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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Where Wind in the Willows Began

Ellen and I love the little seacoast town of Fowey, Cornwall. We came here for Daphne du Maurier but soon discovered another wonderful writer who is also locally celebrated — Kenneth Grahame.

Kenneth was a regular, frequent visitor who loved to "mess about in boats." It was from Fowey that he wrote letters home to his young son, Alison, with tales about a mole and a badger and a water rat and a toad and . . . well, you know.

It's not hard to see why a writer-inside-the-suit-of-a-Secretary-of-the-Bank-of-England would want to escape to a place like this.

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Cornwall is Daphne Du Maurier Country

When I was a young adult, there were no Young Adult books. But dear to my teenaged heart were the moody, suspenseful novels of Daphne du Maurier. Rebecca, Frenchman's Creek, Jamaica Inn.

They were set on the craggy, windswept coast of Cornwall and were thick with atmosphere. Ellen and I happily spent a few charmed days in the tiny town of Fowey, where Daphne lived and wrote.

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Dropping in on Agatha

Ellen and I grew up on Poirot and Miss Marple, and my first published novels were mysteries, so we decided to drop in on Agatha Christie at her Devon home. A lovely old house called Greenway. Broody skies seemed appropriate for a weekend gathering of suspicious guests . . .

Lots of Christie memorabilia inside. I enjoyed this portrait of young Agatha, looking sulky. Or maybe just feeling exhausted at the thought of the 66 novels and 13 volumes of short stories she had to write?

I liked her toilet too. Agatha’s ebony loo! Her second husband was an archeologist whom she accompanied on digs in Egypt. Apparently this was the one item she absolutely HAD to take along.

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Where Jane Lived

It’s sunny and serene here in Jane Austen country (Chawton, Hampshire), but of course there are plenty of undercurrents. Here’s the “cottage” where Jane lived with her mother, sister and a friend for the last years of her life, rent-free courtesy of her brother Edward. She wrote most of the great novels here.

And here is where Edward lived. Called “lucky Edward,” he was adopted by rich relations and inherited not only this grand estate at Chawton but also two others. Servants, tenants, income, etc. 

Jane was grateful for the use of the library in the big house. And she was happy to live in the smaller house where she shared a bedroom with sister Cassandra. Here’s the tiny desk where she wrote those novels. 

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Upstairs & Down in Dickens’ House

This trip just gets better and better. Today we wandered all over three-floors-plus-cellar of the house where Charles Dickens and his family lived for many years — a treasury of Dickens’s manuscripts, letters, furniture, possessions, portraits and books.

Here’s his much-used desk, which seems to be still waiting for another fat novel.  Made my heart skip a beat!

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Hanging Out with Sherlock

I’m not sure what I expected at 221B Baker Street, London. I think that, like so many people, I was confusing Sherlock Holmes with his creator. Some part of my brain thought we’d be visiting the home of Arthur Conan Doyle.

Ahem! Not so. The address where Ellen and I fetched up, was — of course — the fictional home of a fictional detective. And in fact, when Conan Doyle gave Holmes that particular address, it didn't even exist! (It has since been fudged by city planners.) But what the heck, we were already there, right? Might as well take a peek. Inside, we found a motley collection of Victoriana, along with some spookily arranged wax figures. 

They did, however, offer some fun photo ops . . .

What stood out for us at 221B Baker Street were the line-ups — tourists chatting in various languages, having come, apparently, from around the globe. Sherlock lives! And he is very much loved, even after so many years, and in spite of his author's attempt to kill him off! (But that's another story.)

An Unexpected Thrill at the Globe!

Today the gods of theatre were on our side.

We took a tour of Shakespeare’s Globe to see what a recreated 16th century theatre looks like. Fascinating! I wish I had more photos, but cameras were allowed only outside:

The surprise came when our guide led us into the theatre with instructions to be quiet  — a rehearsal was in progress. We slipped into seats and watched an actor with large fake ears talk to a puppet. Something familiar about that actor . . . and about the dialogue too. As we watched, the lights blinked on in my brain. The actor was Mark Rylance, so brilliant as the Cold War spy in “Bridge of Spies” (Oscar for Best Supporting Actor, 2016). And the dialogue? It was Roald Dahl’s book, the “The BFG.”

We watched for ten minutes as one master of his craft interpreted another. Serendipity!

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Where Virginia Walked

In London, we’re staying at the Tavistock Hotel on Tavistock Square, where Virginia Woolf once lived and worked. The square is lovely and has a small tribute to Virginia.

It includes a quote in which she says that she imagined TO THE LIGHTHOUSE while walking around this small square. 

Here’s where she walked. 

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Treasure in the British Library

Today a visit to the British Library, home to the most ASTONISHING collection of famous original writing you can imagine. The Magna Carta. Shakespeare’s Folios. The Beatles’ lyrics scribbled in orange crayon. The Gutenberg Bible. Alice in Wonderland with Lewis Carroll's sketches. The teensy handwriting of the Brontes’ childhood stories. Priceless artifacts you can gaze at for FREE! (It’s a library.)

Ellen and I staggered out afterwards, blinking like owls. No photos allowed, of course. Except for this brilliant bench in the lobby!

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Visiting the Marys — Wollstonecraft & Shelley

Today Ellen and I visited the tombstone of Mary Wollstonecraft, mother of Mary Shelley who wrote Frankenstein. Wollstonecraft died when her daughter was only 11 days old, and the grave is famously the place where young Mary came to “be with Mama." Her father, she said, taught her to read by tracing the letters on this stone. It’s in the graveyard of Old St. Pancras Church in London.

I thought about this tombstone so often in creating my own book, Mary Who Wrote Frankenstein. How amazing to be here! The letters, carved in 1797, are very worn now . . . but still visible.

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Ellen and Linda Go on a Pilgrimage

Last stages of planning as my pal Ellen and I get ready for our Great Literary Pilgrimage!

For years I have waved goodbye to friends who were doing the regular sort of pilgrimages, e.g. walking the Camino. I sometimes considered tagging along. But then I realized . . . . I don't like walking that much. What I like is reading, and it turns out that the pilgrimage I need is a journey to the homes, graves, haunts and hang-outs of writers I have loved. If I'm going to walk, I will walk in their footsteps. Ellen, also a writer, feels the same.

So next week we fly to London, where we begin our search. Austen, the Brontes, the Shelleys, Shakespeare, Carroll, Conan Doyle . . . just for starters.  More anon!


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