Turning to the Romantics
John Keats' house is tucked in a back corner of Hampstead. We took the Tube there. I lost my group and followed the map through the narrow brick backroads, occasionally diving onto the curb to avoid a cab and brushing the ivy spilling over fences. The houses were not so cramped as they are in Kensington, and seemed much older. Keats' house was the same way, though he shared it with the family next door.
Although he only rented half of the house for less than two years, this was where he wrote Ode to a Mockingbird and found a muse in the form of Fanny Brawne. Going in, the guide showed us the furnished parlors and portraits on the walls. Keats lived in tiny quarters, but then, he was a tiny man; the bust on the other side of the house puts him accurately at five foot one. Nikki was enthused--he could still be her boyfriend, at least. We saw an orginal draft of Bright Star in the most beautiful handwriting imaginable, a photo of Fanny when she was fifty and still smoking hot, as well as her engagement ring. It was gold and purple and gorgeous, apparently worn by Fanny her entire life, despite marrying six years after Keats' death. Whether her husband ever knew of the amour, we can only guess. It took some time before Keats was famous, after all.
Ben commented later that the house really seemed to have Keats' spirit in it. The bedroom is calm and neat, overlooking the garden. We imagined Fanny outside playing with her siblings while Keats watched. Tragic story. Half of London succumbed to tuberculosis in those days, and despite Keats sailing to Rome for warmer weather, he too died. We sat out in the sunshine and read Bright Star to one another, imagining his real-life romance and wondering if he would have been famous had he lived to be ripe and old.
Heather on the Heath
Annie, Carolyn and I headed out toward the monstrous natural park outside Hampstead, where Keats did a lot of his writing. Both girls had brought journals, scriptures, and cameras, prepared to meander as much as possible before getting to Kenwood. The weather was truly glorious and still warm. We discussed where we wanted to live, what dream jobs we'd have, other famous authors and books and whether we'd write ourselves. The Heath was full of dogs and masters who seemed much more comfortable about their dogs being half-bred than in Kensington--the mutts chased tennis balls and dove in the ponds. We sat on Parliament Hill and surveyed the country in glorious sunshine, considering the meaning of life, which one is always inclined to do in such a contemplative spot.
It took a bit of time, passing Women Only Swimming ponds, a man in a Speedo who looked rather confused, several locals who wanted directions to "Hampstead, you know, the little village on the other side?" We arrived at Kenwood Estate about an hour before we were expected. The sweeping lawns and picturesque trees must require a fleet of mowers to be dispatched every other day. Carolyn read a bit of Ode to a Nightingale and we soaked in our revelry--until our stomachs declared they'd had enough. The cafe boasted crusty bread and mulligatawny soup, as well as cakes and pies in decadent variety; we sat out on umbrellaed tables and shooed bold pigeons away every so often.
Kenwood was large enough, to be sure. Lucky we caught the Tates, who were coming out--none of us knew why we were there or what we had to see, but apparently it was a collection of incredibly famous paintings. I saw the Laughing Girl, Rembrandt's self-portrait, Vermeer's Guitar Player and a series of Regency picturesques, as well as Belle's library from Beauty and the Beast...we weren't allowed to take pictures, but Annie grabbed me and said "Stand here" so she could. The baroque facades and classical portraits I found intensely dull after wandering the heath--I hurried through the rooms and found the Seelys outside, who helped me catch a bus back to Hampstead and glom onto a group headed to Camden Market.
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