature for Young People is given annually to the author of an exceptional body of work in children's literature, and the winner is selected by a three-member judging panel."

My deepest thanks to the Writers' Trust, to the Vicky Metcalf Foundation, and to the jury of my peers (Hadley Dyer, Marthe Jocelyn and Mahtab Narsimhan) who said the following:

"Warm, humorous and fun are the best words to describe the works of Linda Bailey over a career that has spanned three decades. Bailey's highly imaginative, propulsive plots frequently send characters — two, four, and six-legged — on journeys across uncharted territory or time, driven by burning questions or a yearning to escape the ordinary." 

This award comes with a $25,000 prize and carries with it a long history of the greatest names in Canadian children's literature. The previous winners are my heroes! I am honoured beyond words to join them.   

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Explanation of Next 16 Posts — a Literary Pilgrimage to England!

 

Lest anyone get confused, I need to explain the following 16 posts . . .

In September 2019, my friend Ellen McGinn and I (both writers, both passionate readers from childhood of beloved British books) decided to travel to England together and, as best we could, to "walk in the footsteps" of our favourite long-gone British authors. Here was our plan — to visit their homes, to walk (literally) on their daily paths, to toast them in their pubs and tea-houses . . . and finally to linger for a moment at their graves. 

And somehow, in spite of being (both of us) somewhat directionally and logistically challenged — we DID it! For almost a month, we traveled by train through England, stopping at each booky destination to pay our respects and be gloriously dazzled by the lives and worlds of cherished writers. The verdict? Loved every minute!

As for blogging, well, I managed to blog most of the trip at the time. But when I came home, Real Life was waiting. So I didn't get around to finishing the "pilgrimage blog" for months! But here it is at last. If you're interested, it might make most sense to read it chronologically by starting with the post of September 3, 2019 ("Ellen & Linda Go on a Pilgrimage") and then working forward through time.

Or, if you prefer to skip the trip-blog, please scroll down past September 3, 2019 to get to previous posts.

 

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The Wuthering Moors

The word "wuthering" in Wuthering Heights is a Yorkshire term for "blustery" or "windy." On the day that Ellen and I left the Brontes' village and went walking on the moors (Cathy! Heathcliff!), it wasn't particularly wuthering, but it wasn't a big leap to imagine it.

 After our walk, we visited Haworth's strange and evocative graveyard — located right next door to the parsonage. The Brontes aren't buried here, but apparently everyone else was. It's so crowded! The tombstones fall against one another in some places. And if you check the names on the stones, you will see that a single grave can house six, seven or more people — stacked beneath the tombstone like the layers of a cake.

 

 

The tragedy of this situation was that the villagers didn't understand basic sanitation. Seepage from the overcrowded graveyard (on a hill) poisoned the local water supply, and by the early 19th century, the average life expectancy in Haworth was just 28 years. Fully 41.6% of the children died before reaching six.

 

That graveyard haunts me still — and it was right beside the Bronte sisters' home. Is it any wonder they wrote dark stories?

The Haworth graveyard ended up being the last stop on our pilgrimage . . . and somehow that seemed fitting. We headed back to London and two days later were on a plane home. 

How did we feel? We must have had some problems, right? Some disappointments, some inconveniences? Nope! None. Every time we talked about it, we both felt the same way — enchanted, moved and utterly satisfied. This trip had far exceeded our expectations. And yet . . . and yet . . . there were places and writers we had missed, through sheer lack of time.

Another year, perhaps?

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The Bronte Sisters, Who Walked and Wrote

 

Ellen and I took a train north to Yorkshire — and the tiny town of Haworth, where the Bronte sisters lived,  walked, wrote novels for the ages, and then died far too young. I have loved their books for many years, Jane Eyre my special favourite.

The parsonage where the Brontes lived is a much-loved museum now. There were six siblings, but the sisters we know (and read) were Charlotte, Emily and Anne. Here is the room where they did most of their writing — Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey were all written in this small room. In the evenings, the sisters walked around and around the table for hours, talking about their work. After Emily and Anne died, Charlotte, the last to survive, continued to walk alone. (Maybe, when the lights go out, they walk here still? I love that thought.)

Anne, Emily and Charlotte, left to right, below:

Charlotte's writing desk, like so many of the time, was portable — a kind of moveable "drawer" topped by a writing surface. Functionally, it's not so different from a laptop. Amazing.

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Alice & the Dodo

 

The Oxford University Museum of Natural History is an astonishing mix of weird and wonderful things. I suppose it was slightly off-track for a literary pilgrimage . . . but not really, because we immediately came across Charles Dodgson (aka Lewis Carroll) among the exhibits. His dodo character in Alice in Wonderland was apparently inspired by Carroll's long-ago visits to this museum. 

 

Just down the street is a sweets shop where the real Alice shopped for her sugar hits. We quickly followed suit.

 

The candy was dandy. But as American poet Ogden Nash once observed, "liquor is quicker." So when we spotted the Eagle & Child Pub, we stopped in our tracks. 

Here is where the famous Inklings met for their evenings of literary-discussion-and-carousing — the most famous of them being C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. Amongst themselves, they shortened the pub's name to "the Bird and Baby" or just "the Bird." 

Ellen and I were happy to follow their example, quickly ushering ourselves into the Bird for some literary-discussion-and-carousing of our own.

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Mary, Who Wrote Frankenstein — Original Manuscript

 

Well, this was definitely the highlight of this trip to me. In fact, I'd call it a peak moment in my life!

Before leaving home, Ellen and I both researched our favourite writers so we'd know where to find them on our literary pilgrimage. One of my searches was for Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. I felt that I already knew her fairly well, having spent years working on a picture-book biography about her life and her writing of Frankenstein. Like many people, I was amazed by Mary's story. Writing a book about her was a joy.

So imagine my delight when I discovered that the original Frankenstein manuscript was in Oxford — which was on our route! It was physically THERE in the Bodleian Library! Mary's masterpiece, in her own words, handwritten in notebooks that are now 200 years old.

I wrote to the Bodleian and begged for a peek. Although the manuscript is not on display, it is sometimes available to scholars. My biographer credentials got me permission for what I expected to be a quick glance. Instead, I was warmly welcomed and got to spend the better part of an hour reading and studying the original words, complete with cross-outs, write-overs and editorial notes from Mary's partner, Percy Bysshe Shelley.

By the end,  I was literally shaky with excitement . . .

That hour alone was worth this trip. 

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Oxford, Just as Imagined . . .

Did we really have only three days in Oxford? Not long enough!

We were lucky to show up just before the fall term (Michaelmas) began, which meant that college dorms were still available for "summer" visitors like us. Ellen booked us into a sweet little room at Keble College. This was our view in the evenings . . .

And in the morning, when we crossed the quad to eat breakfast in the glorious dining hall, it was easy to pretend, just briefly, that we belonged. A borrowed moment from lives we had lived only in books.

 

 

 

And speaking of books, the Bodleian Library is extraordinary, inside and out.

 

 

 

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