A Different Light
I really am rather lucky.
After I struggled from the Underground with my heavy and awkwardly-shaped bags, I managed to stumble down a beautiful, rustically run-down street (which had many paths to cobbled alleyways and lanes) to reach my street (well, not 'street' really, everything is 'Grove' here, or 'Gardens' or 'Row' or 'Close'. None of this 'streets' and 'roads' crassness) around the corner. Though my shoulders ached and my neck was spasming at fairly regular intervals, I noticed - and appreciated - at first glance the strikingly electric blue door that stood before me. It was framed by delicate flowers that intertwined around the stairs at my feet (or rather at my suitcases, as I had immediately thrown them down unceremoniously in front of me on sight of the pretty white house with the blue door).
I ran up the stairs and knocked with the faced doorknocker. And by 'faced' I mean it kind of was a face, so really I grabbed its schnoz and rammed it against its face - which is really a lot more violent than it seemed at the time.
Upon entering the almost cottage-like terrace, I was taken downstairs to the cosy kitchen, living and dining area that had rather low ceilings. The house instantly reminded me of a more in order and less falling-to-pieces version of the Burrow - the Weasley's humble abode - partly because of how tall and narrow the house it and partly because this level in particular has a decidedly homey quality. Its all wood and iron with old cooking implements hanging from the ceiling and trinkets scattered everywhere that you can tell have been slowly and loyally collected over many years.
But as I drank my tea, I couldn't help but notice that something was different from the time I had visited in January '09. It wasn't until my eyes wandered to the back window that overlooked the garden in full bloom that I realised - the sky was bright blue (for the rain had now stopped). It was just so removed from the London I remembered (which was in its own way hauntingly beautiful but bare, grey and somewhat uninviting) and I was very excited at the prospect of seeing London in (quite literally) a very different light.
That night I perused the bookshelves in my bedroom. They were filled with classics through the ages - Austen, Dickens, Byron, Dell'oso... Wait, what? It was very nice to see my mother's book there in front of me, right between A. A. Milne's 'Winnie-The-Pooh' and Anne Bronte's 'Agnes Grey'. It was a nice little slice of home.
The next morning, I went out to the garden with my book, my tea and sourdough toast with raspberry jam. I sat on an old wooden garden bench which had wrought iron roses running along the back, surrounded by fragrant pink and white roses. At the back of the garden was a small circular pond which trickled sun-sparkled water from a modest fountain. A lonely bird feeder shaped like a little house stood to one side, as the loudly singing birds seemed too busy socialising to stop for some seeds. The gentle buzzing of bees and the soft drops of water that began to fall reminded me of the precious opening credits to Beatrix Potter. I hummed a few bars while I sipped my tea and I felt very peaceful indeed.
Two days later, my bags were packed to the brim once more as I struggled on the tube again (but just straight up the Northern Line luckily) to Hampstead to stay with some family friends. They are charming and very welcoming and accommodating couple, who urge me to 'come and go as I please' but occasionally call to invite me for a cup of tea, a glass of wine or a bit of supper - any of such circumstances are always accompanied by good conversation. They both have brilliant accents - almost RP - and I love the sound of it so much that I find myself subconsciously adopting bits and pieces of it when I reply. I only hope they don't think I'm mocking them because after all, imitation is the highest form of flattery.
So now I am staying in a charming, large white house that's split into 2. Julie and Peter live above, and a family with 3 adorable kids live below. This house is also surrounded by an idyllic, very large and very English garden - why just today I saw a squirrel burrowing into a hedge as I sat on a bench by a large oak tree. Once again, I have my own chambers in my own wing, with plenty of closet space for my ever-growing purchases and a piano. Sometimes I cannot resist plonking around a bit because it's so idyllic (must buy a thesaurus) even though I'm so terrible I give up after a few bars.
Speaking of bad piano playing, every now and then I can hear someone fumbling across some piano scales and arpeggios. Only slightly muffled, I can hear it so clearly it sounds like it's coming from the room next door - which only holds a rather wide staircase and several bookshelves. I haven't asked where the music is coming from, simply because I know there's some perfectly logical explanation. Instead, I prefer to imagine it is phantom music played by the ghost of some young Victorian girl who was caned to death by her governess for her dismal piano efforts and is now forced to play for the rest of eternity until she gets those god damn melodic minor scales! Mmm. Perhaps I have been reading too much Dickens? ... Or watching too many BBC miniseries.
Nonetheless, as I write this I am sitting tucked up on the window ledge, which although doesn't look on to anything particularly interesting, does have the perfect amount of sun trickling in from the thickly foliaged trees outside, warming the glass (and my shoulder and cheek that's resting against it) although it's almost 9:30pm and really ought to be dark. I like to think it's politely waiting for me to finish this entry before retiring for the evening.
I don't want to keep it waiting, and I have a sneaking feeling I've already rambled on for far too long so I'll move on from my accommodation.
I have also: reconnected with my dear friend Edwina, who I haven't seen since she left for her gap year adventure last year; I've been to the Royal Ballet at Covent Garden; gone shopping on Oxford St; bought vintage clothes and ate falafel salad at Brick Lane; taken a ballet class; circled 20 performances I want to see over the next 3 weeks; bought tickets to Les Eurockeennes; briefly caught up with an old friend from London; met up with travel buddy Molly; started babysitting the kids downstairs - namely the 2-year-old Hortense who speaks only French; dined in Chinatown with Molly and Edwina, then sat in Trafalgar Square and talked to Spanish school students, and took touristy photos, and hugged painted elephants, and sat on over sized lawn furniture at South Bank, and reminisced about old times, and excitedly planned times to come. But mostly I just relax and wander the streets. Breathe for a bit. Try to take everything in.
So that, you see, is why I am quite lucky indeed. Sometimes I think I don't deserve it, but then I remember perhaps this is retribution for all the soul-sucking telemarketing I was doing, which admittedly was self-afflicted. And, as I predicted, I do feel little pieces of my soul return each time I read another page of 'The Old Curiosity Shop', or peruse the Guardian's theatre listings, or just walk around Hampstead knowing that just minutes from where I am Keats found a certain Nightingale's song particularly enrapturing. Hmm, perhaps that all sounds rather affected, but what I mean is simply that I am happy. And this is only the beginning.
After I struggled from the Underground with my heavy and awkwardly-shaped bags, I managed to stumble down a beautiful, rustically run-down street (which had many paths to cobbled alleyways and lanes) to reach my street (well, not 'street' really, everything is 'Grove' here, or 'Gardens' or 'Row' or 'Close'. None of this 'streets' and 'roads' crassness) around the corner. Though my shoulders ached and my neck was spasming at fairly regular intervals, I noticed - and appreciated - at first glance the strikingly electric blue door that stood before me. It was framed by delicate flowers that intertwined around the stairs at my feet (or rather at my suitcases, as I had immediately thrown them down unceremoniously in front of me on sight of the pretty white house with the blue door).
I ran up the stairs and knocked with the faced doorknocker. And by 'faced' I mean it kind of was a face, so really I grabbed its schnoz and rammed it against its face - which is really a lot more violent than it seemed at the time.
Upon entering the almost cottage-like terrace, I was taken downstairs to the cosy kitchen, living and dining area that had rather low ceilings. The house instantly reminded me of a more in order and less falling-to-pieces version of the Burrow - the Weasley's humble abode - partly because of how tall and narrow the house it and partly because this level in particular has a decidedly homey quality. Its all wood and iron with old cooking implements hanging from the ceiling and trinkets scattered everywhere that you can tell have been slowly and loyally collected over many years.
But as I drank my tea, I couldn't help but notice that something was different from the time I had visited in January '09. It wasn't until my eyes wandered to the back window that overlooked the garden in full bloom that I realised - the sky was bright blue (for the rain had now stopped). It was just so removed from the London I remembered (which was in its own way hauntingly beautiful but bare, grey and somewhat uninviting) and I was very excited at the prospect of seeing London in (quite literally) a very different light.
That night I perused the bookshelves in my bedroom. They were filled with classics through the ages - Austen, Dickens, Byron, Dell'oso... Wait, what? It was very nice to see my mother's book there in front of me, right between A. A. Milne's 'Winnie-The-Pooh' and Anne Bronte's 'Agnes Grey'. It was a nice little slice of home.
The next morning, I went out to the garden with my book, my tea and sourdough toast with raspberry jam. I sat on an old wooden garden bench which had wrought iron roses running along the back, surrounded by fragrant pink and white roses. At the back of the garden was a small circular pond which trickled sun-sparkled water from a modest fountain. A lonely bird feeder shaped like a little house stood to one side, as the loudly singing birds seemed too busy socialising to stop for some seeds. The gentle buzzing of bees and the soft drops of water that began to fall reminded me of the precious opening credits to Beatrix Potter. I hummed a few bars while I sipped my tea and I felt very peaceful indeed.
Two days later, my bags were packed to the brim once more as I struggled on the tube again (but just straight up the Northern Line luckily) to Hampstead to stay with some family friends. They are charming and very welcoming and accommodating couple, who urge me to 'come and go as I please' but occasionally call to invite me for a cup of tea, a glass of wine or a bit of supper - any of such circumstances are always accompanied by good conversation. They both have brilliant accents - almost RP - and I love the sound of it so much that I find myself subconsciously adopting bits and pieces of it when I reply. I only hope they don't think I'm mocking them because after all, imitation is the highest form of flattery.
So now I am staying in a charming, large white house that's split into 2. Julie and Peter live above, and a family with 3 adorable kids live below. This house is also surrounded by an idyllic, very large and very English garden - why just today I saw a squirrel burrowing into a hedge as I sat on a bench by a large oak tree. Once again, I have my own chambers in my own wing, with plenty of closet space for my ever-growing purchases and a piano. Sometimes I cannot resist plonking around a bit because it's so idyllic (must buy a thesaurus) even though I'm so terrible I give up after a few bars.
Speaking of bad piano playing, every now and then I can hear someone fumbling across some piano scales and arpeggios. Only slightly muffled, I can hear it so clearly it sounds like it's coming from the room next door - which only holds a rather wide staircase and several bookshelves. I haven't asked where the music is coming from, simply because I know there's some perfectly logical explanation. Instead, I prefer to imagine it is phantom music played by the ghost of some young Victorian girl who was caned to death by her governess for her dismal piano efforts and is now forced to play for the rest of eternity until she gets those god damn melodic minor scales! Mmm. Perhaps I have been reading too much Dickens? ... Or watching too many BBC miniseries.
Nonetheless, as I write this I am sitting tucked up on the window ledge, which although doesn't look on to anything particularly interesting, does have the perfect amount of sun trickling in from the thickly foliaged trees outside, warming the glass (and my shoulder and cheek that's resting against it) although it's almost 9:30pm and really ought to be dark. I like to think it's politely waiting for me to finish this entry before retiring for the evening.
I don't want to keep it waiting, and I have a sneaking feeling I've already rambled on for far too long so I'll move on from my accommodation.
I have also: reconnected with my dear friend Edwina, who I haven't seen since she left for her gap year adventure last year; I've been to the Royal Ballet at Covent Garden; gone shopping on Oxford St; bought vintage clothes and ate falafel salad at Brick Lane; taken a ballet class; circled 20 performances I want to see over the next 3 weeks; bought tickets to Les Eurockeennes; briefly caught up with an old friend from London; met up with travel buddy Molly; started babysitting the kids downstairs - namely the 2-year-old Hortense who speaks only French; dined in Chinatown with Molly and Edwina, then sat in Trafalgar Square and talked to Spanish school students, and took touristy photos, and hugged painted elephants, and sat on over sized lawn furniture at South Bank, and reminisced about old times, and excitedly planned times to come. But mostly I just relax and wander the streets. Breathe for a bit. Try to take everything in.
So that, you see, is why I am quite lucky indeed. Sometimes I think I don't deserve it, but then I remember perhaps this is retribution for all the soul-sucking telemarketing I was doing, which admittedly was self-afflicted. And, as I predicted, I do feel little pieces of my soul return each time I read another page of 'The Old Curiosity Shop', or peruse the Guardian's theatre listings, or just walk around Hampstead knowing that just minutes from where I am Keats found a certain Nightingale's song particularly enrapturing. Hmm, perhaps that all sounds rather affected, but what I mean is simply that I am happy. And this is only the beginning.
posted by Tamara at
6:38 PM
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