I do talk to myself sometimes, yes.
The summer’s really finally over now. The temperatures are plummeting and it’s time to summarize.
We were in England this summer. All the way from Edinburg to Cornwall to Brighton we went. It was the best event of the year, there were lightning bolts and sun and lots and lots of rain. I wrote a lot. I really did. It was mad how many thoughts went through my head at the most inconvenient of times.
I made the mistake of bringing The Hound of the Baskervilles along today, on a sunny day! I don’t know what went into me, but there I was in Bath, on a bench, reading Sherlock Holmes next to ice-cream-eating Germans.
It was just wrong.
I cannot for the world understand people who only read one book at the time. What if it’s sunny and all they’ve got is Sherlock Holmes? Or they’re sad and the only book they have is Pride & Prejudice? They must read really fast.
I loved Bath. It is, quite possibly, the friendliest city I’ve ever been to. I can’t tell why it’s friendly, but it is. It is also beautiful, in a weird, uniform way.
You don’t really notice that you’re in a different city if you look at the architecture only. Not really. At least not in Britain. I don’t, anyway. We arrived in Edinburgh three days ago and it wasn’t ’till I saw the Scottish moors and mountains surrounding it that I really accepted that we were, in fact, in Scotland. I was standing on the National Monument -…-what’s-it-called-again-hill and only then did my brain say “Oh yes, we seem to be in Scotland.”
I actually finished my old journal on that trip. A journal that was started in London in 2007. This tells us two things; that I’m good at wrapping things up in style, and that I used insanely much time finishing a not-that-thick book.
It was a lot easier getting used to York than Edinburgh. Maybe this city, despite that I love everything about Scotland and Edinburgh, is slightly more appealing to me. It’s got a tiny second-hand book shop on every corner. Night-clubs and restaurants are flanked by mediaeval churches and port-ways. There’s something magical about York, and I’m not only saying that because of Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell. A lot because of Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, but not only. This city really is magical.
The accent, of course, is lovely too.
In short; I’ve spent two fantastic weeks this summer watching people, listening to different accents, reading, writing, exploring, experiencing, living, and everything else England got for foreign tourists. I’ve stocked up on Doctor Who and watched it night after night. I even was at the Doctor Who Exhibition at Land’s End. I’ve had an amazing time and enjoyed about every moment of park-walking, café-sitting (we even were to the café where J. K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter), tea-drinking and dancing weird dances while talking loudly in Norwegian. There’s really nothing for it, I’ve got to live there.
Our last day in England. It’s been wonderful, magical, life-changing, or something. Yet I look forward to sleeping in my own bed and not having to be so fucking polite at eight in the morning.
