news blog...February 2, 2010
Stepping into a British Novel
I’m an avid reader. I love books; I devour them. There’s nothing better than wiling away a cold afternoon reading a good British murder mystery while cozied up in front of the fire. Even hot, lazy Sundays mid-summer seem to be best spent inside a good English novel filled with lush descriptions of the countryside, the weather, and of course, tea and scones. I find myself getting hungry for tea and scones as I read my latest novel. I’m transported thousands of miles away and to a century ago.
Just a few months ago, I was transported across time and space—at least so it seemed. I had a wonderful opportunity to visit England—home of all my favorite authors (which in part is what prompted me to get a degree in English—how could I resist all those books?). It was a short stint—only seven days—but they were some of the most magical days I have ever experienced.
We arrived in London, and after spotting so many sites commonly seen on BBC America, I was already loving my visit. I enjoyed the city much more than I expected to despite having a large population, this small town girl felt immediately comfortable (more details on that in my next blog).
After a few days in London, we were whisked off to the country and suddenly I was in my very own British novel…The moors, the countryside, the pastures, the sheep grazing, the cows napping—California cows have NOTHING on English cows; these were some happy cows—and the gardens. It was immediately apparent how Beatrix Potter could create such a magical world—the beauty of the country positively screamed with imagination. We visited the town of Beatrix Potter in the Lake District—it is every thing you would imagine it to be. The rolling hills, the tranquil blue lake, cottages, gardens, quaint villages, and divine tea shops. I could have stayed in that dream forever.
Instead, it was time to segway into a different dream. We ended our time in England in a town just outside of London. Again, it was exactly how I had always pictured the English suburbs and countryside. Our hotel exceeded my expectations and threw me into another novel—the perfectly manicured gardens, the croquet set on the West lawn, the pond that homed a family of ducks, the tea room lined wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor with books and expansive windows proffering views of the breathtaking foliage—it was all there.
I sank into my chair as I watched the rain clouds close in; soon the soft pitter patter of raindrops could be heard just as my tea and scones were brought to me. It was a perfect moment to finish another great English novel—only this time, I was the heroine.