Really … I did have every intention of posting here while on my amazing trip to Bath and London in September. I confess: I had little opportunity. Why yes it was THAT much fun, but also I had dreadful connectivity issues while there.
On 9/11 I dared to board a flight for Heathrow from San Francisco. A direct flight, which I must say makes all the difference in the world. Though 10.5 hrs long, and while chasing the Moon, I couldn’t sleep. I read some, cat napped, ate fairly good meals, and indulged in one of my current favorite movies: Cap Am 2 – The Winter Soldier. I can stare at a long haired Sebastian Stan for hours, but that’s just me. I made certain not to leave drool on my neighbors (its my karma to be stuck in middle seats; I have come to terms with this.)
Though no one really needs an excuse to go to England, I actually had one: the Jane Austen Festival in Bath. Fourteen of us rented a restored Regency period house across from the Paragon and two blocks from the Assembly Rooms. For the next 9 days we dressed in fashions of the 1790’s – 1810’s, and frolicked without a care along Milson Street, the Bath Abby, and the Roman Baths. Tours were had to #1 Royal Crescent, the Fashion Museum, and a splendid night time Ghost Tour. We even went astray to Lyme Regis to walk the Cobb as Amanda Root and Ciaran Hinds in the 1995 movie Persuasion.
We had Tea, drank the waters (yikes!), attended concerts, held soirees, and danced at two balls. It all sounds like a description of an average week in Bath as experienced by the divine Miss Austen herself. Sadly, it was all too short a time. The photo below is me, at Jane Austen’s house in Chawton, looking over her writing desk (a necessary photograph for any author.)
I’m sorry to report that while I was there I did not write a word for the upcoming Volcano Lady novel. I was inspired and intrigued – and my research on England’s West Counties is greatly expanded, but alas, no novel writing. This should not be taken to mean I did not write. I did, penning (literally with a pen, seated at a 200 year old desk in the library) a start to a children’s book for adults called the Resident of Lower Catswold. More on that later.
(Next: Off to the British Museum)