Highgate, Hampstead and Hollywood Costumes

After a lovely breakfast of scrambled eggs, mushrooms, tomato, toast and tea The Heiress and I set out for Highgate Cemetery, the East side.  Smaller than the west side you don't need to book a tour, just plunk down your three GBP with a staff member in the little hut by the gate, get your map and explore.  The skies were grey and we needed our umbrellas off and on but you couldn't ask for better cemetery weather (if that doesn't sound too morbid).  The photo above shows George Eliot's (1819 - 1880) grave, not far from the most unbelievably large bust of Karl Marx you could ever imagine.  I am sorry but it is hideous and scared me half to death. 

Once we had explored all of the pathways throughout the cemetery we walked down Swain's Lane so I could show The Heiress Holly Village.  Debating whether or not to knock on the door of a lovely elderly man who invited me for coffee last year when we met in Waterlow Park, a voice called out from a window near the arched entry.  When I asked about the man in the far left cottage I was told he was dying, oh dear.  If only that poor man knew how many times someone halfway around the world had thought of him over the past year.  The man from the window saw the look of sadness that spread across my face and said 'It happens to all of us' in a straightforward manner that felt far too blasé and there was nothing left to do but walk away.  Poor man.

Catching a bus to Hampstead so that The Heiress could experience Keats House I was keeping watch for 8 Downshire Hill along the way, the former home of writer Elizabeth Jenkins.  The trees were thick along the front wall of this house that Jenkins' father bought for her in 1939 but I did my best to capture a shot of something, anything.  The house numbers don't always make sense the window panes do seem to match the photo on the cover of her memoir.  The View from Downshire Hill seems to be as scarce as hen's teeth but one of these days I hope to stumble across a copy or perhaps give our inter-library loan service a try.

Now if you're ever in Hampstead and feeling a bit peckish you MUST stop at a little cafe around the corner from Keats' Grove called Polly's.  It's where I had a yummy Croque Monsieur last year and this year the most delicious bowl of spinach and chick pea soup ever!  Just the thing after a long morning of walking outside in the crisp air.  The gentleman at the counter was as friendly as before, in fact, everyone was very nice.  Next visit I must leave room for a slice of the Victoria Sponge...

The Heiress and I parted ways after we ate - she off to Camden Market and I to John Sandoe Books.  The stacks of books everywhere in that shop are legendary but it was waaay too much for me.  A woman had somehow managed to get her large dog in to the shop, the poor thing looked about as uncomfortable to turn around as I did so I left to do some damage at Cath Kidston across the road instead.  Charing Cross Road was my next stop and then on to Persephone Books before they closed for the evening.  Weighed down by books but with a smile on my face I burst through the hotel door, flopped for a few moments, and then we were off again to the V&A for their late night.  What a party that is!

Envisioning hallways dotted with the odd person seeking entertainment rather than sit in on a Friday evening I could not have been more wrong.  Techno music blared from speakers while people drank wine, danced and ran about from friend to friend in their Halloween costumes.  It was fabulous!  At the last minute we decided to buy tickets to see the Hollywood Costume exhibit and we were so glad that we did.  The exhibit rooms were darkened and soft lights shone on the clothes and costumes from such iconic films as Cleopatra, Gone With the Wind, The Seven Year Itch, Ben Hur, Elizabeth (Cate Blanchett's version AND Bette Davis's), Star Wars, Out of Africa, The Black Swan, The Blues Brothers, Dracula, Harry Potter, Saturday Night Fever and Mildred Pierce - the Joan Crawford picture and much, much more.  Right at the end was a glass case with Dorothy's ruby red slippers inside, full of little red sequins - not a ruby in sight - but still!  If this exhibit ever comes to a gallery near you - run to buy a ticket, you won't be sorry!

Tomorrow is Linley Sambourne's house with a couple of my favourite blog friends...

My American by Stella Gibbons

'It was autumn.  Kenwood House, the eighteenth-century mansion on the edge of Hampstead Heath, had been recently opened to the public by King George the Fifth and its beauties were still sufficiently unfamiliar to attract crowds and admire the collection of pictures inside the building.'

Amy Lee is a scruffy little girl when she happens upon Robert Vorst who is slightly older at thirteen years-old.  He is visiting England with his mother and aunts and biding his time in the courtyard until they emerge from their tour of this magnificently situated historical home.  Cheekily asking if he could loan her six pence for the fare home, Amy puts out her hand for a coin and tucks it into her glove for safekeeping.  Shortly afterwards she pulls it out to have a look and is more than a little hurt to discover a buffalo head staring back at her, it's an American coin and useless to her.  It is not the last she sees of Robert though.

The poor thing is a bit of an urchin, growing up without a mother and barely cared for by a father who really didn't want her in the first place.  Through circumstance, Amy, ends up living with the Beeding brood where another child about the place is simply a case of the more, the merrier.  But for a girl who counts the seconds until she can be alone with her pen and notebook to create her stories the hustle and bustle sometimes proves to be a bit maddening.  Sharing her deepest secret desire with a teacher, Amy, is allowed to hide her notebook away in a filing cabinet at school and write in solitude after class.

It all sounds absolutely delicious doesn't it?  My American felt a bit like a three course meal to me in that it has a tempting appetizer, the meat of the story follows.  And then, just when I was really looking forward to the dessert things got a bit weird and the book turns into a dime store crime novel!  Now I am quite sure that in 1939 when this was published there were hoards of fifteen year-old girls just lapping up every episode of illegal activity and sexual innuendo but I found it a bit of a struggle and almost lost the will to continue at one point.  Where was her editor?  But, I did persevere through almost 450 pages for the sake of those who might still be reading my post at this point.  The dessert does finally arrive but my goodness, what a wait.

This is the third Stella Gibbons book that I have read and found to be enjoyable enough but I would be hard pressed to shout from the rooftops about any of them.  So now I am wondering whether it would be worth my time to give Cold Comfort Farm a try, am I missing the jewel in the crown?