If any good has come from the quarÂanÂtine of 2020, it’s made me a heavy library user — my perÂsonÂal library, that is, since the pubÂlic libraries are closed. I found this book in a dressÂer drawÂer. (When I redid my office, I didn’t want the clutÂter of bookÂcasÂes, instead optÂing for vinÂtage dressers and armoires — loveÂly to look at but I forÂget what’s in them). It was exactÂly what I needed.
This time of year, I miss EngÂland, a cozy, cottage‑y, bookÂish counÂtry. WhenÂevÂer my husÂband and I have gone to the UK, it’s always been in the fall, and we’re nevÂer there long enough. Heather is a travÂel memÂoir about one family’s 1958 sumÂmer-long ramÂble in search of actuÂal setÂtings in children’s books. First pubÂlished in 1965, the book was reprintÂed in 1999.
The Bodger famÂiÂly wastÂed no time. They stepped off the Cunard ship (the best way to travÂel!), rentÂed a tiny car that bareÂly fit two adults, two chilÂdren and lugÂgage, and headÂed for Whitechurch, the vilÂlage RanÂdolph CaldeÂcott immorÂtalÂized in his drawÂings. In the late fifties, children’s litÂerÂaÂture pilÂgrimÂages seemed frivÂoÂlous in a counÂtry still reelÂing from five years of war. In her inquiries with locals, Joan Bodger, armed with Bartholomew’s Road Atlas of Great Britain (one inch equals one mile), was someÂtimes looked upon with susÂpiÂcion. But she perÂsistÂed and made wonÂderÂful discoveries.
In the “sun-floodÂed fields” of HarÂwell, they found L. Leslie Brooke’s PilÂlar House, occuÂpied by a woman who had reached the top of the list for a new counÂcil house. She decidÂed her litÂtle house, lackÂing a sinÂgle right angle, was best after all. Joan was delightÂed to step inside the “crooked litÂtle house” from Ring o’ RosÂes. I leafed through my own Ring o’ RosÂes, betÂter appreÂciÂatÂing Brooke’s careÂful lines and attenÂtion to detail.
In GloucesÂter, the Bodgers tracked down the tailor’s house from BeatÂrix Potter’s The TaiÂlor of GloucesÂter. KnowÂing the source of the stoÂry, I marÂveled anew at Potter’s jewÂel-like watercolors.
Last sumÂmer, I planned a trip to EngÂland (that I senÂsiÂbly changed) in which we’d fly overnight to LonÂdon, rent a car, and driÂve to CornÂwall. As Joan Bodger pointÂed out, a trip that took an hour on U.S. highÂways took almost all day in EngÂland. In CornÂwall, the Bodgers camped two weeks in a carÂaÂvan, like Toad in The Wind in the WilÂlows. They encounÂtered the Romany, still segÂreÂgatÂed, a few times. Once, while hikÂing, they found grass blades tied in patÂterns, sigÂnals only the Romany could interÂpret. I dug through my folkÂlore books and found RayÂmond Buckland’s GypÂsy WitchÂcraft & MagÂic. While there are some charms, the book is a fasÂciÂnatÂing resource of Romany folkways.
The Bodgers trekked up and down EngÂland on King Arthur’s trail. They padÂdled a boat on the Thames in search of Rat’s house, Pan’s island, and Toad Hall (MapleÂduÂram). Joan Bodger’s detecÂtive work, in an era before the interÂnet and GPS, was impresÂsive. She brought the books along, comÂparÂing the illusÂtraÂtions to the scenery. She often found peoÂple still livÂing in the vilÂlages who knew KenÂneth GraÂham or Mrs. Heely (BeatÂrix Potter’s marÂried name) and was even invitÂed to visÂit A. A. Milne’s widÂow. In Kipling counÂtry, they found Pook’s Hill. I sat down with my Puck of Pook’s Hill and the sequel, Rewards and Fairies, to steep myself in stoÂries of British hisÂtoÂry. Their excurÂsion to the Bronte ParÂsonÂage in YorkÂshire had me back in my bookÂstacks. I found RebecÂca Fraser’s adult biogÂraÂphy, The Brontes: CharÂlotte and Her FamÂiÂly, but was excitÂed to unearth the more enjoyÂable The Young Brontes (1937) by Mary Louise JarÂden with illusÂtraÂtions by Helen Sewell.
How the Heather Looks seems the perÂfect vacaÂtion, even with a two-year old who needÂed lots of naps, a nine-year-old medievalÂist who wantÂed to stop at every old ruin to look for bloodÂstains, EngÂlish weathÂer, EngÂlish food, the clown rental car, and getÂting lost. The Bodger’s trip is my idea of heavÂen. Joan Bodger even manÂaged to meet the famousÂly grumpy and anti-social Arthur RanÂsome. When the elderÂly author autoÂgraphed their copy of SwalÂlows and AmaÂzons, he was surÂprised the nine-year-old boy had read his books, believÂing AmerÂiÂcan chilÂdren only watched television.
In 1958, I was sevÂen and had just learned to read proÂfiÂcientÂly. This AmerÂiÂcan child couldn’t get her hands on enough books! She grew up to own a library, a bane when movÂing, but a blessÂing durÂing a panÂdemÂic. What else is there to do? Watch YouTube? NetÂflix? Livestream stuff?
Arthur RanÂsome told Joan Bodger he’d watched teleÂviÂsion himÂself and it seemed like jourÂneyÂing through a strange counÂtry on a very fast train: “It’s like seeÂing everyÂthing through a litÂtle slot. You can nevÂer climb down and go back once you are aboard …”
I’m more than weary of viewÂing the world through the litÂtle slot of screens. How the Heather Looks is a pleasÂant, meanÂderÂing train through a counÂtry most of us know through children’s books, one that stops often so you can browse your own colÂlecÂtion or make notes of what to read next.
Note: On AmaÂzon, you can treat yourÂself to this book on KinÂdle (anothÂer slot, I’m afraid) for $12, or pay the insane price of $902.81 for the paperÂback. I own the first ediÂtion 1999 hardÂcovÂer which I will put back in the drawÂer very careÂfulÂly.