When I read The Secret Garden in third grade, I became an Anglophile. Though I didn’t know what that word meant until I was in high school (I learned the definition while obsessing over Colin Firth in that one adaptation of Pride and Prejudice), I knew what “Anglophile” felt like. The United Kingdom – its history, its culture, its literature, its topography – became a holy land in my consciousness. I even went so far as to envy the famously pitiful orphans of British literature because, hey, even if their lives were terrible, at least it was that distinctly British terribleness far superior to any other form of terribleness.
As I grew up, my anglophilia was largely a blessing. It led me to read the greatest novels ever written and pursue my M.A. in English Literature. It also led me to choose a career in teaching, where I could share my favorite works and inspire a love of literature in my students. Perhaps most importantly, it helped me notice my husband, Charlie, who proved himself worthy of my attention by reading and having profound thoughts about Middlemarch.
Of course, severe anglophilia has also been a curse at times. One of the most painful consequences was being forced to read Clarissa and Moll Flanders – the absolute worst books I’ve ever read – in grad school. The most mortifying element of my anglophilia, however, was admitting to people that, while I was obsessed with the United Kingdom, I had never actually been there.
Though the hours I wasted reading Clarissa is an ill that can never be rectified, the Thatcher Master Teacher Grant for personal travel I was awarded last May has remedied what remained the most wretched of my anglophilic afflictions. While I was in Europe this summer to visit my family, the grant enabled me to spend a fortnight in Albion, gallivanting around the various literary and historical haunts I’d been dreaming of since I was 9 years old.
As can be expected of a trip twenty years in the making, it is utterly impossible for me to describe all the profound moments I experienced while in Britain. My only option, therefore, is to transition to the tried-and-true listicle, complete with a very 18th Century British title. I’m sorry about its length; British literature isn’t well known for being concise, and I am nothing if not a student of British literature.
Without further ado, I give you:
The Adventures of Sarah Beaucham, English Teacher; or, 6 Important Things She Saw When Her Profound Anglophilia and the Generosity of her Employers Brought Her, At Long Last, to Jolly Old England. With Only Occasional Melodrama.
Item the First: Edinburgh Castle
Edinburgh is full of ancient magic. I got a bit choked up at my first view of it in all its glory, and of course the most eye-catching monument to its history is the Edinburgh Castle. Perched on a hill overlooking the city, it is a beacon of Scottishness. I spent several hours wandering around the castle imagining the intricate and often horrifying lives of Mary, Queen of Scots and her descendants.
I paused for a dramatically long time in the very small bedroom in which Mary gave birth to James VI and I, the heir of Elizabeth I and the first of the Stuart monarchs. I’ve never been a huge Mary, Queen of Scots fan myself – that whole Lord Darnley murder scandal and all – but it was still impressive.
Item the Second: The Elephant House
Old Edinburgh is also the home of modern magic. I was lucky enough to have breakfast in The Elephant House, the small café where J.K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. The table I sat at had a great view of the castle, and it’s not difficult to imagine where Rowling got some of her inspiration for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I’m looking forward to reliving that magical first installment of the Harry Potter series with my 6th graders this year, having now sat in the place where it all began.
Item the Third: Dove Cottage
After my stop in Edinburgh, I traveled to the Cumbrian Lake District. Words truly cannot describe how beautiful it is, and my heart stopped as I rounded the first peak and saw Derwentwater. The Lake District is epic in scale and profound in its effect on the imagination.
It’s no wonder that Wordsworth and Coleridge set up house there. Wordsworth’s first house in the district, Dove Cottage, has quite a nice museum dedicated to him and the other Romantic poets. On a tour through the original cottage, I was overwhelmed to be standing in the room where Wordsworth and Coleridge collaborated on Lyrical Ballads – the collection that kicked off my favorite period of British poetry. I wept quietly as I sat at the top of his garden and read “Lines Written Above Tintern Abbey” for the hundredth time. After all, what’s the point of loving poetry if you can’t cry over it in Wordsworth’s garden?
Item the Forth: Castlerigg Stone Circle
Speaking of Romantic poets and sheer awe, I had learned that near my Bed and Breakfast in Keswick was Castlerigg Stone Circle. I knew that Keats had visited it and been inspired to write “Hyperion” while he was there. He described it as a “dismal cirque / Of Druid stones, upon a forlorn moor.” As if that wasn’t enough to recommend it, I also learned that it was older than Stonehenge by a thousand years; it was raised around 3000 BC. Essentially, Castlerigg is the kind of place that makes even the staunchest naysayers believe magic might be real.
We set off on our hike to Castlerigg around 6:30 in the evening, hoping to get there as the sun was setting. I speculated that, if fairies or elves do exist (as I’ve always hoped they do), dusk would be the best time to spot them. We didn’t see any fairies, but we couldn’t have timed our hike more perfectly. After a spectacular sunset, dusk descended on the valley. We sat in the midst of the stones, surrounded by bleating sheep, and waited for night to descend. We watched with astonishment as a full moon rose over the mountains, directly above the “alter” stone at the far end of the circle. The palpable chill in the air and creeping fog made it all the more glorious; to know that people had stood there 5000 years ago and watched the moon rise over their newly built stone circle was among the most truly magical experiences of my life, fairies or no. Of course, I wept.
Item the Fifth: The Brontë Parsonage and Yorkshire
This is where things start getting a bit morbid, but I’m talking about the Brontës, so it’s totally appropriate. The Brontë Parsonage in Haworth is still intact, and inside it I was able to see the couch upon which Emily Brontë expired at the age of 30. The first emotion I felt was failure; she had written Wuthering Heights by the age of 30, and what have I ever done?! The next emotion I felt was relief; thank god consumption isn’t really a “thing” anymore. In addition to the “death couch,” I saw Charlotte’s bedroom and her terrifically small walking dress. She was as petite as her famous Jane Eyre.
After walking around the Parsonage and leafing through various Brontë personal items, I made my way to the Yorkshire moors, upon which I dramatically shouted “HEATHCLIFF!” into the wind. Charlie humored me by shouting “CATHY!” in response, and I decided I’d definitely married the right guy. I’m glad he’ll never have to dig up my grave in order to find solace after a decade of broken hearts and melodrama ends in my untimely death. After we paid homage to Cathy and Heathcliff, we walked through the cold rain and fog to Malham Cove, a perfectly desolate landscape featured in the seventh Harry Potter movie. Never before has bleakness brought such joy.
Item the Last: Highgate Cemetery
It seems appropriate to end this blog entry with the resting place of my long-dead literary soul mate, George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans). Highgate Cemetery is the home of many dead greats once considered “unfit” for the high offices of Westminster Abbey.
If I were a dead person, I would gladly be rejected by Westminster if it meant my mortal remains could rest in Highgate; it is by far the most amazing cemetery I’ve ever visited. Ivy, moss, and shadows cover the old graves and trees. It’s well known for the amusing epitaphs on many of the graves inside it, and elaborate headstones and mausoleums are scattered throughout.
As I wandered around the cemetery looking for George Eliot’s grave, I couldn’t help thinking of The Graveyard Book, which I was rereading along with my rising 7th graders. When I finished the book and read Neil Gaiman’s “Thanks” section, he mentioned Highgate as his inspiration for the graveyard Bod calls home in the novel. It’s always amazing to me when an author so accurately conjures a specific setting that it’s immediately recognizable and familiar.
As I continued my walk through the cemetery pondering literature and the nature of life and death, I finally found George Eliot, the primary reason for my Highgate excursion. In spite of the woman who kept calling Eliot a “he” as she talked to her companion (awkward), Eliot’s epitaph moved me beyond measure. It reads: “Of those immortal dead who live again, In minds made better by their presence. Here rests the body of GEORGE ELIOT.” My mind is one of those made better by the presence of George Eliot, and I’m eternally grateful for the impact her words, and the words of so many others, have had on my life.
My experience in Highgate Cemetery served as the culmination of a long series of reminders throughout my pilgrimage that words are a special kind of magic, and one that I’m beyond privileged to share with my students each day.
