Rachael was appalled yesterday when I really didn't know the details of my day trip for today, so I double-checked them all last night when we got home from our exhausting but wonderful trip to Monk's House. I knew I was heading down to the same southern region of the island, and I knew I'd planned the trip for a day when Kipling's house, Bateman's, is open for visitors.
Checking the site, I remembered that there was a train (I had tickets already), then a public bus, then less than a mile's walk to the house. This morning, I caught my train in plenty of time, read some of Kipling's Puck of Pook's Hill on the ride down, and got off at the station.
It wasn't a huge station, so I asked some locals about the public bus I needed to catch. I was met with a scoff: the bus was a paltry excuse for a service, and it DEFINITELY wouldn't be running on a Sunday. The person I spoke to recommended I check out Uber.
There were no ubers to speak of, so I found the main road, checked Google maps, and started walking. The map said 3.5 miles, and hell, I'd done 13 the day before (oh my god my feet), what would 3.5 be?
The walk was lovely at first. Every little home along the main street had a plaque that gave the name of the home. I walked about 30 minutes, having a pretty nice time of it.
And then the sidewalk ended.
The rest of the walk appeared to be along a main highway-type of road, just two lanes, no shoulder, no passing lane. I checked Uber again, and my phone couldn't even find a signal. So I walked.
I walked for another 20 or 30 minutes, pausing and cramming myself into the bushes as cars whizzed by. My bright yellow jacket felt more and more like a safety vest. Eventually, a car stopped. The man inside shouted to me, but I couldn't hear him over the sound of other cars. I crossed the street, and when I went to ask him through the window what he'd said, he reached over, opened the door, and moved his gym bag, ushering me in.
Now, when I told this story to a few people, they all looked at me like an idiot, and that's ok. In normal circumstances, this was an idiotic thing to do. But here was my choice: most definitely squashed by small British vehicle in BFE southern England, or get into a car with a kind older gentleman who may or may not murder me in the end.
The odds favored the maybe-murderer. I got in.
He told me it was a very dangerous road, and that he couldn't believe Bateman's didn't let people know a better way to get to the house. He dropped me off at the top of the short lane that led to Bateman's, and I thanked him for saving my life.
It was raining by now, so I pulled up my hood and popped out my umbrella for the last leg of the not-dead journey I was on. I made it to the house, and went straight to the cafe to warm up, dry off, and spend some time reading before I explored any more. Getting here was a harrowing experience, but it paid off. Behold.
Fun fact: Kipling LOVED motorcars.
This hangs over the fireplace in the entry room (dining room, perhaps?) inside the main house. A volunteer told me that when Kipling lived in India, people would hang these over doorways (which did not have solid, air-blocking doors because of the heat). A fish on its side like this meant "please don't come in," but a fish facing you said "come on in, friend."
Spot the little fish!
Before I left this room, a really lovely volunteer told me about some drawings, and then showed me how the phonograph worked. The older couple in the room with me knew the song and sang along. The video is too big to add here, unfortunately, but ask me some time, and I'll show you! Apparently, the machines didn't have volume controls, but the cone was the perfect size for one man's sock. Hence, the phrase "put a sock in it" was born.
It's rare to go in a historical home and be invited to sit. This was the sitting room, and every chair in it was ok to sit on, even if it was original to the house. I sat here:
Does young Rudyard resemble any other magical youth?
John's bedroom:
Random mouse, stuffed in random hole in stairwell.
I loved the wallpaper in this room. Some of it was covered in a protective glass or plastic. I could also get right up to the heating pipes in this room, which was nice. June was COLD in England.
Kipling wanted a pond, so he used his Nobel Prize money to build one. It's gorgeous.
Kipling's office. He would throw mistakes into that bin, and the papers would be burned at the end of the day.
There's an old mill on the property. I went inside:
The mill:
Happiness is a warm field to sit in.
I had plenty of time, and I discovered that I could book a taxi to take me back to the train station. I ordered a "cream tea," thinking it would be a nice milkshake-like affair. It was actually a scone with cream and tea, so I declined the cream tea and went for a pot.
The servants' quarters, and THE SUN!
The infamous pond, in the sunshine:
And so, exhausted, I caught a taxi back to catch my train, and went home full of inspiration and pride in having made it through the day.
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