And so, on Sunday, my very patient boyfriend drove me to Hampshire, lovingly signposted as "Jane Austen Country" to visit the house she lived in with mother and sister Cassandra until her death in 1817. The village of Chawton is home to Jane Austen's House and Museum, is a small, quiet, green village, and it isn't hard to imagine what is would have been like in Regency times (coach loads of American tourists aside).
Similarly to the Jane Austen Centre in Bath, the house itself is nothing remarkable, being a medium sized cottage filled with replica Regency furniture and squeaky floorboards, surrounded by an English country garden full of bluebells, herbs and flowers (and much to The Boy's horror - an abundance of bees). But despite it's ordinaryness, it is still quite inspirational.
To see the actual table where someone sat and wrote your favourite book of all time, that is loved by millions upon millions of people gave me warm and fuzzy feelings.
To be honest, it made me feel a little bit inadequate. Here was a woman, who essentially was a poor spinster, who's future was entirely reliant on more fortunate relations, who religiously wrote on a tiny table every morning, creating some of the most loved characters of all time.
I'm slightly ashamed to admit that I found myself slightly full of jealousy that I have not published one of the world's most loved novels by the age of 28 like she had, but to that I have no-one to blame but myself.
But I digress and will return to my account of Sundays' events. After a drive through some truly lovely countryside (it wasn't hard to pretend that I was traveling along in a horse & buggy with Mr Knightley rather than in an Audi with The Boy) we arrived in Winchester, for my final visit in my Austen pilgrimage.
Jane Austen removed to Winchester shortly before her death (we think of Addison's Disease or Lymphoma) to be closer to doctor's for treatment and it was here that she died. In Winchester Cathedral you can find her final resting place. Amusingly, there is a brass memorial to her next to her actual grave, and many tourists didn't realise they were standing on her grave whilst photographing the memorial.When the smell of incense had finally taken it's toll on me (it was a Sunday so an active service) we departed and my Jane Austen pilgrimage was complete.
Dear Miss Ginger, I've been reading your blog and I feel like that grumpy Londoner that walks passed the musician on the underground and who does not tip or even give a smile to because you thought, well you don't think about it cos your head is full of a thousand things..! So thanks to the internet (and kids at last in bed)I wanted to send you this post to say thank you for writing your blog because I think you are a talented writer, thank you for sharing your tales!
ReplyDeleteAs a 'tip' in return, I wanted to introduce you to 2 poets/writers that, like Jane Austen for you, have had a huge influence on my life, they are : Alice Walker 'Goodnight Willie Lee, Ill see you in the morning' ((this was the book that saved my VERY broken heart after the, at the time in 1998, man I worshiped, dropped me like I was a tissue.. we've all been there! this book helped me understand why, like Frodo get to use his light in his darkest hour, these stories help us all. And lastly, my personal deity of art of verse is Jim Morrison. If this is of interest to you, please do read their words. Thank you for yours, lets call me Ms N ;