By Caroline Hughes-Dunant
Below is merely a copy-and-paste entry taken from an email my mother sent to me, in which she recounted an anecdote from a recent trip to the Lake District; specifically, a visit to Dove Cottage, the erstwhile home of the romantic poet William Wordsworth on the edge of Grasmere village. I believed it deserved some kind of airing; it speaks so eloquently of the human comedy and English heritage coffee-house culture, among other things simple and profound.
I’m in the Dove Cottage cafe, having a coffee and a bun, sitting by a window and minding my own business. The place isn’t busy. In fact, I’m the only person. All the hordes, including half of Japan, are down in Grasmere village buying fancy Gore-Tex ‘strenuous weather’ gear and shiny walking poles. I notice, because I’m by the window, a car roar into the car park and skid to a stop. Not normal. Poet fanciers usually come in rather quietly. A big, bluff man jumps out and slams the car door and stands, the embodiment of impatience. A small but round woman gets slowly out of the passenger side and clicks her door closed. He says something to her, she almost visibly flinches. He stalks off, in the direction of Dove cottage and the museum. She follows.
A few minutes later, certainly not time to do either the cottage or the museum, unless at a fast run, the cafe door bangs open and in walks the (at odds) couple. He looked apoplectic, she terrified, but sullen, defiant, like she had decided to make a stand about something and accept the probably terrible consequences. His furious eye alighted on me. There was no one else. He approached, and then began the most extraordinary rant. It’s fixed in the mind. I can still hear him. Broad Yorkshire.
He barked a question. “Missus, you been round cottage?” I had. “What’s it like?” I told him. Small – he cut me short. “Yeh, small, in’t it? Hardly big enough to piss in, but didn’t do that in them days. In’t shed, or garden, out back. Aye, small. That’s what I told her. The wife. Only small. But the wife,” he jabbed a finger at the woman, “won’t go in. I drive 200 mile and stay in fancy bloomin’ hotel, all that coffee in’t lounge nonsense and getting tarted up for over priced nosh and some bloody poof warblin’ over tinny speakers. You know, going round and round, same song till screamin’. That in’t poetry for sure. But that’s what she wants and I give it to her! But I want to go round cottage and she won’t. Don’t know poetry she says. Don’t understand it. Don’t matter, I say. Just words and feelings put in’t good order. Better than we can do. That’s it, in’t it?”
He didn’t wait for affirmation. “And cottage only small in’t it? Won’t take long, will it? Don’t need to bloody understand poetry neither. Don’t know whether I do, but I like it. Other one. What’s he called?” Other one ... he did want an answer now and was impatient for it. “You know, died young. Some rubbish film about him.” Ah ... “Keats” I offer. “That’s the one! Wrote poem about pot.” (That’s what Yorkshire said. He really did.) “Grecian Urn” I offer. “Yeh, pot. Don’t matter if Turkish or Swahili, if you can slap words together about pot that people the world over for a hundred year n’ more thinks is beautiful, you’re good. You’re very good. Not goin’ to manage that now, are we? No poetry in’t bloody internet, is there? Not real stuff. Not goin’ to last any road.”
With that, he turned back to the wife. “Do as you like. I’m going round cottage.” He left. She sat down at a table the other end of the cafe from me and ordered whatever she did. I had to leave soon after. I scribbled it down immediately I got back in the car. Couldn’t make that up. I think ‘Yorkshire’, in his bluff, bullying way, uttered some truths.
Below is merely a copy-and-paste entry taken from an email my mother sent to me, in which she recounted an anecdote from a recent trip to the Lake District; specifically, a visit to Dove Cottage, the erstwhile home of the romantic poet William Wordsworth on the edge of Grasmere village. I believed it deserved some kind of airing; it speaks so eloquently of the human comedy and English heritage coffee-house culture, among other things simple and profound.
I’m in the Dove Cottage cafe, having a coffee and a bun, sitting by a window and minding my own business. The place isn’t busy. In fact, I’m the only person. All the hordes, including half of Japan, are down in Grasmere village buying fancy Gore-Tex ‘strenuous weather’ gear and shiny walking poles. I notice, because I’m by the window, a car roar into the car park and skid to a stop. Not normal. Poet fanciers usually come in rather quietly. A big, bluff man jumps out and slams the car door and stands, the embodiment of impatience. A small but round woman gets slowly out of the passenger side and clicks her door closed. He says something to her, she almost visibly flinches. He stalks off, in the direction of Dove cottage and the museum. She follows.
A few minutes later, certainly not time to do either the cottage or the museum, unless at a fast run, the cafe door bangs open and in walks the (at odds) couple. He looked apoplectic, she terrified, but sullen, defiant, like she had decided to make a stand about something and accept the probably terrible consequences. His furious eye alighted on me. There was no one else. He approached, and then began the most extraordinary rant. It’s fixed in the mind. I can still hear him. Broad Yorkshire.
He barked a question. “Missus, you been round cottage?” I had. “What’s it like?” I told him. Small – he cut me short. “Yeh, small, in’t it? Hardly big enough to piss in, but didn’t do that in them days. In’t shed, or garden, out back. Aye, small. That’s what I told her. The wife. Only small. But the wife,” he jabbed a finger at the woman, “won’t go in. I drive 200 mile and stay in fancy bloomin’ hotel, all that coffee in’t lounge nonsense and getting tarted up for over priced nosh and some bloody poof warblin’ over tinny speakers. You know, going round and round, same song till screamin’. That in’t poetry for sure. But that’s what she wants and I give it to her! But I want to go round cottage and she won’t. Don’t know poetry she says. Don’t understand it. Don’t matter, I say. Just words and feelings put in’t good order. Better than we can do. That’s it, in’t it?”
He didn’t wait for affirmation. “And cottage only small in’t it? Won’t take long, will it? Don’t need to bloody understand poetry neither. Don’t know whether I do, but I like it. Other one. What’s he called?” Other one ... he did want an answer now and was impatient for it. “You know, died young. Some rubbish film about him.” Ah ... “Keats” I offer. “That’s the one! Wrote poem about pot.” (That’s what Yorkshire said. He really did.) “Grecian Urn” I offer. “Yeh, pot. Don’t matter if Turkish or Swahili, if you can slap words together about pot that people the world over for a hundred year n’ more thinks is beautiful, you’re good. You’re very good. Not goin’ to manage that now, are we? No poetry in’t bloody internet, is there? Not real stuff. Not goin’ to last any road.”
With that, he turned back to the wife. “Do as you like. I’m going round cottage.” He left. She sat down at a table the other end of the cafe from me and ordered whatever she did. I had to leave soon after. I scribbled it down immediately I got back in the car. Couldn’t make that up. I think ‘Yorkshire’, in his bluff, bullying way, uttered some truths.
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