I’ve always loved England. It’s the England of my imagination, I’m afraid, since I’ve never been there. I did see England once, from the window of a plane on my way to the Netherlands. So close and yet......
Part of “my” England is what I gleaned from old movies, always in black and white. Winding cobbled roads and paths, styles over fences instead of gates through them, loads of magical things like cream teas and playing sardines and murder in country houses. Things I can imagine though I don’t really know about them.
More of my England is from illustrations by Arthur Rackham. I find his work reminds me of something familiar but almost forgotten like waking from a dream and not quite remembering the details.
The rest of my England is from books. Mysteries from the golden age where a murder in a country house means a death instead of a game. Children’s books, most especially the Famous Five series where the four children and a dog rambled about having adventures and solving mysteries with no adult supervision. Dickens. And then there is Holmes. I suspect I carry a little bit of Holmes with me always. He was my first, best and most consistent British love. How could I not love someone who quoted Shakespeare, “the game’s afoot,” and made it his own. Who was not a policeman, but who solved crimes by deduction and became the world’s first consulting detective. Someone who was so interesting.
Interesting, like my England.
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Ah yes, bashing about the country lanes in a couple MG's with Sterling Moss or doing the Ton with Mike Hailwood down to the Ace Cafe, oh and there's Stephen Fry, let's nip on over to the Local for a pint of bitter. My imaginary England is not quite the same as your's, but it is interesting just the same.
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