I’ve just realised that two of the places that were on my must-see list
are on there either partly or entirely because of Jane Austen. She was the main
reason I went to Bath, and the sole reason I went to visit the teensy tiny
village of Chawton. There’s not actually anything else to see there, except the
cottage she spent a good part of her life in, and a tea shop across the road.
I originally had planned to spend the night in nearby Winchester, a
little medieval town and also where Jane Austen is buried, but, as has been my
uncharacteristic trend over this trip, I was a bit last minute with it all and
couldn’t find any affordable accommodation. But my rail pass, again, came in
handy, because I could use up just one day of it and do as many trips as I
wished during that time. I opted to do a day trip to Chawton and Winchester
from London.
So, one day in early August, I got up bright and early and caught the
train from London to the town of Alton, which is the nearest train station to
Chawton. I had debated taking a cab from there to Jane Austen’s cottage, which
only would have been about a ten-minute drive, but decided to just walk it
since the weather was cooperating. And so I walked through Alton and then began
to follow the signs on the road pointing to Jane Austen’s house. The thing is,
though, these signs are really for drivers, not pedestrians. It led me on a
somewhat treacherous route alongside a country highway, which I had to
cross--twice--and crossing a highway is hard enough but even harder when the cars
are all going the wrong way.
(Mom, Dad: I'm fine!)
I must have made quite the picture--walking along in my pink dress through knee-high weeds to stay clear of the cars speeding by on the highway
to my right. Then again, that probably happens all the time, there. Sure
enough, when I had finally left the highway behind and found myself on the much
quieter country road leading to Jane Austen’s cottage, a kindly taxi driver
coming the opposite way--probably after dropping off someone who was much
smarter than I and opted for a cab right away--informed me that on my way back
(he didn’t need to say from where--it was obvious where I was going) there was a
roundabout a ways ahead that would detour me around the busy road. Good to
know, but a little too late, as I wouldn’t be heading back the same way,
anyway.
Oh well. The things I do for Jane Austen.
It was worth it, though! Jane Austen’s cottage is a lovely brick house
in the very sleepy little village of Chawton. It’s not actually much of a
village--really it’s just a collection of a few houses and a pub. I don’t even
recall seeing a church there, although I suppose there probably was one
somewhere. Jane Austen lived in Chawton Cottage for eight years, after her unhappy five years in Bath following her
father’s death and then another year or two with one of her brothers in Southampton. Jane
Austen had seven siblings, and one
of her brothers, Edward, had been adopted by wealthy, childless relatives, who
left their fortune and large estate to him. Edward was the brother who finally
offered his widowed mother and spinster sisters to live rent-free in one of his
country cottages. Jane Austen was more than happy to leave city life behind and
return to the country, since she had grown up in a small country village and
was, apparently, happiest there. She wrote most of her major works at Chawton, and
revised Pride & Prejudice and Sense & Sensibility, which she had
written earlier. She lived out the rest of her life at Chawton,
with her mother, her dear sister Cassandra, and another unmarried woman, family
friend Martha Lloyd.
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| The fateful sign. |
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| After braving the highway, I was rewarded with this scene. |
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| Jane Austen's cottage! |
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| This is a pretty amazing game of Snakes & Ladders. |
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| Jane Austen's kitchen fireplace. |
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| Jane Austen's parlour. |
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| Jane Austen's writing table! Where the magic happened. |
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| Jane Austen's dining room. |
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| Not Jane Austen's typo. Tsk-tsk. |
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| Jane Austen's well! |
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| Jane Austen's garden! |
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| Jane Austen's donkey cart, guys!! |
After I explored the house to my satisfaction, I went across the road
to a tea shop whose clientele must surely be 99.9% made up of visitors to Jane
Austen’s house. The tea room was appropriately called Cassandra’s Cup, named
presumably after Austen’s sister and closest friend. I sat at a table by the
window, all flowers and lace, and watched people going in and out of the
cottage across the road. It was probably the most inspiring place I’ve ever had
a cup of tea.
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| Cassandra's Cup, and Jane Austen's cottage. |
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| View from my window. |
By this time it was only around noon, and I planned to go to Winchester
from Chawton. Google had told me that there was a bus I could take from
somewhere nearby, and I asked the cashier in the tea shop where it was. She
said there was a roundabout down the road (the one that I was supposed to have
found earlier, perhaps?) and on the third exit (whatever that meant) there
would be the bus stop, near a railroad bridge. I sounded perfectly sketchy to
me, but okay. I asked her if she happened to know how much the bus would cost,
so I could be sure to have the right amount of change. And that’s when she said
she suspected it was about £7, but maybe they have a cheaper rate if I’m under
sixteen. IF I’M UNDER SIXTEEN?! I was torn between being terribly offended and
also flattered. In the end I just scoffed in a self-deprecating way and said
that I am most certainly not younger than sixteen. I didn’t tell her that I was
in fact ten years older than she may
have suspected, because really, what would have been the point in that? She was
embarrassed anyway, and I was embarrassed and a bit insulted. I went into the
bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror for a bit and tried to see what she
saw that suggested I was that young. I think if I tried I could pass for nineteen
at the youngest. People usually think
I’m about twenty-one. But sixteen was a new record.
I found the bus stop after circling the roundabout once or twice before
finally spotting the aforementioned railway bridge. (Incidentally, here I had
to cross the highway yet again!) I had to wait about twenty minutes for the
bus, but fortunately it came and the driver saw me in my bright pink dress and
guess what, it was only £5!
Oh. I just realised that ever since that under-sixteen incident, I have
stopped trying to pass for a student when I pay to get into museums and the
like. It’s really quite easy for me to do it, and I still have my old UBC graduate
student card which I can present when asked for ID. It does have a date issued of
September 2009, of course, but my default explanation, if ever asked, is that I’m
doing my Ph.D. And goodness knows how long that can take. I’ve only been questioned once during this trip, at the Roman Baths. The woman stared at the date for a
while and flipped it over (where it says it expires in 2014--so technically
still valid, although not really, no. Grey zones. Loopholes.), and then asked
me if I’m still a student. I lied. She let me go, reluctantly, but what was she
going to do? Ask for a transcript? She was the exception, though. Most of the
time they ask me if I’m a student,
and I don’t need to volunteer anything. But now, after that tea room incident,
I find myself willingly paying an extra pound or two, just to subvert people’s
assumptions about my youthful appearance (if the difference were greater, I’d
probably continue to lie, let’s face it. I should add that I am not really such a rebel, but the thing is, I feel more like a student just not studying at the moment than a worker not working. Oh oh. Did I just give more false hope to my parents??).
Digression. Sorry. Here’s me looking crazy as I celebrate having found the bus stop in
the middle of Nowhere, Hampshire.
The bus dropped me off in Winchester, about half-an-hour’s drive away.
Winchester was once the capital city, way back in the day, so there’s actually
a fair bit to see there, including a replica of King Arthur’s Round Table,
which itself is seven hundred years old, and lots of cute little streets and
shops and, of course, another castle. Only this castle used to belong to the
bishop of Winchester, and it’s all in ruins now. But you can walk around the ruins
and it was pretty amazingly spectacular. I had never been to such a place.
Well, I suppose I've seen Roman ruins in Bath and years ago when I was in
Israel, but this castle somehow felt different. It was stunningly beautiful,
and the sun came out and everything.
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| Winchester. |
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| King Arthur's Round Table. Well, a 700 year-old replica. Of a table that may never have existed in the first place. But still. Exciting. |
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| Wolvesey Castle walls... |
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| ...part of which surround a school's playing field!! Jesus. |
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| Me in the castle ruins. Okay, prepare now for lots of shots of the ruins. |
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| The bishop may not have a castle anymore, but he does have a mansion. Right next door. |
The castle was really a bonus, though, because once again the main
reason I went to Winchester was Jane Austen. She died young, at the age of
forty-one. Various experts have tried to retrospectively diagnose her over the years, and according to them, poor Jane Austen died of tuberculosis, Hodgkin's lymphoma, Addison's disease or typhus, take your pick. At any rate, when she took a turn for the worse, her
sister Cassandra brought her from Chawton to Winchester to be closer to doctors
and medical help. Jane Austen died there, and was buried in Winchester Cathedral.
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| The house where Jane Austen died. |
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| See? |
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| Winchester Cathedral. |
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| Jane Austen's grave. |
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| The grave, plus the central golden plaque and the smaller white one, are all memorials to Jane Austen. She gets three, and I only saw two by Shakespeare's grave! What does that signify?? Well, nothing. It's just that the inscription on the grave itself never actually says anything about Jane Austen's writing, which everyone later agreed was kind of a ludicrous oversight. So the other two were added later on. |
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| The stone reads: "In memory of Jane Austen, youngest daughter of the late Rev. George Austen, formerly Rector of Steventon in this County. She departed this life on the 18th of July 1817, aged 41, after a long illness, supported with the patience and the hopes of a Christian. / The benevolence of her heart, the sweetness of her temper, and the extraordinary endowments of her mind obtained the regard of all who knew her and the warmest love of her intimate connections. / Their grief is in proportion to their affection; they know their loss to be irreparable but in their deepest affliction they are consoled by a firm though humble hope that her charity, devotion, faith and purity have rendered her soul acceptable in the sight of her Redeemer." Part of that reads like Jane Austen herself wrote it. She didn't, though, of course, because wouldn't that have been morbid. But two of her brothers did. |
All told, it was a jam-packed day and probably one of the best I’ve had
on this trip so far. Unexpectedly, the highlight of the day was the ruins of
Wolvesey Castle, although of course I enjoyed all the Jane Austen stuff
immensely. It’s just that at the castle, I walked around those ruins with my
mouth half open, gawking at it all. With Jane Austen, I had known ahead of time
pretty much what I would see and what to expect, but I hadn’t even seen a
picture of the castle before going. Sometimes, I guess being a bit spontaneous
and underprepared can be a good thing, I guess.
Another good thing? This:
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| At Cassandra's Cup! |
CREAM TEA COUNT: 9
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