The first time I ever went to Bath, I was ten years old. I had not yet read Pride & Prejudice, that came 2 years later. I had not yet seen Colin emerge from within the pond at Pemberley, his white shirt drenched to highlight the curve of his strong shoulders and each individual lock of curly wet chocolatey brown hair dripping over his dark and serious eyes as he wandered over the hill toward Elizabeth and into the hearts of every woman on earth and the birth rate across Britain skyrocketed and I was only 19 but I can still remember his wry smile and the video tape wore out because we rewound that bit so many times. But I digress…I first went to Bath as a little girl accompanied by Motherbear and the man who gave me the right to my little maroon book and a flag with no stars.
As we meandered along Landsdowne Crescent my father, obsessed with the musical film Oliver!, threw his arms out by his sides, started a series of pirouettes and a pitch perfect rendition of Who Will Buy. I’ve since learned that the famous scene, featuring little Oliver Twist at his bedroom window, was in fact filmed on a sound studio in London two hours from Bath. Motherbear, the more literary of my parents, was excited to be in Bath because it is Mecca for anyone who loves Jane, former literary megastar, now the face of the ten pound note. Motherbear is also a fan of Georgette Heyer, a very prolific author who made a living filling the void that remains for any adult women who has read Jane’s six novels and needs to feed her addiction.
I’ve since been back to Bath a couple of times. I’ve visited the Jane Austen Museum, I’ve peered into the windows of shops that sell bonnets and bayonets, and I’ve walked every street of Somerset’s capital desperately hoping to run into Colin. I’ve sat by the Pulteney Weir* surveying the Avon waiting for any human man with a wet white shirt to surface, but alas, screeching seagulls are the only errant bachelors to be found in modern day Bath.
My most recent visit was for a weekend with friends, a couple of days rest and respite in the countryside. A couple of days R&R that coincided with what the English call a heatwave and what Australians call ‘thirty degrees in a country with no air-conditioning’. It also coincided with Australia losing the first test of The Ashes. Not exactly the best weekend to be on that side of the Channel.
Unfortunately, most people who visit Britain rarely get to see much more than London. That may be down to the diamond-studded price of a train ticket anywhere past Clapham. Given the exorbitant price, I was surprised not to be assisted into the carriage by Darcy himself. Or possibly it is because the purchase of a full tank of petrol requires a meeting with your personal financier and a loan from The Queen. Either way, visitors to Britain should do their best to get as far away from London as possible; the grass is greener, the beer is cheaper and there is a noticeable absence of soot lingering 200 years after the demise of coal-burning chimneys, soot that lingers for the sole purpose of rendering the interior of your nostrils pitch black.
While the capital is an impressive metropolis where every available space is crammed with theatres, museums, restaurants, pubs and a giant Palace whose monolithic presence at the centre of London reminds one that the United Kingdom is a Kingdom first and United second, London proper is not my favourite part of Britain. I would happily trade in the sardine-can Tube for a leisurely stroll through the Parade Gardens and pass up on the cacophony of curry for a mature-cheddar and pickle sandwich. But even more importantly, my chances of being whisked away from my boring Bridget days by a man named Darcy increase exponentially as I approach Somerset. Well…a girl can dream.
I didn’t find my Darcy, but I did see find some Morris Dancers. They were the only people on Earth who, covered in black velvet, flowers and bells as they were, were hotter than me on that Saturday afternoon. They are also the only middle aged men on Earth who can dress up like Russian grandmothers, shake sticks at each other while slapping their thighs and not be whisked off to a sanatorium.
Bath, named as such for the magical powers of the magical waters below, has for centuries been the place where English people go to drink water that magically restores all of one’s ills. Gout, a cold, acne, lacklustre sexual performance, anything can be cured in Bath. Everyone from the Romans to the Georgians and Victorians has been making the journey west of London to restore themselves to magical-water induced health and vitality.
Perhaps I should have drunk more of the water and less cheap French Rosé. Returning to London on Sunday with 48 hours worth of sunburn and a first class hangover, I felt decidedly less vital than when I arrived.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a good fortune (a career, a dodgy foot, a big mouth and 38 rented square metres in Paris) must be in want of a husband.
Or at the very least… very expensive French Rosé.
*Random trivia moment, Pulteney Weir doubled for the Seine in the recent film version of Les Miserables. Russell threw himself into the Avon in Bath, not La Seine in Paris. I’d have happily settled for Russell in his wet white shirt, but only dads and geriatric tourists were available that day
Finally, another semi-related random trivia moment, semi-related because in Jane Austen’s time the women wore corsets and we all know that Georgian corsets were strengthened with the bones of a marine mammal. The French word for underwire is the same as the French word for whale. Baleine. Isn’t that cool!
Magnificent writing as always Marisa! You never disappoint! Now I just wanna GO there!!!.........book me in for a visit end of 2014! :-)
Posted by: Michelle Downey | 07/27/2013 at 11:39 PM