"The night was full of summer smells from the cottage garden and the occasional whiff of sea air which came in on the light breezes that were entertaining themselves on the coast of the Bristol Channel.
...[Richard] got up and looked over the hedge at the small farm cottage basking in the moonlight behind them. About an hour earlier Dirk had walked boldly up to the front door and rapped on it. When the door had opened, somewhat reluctantly, and a slightly dazed face had looked out, Dirk had doffed his absurd hat and said in a loud voice, “Mr Samuel Coleridge? “I was just passing by, on my way from Porlock, you understand, and I was wondering if I might trouble you to vouchsafe me an interview? It’s just for a little parish broadsheet I edit. Won’t take much of your time, I promise, I know you must be busy, famous poet like you, but I do so admire your work, and . . .” The rest was lost, because by that time Dirk had effected his entry and closed the door behind him."
Coleridge Cottage, as a setting, is not a huge part of Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency, but it sounded like a fun place to visit. My accommodations in Cambridge turned out to be less then accommodating, so I decided to leave a day early and head for Somerset.
Although I had a blip of trouble getting there, it was worth it. The train from London to Taunton was easy. The connection to Bridgewater was easy. Unfortunately, the lug (and by this point I really started to understand why it is called 'lug-gage') to the Bridgewater bus station was not so easy. Bridgewater is not scenic. It is, as near as I can tell, like Sunnyvale, CA that way: lovely name, but mostly suburban sprawl. I had to ask for help and change direction three times, but unlike what I would have met in Sunnyvale, the British people I spoke to were very nice about it.
Upon arrival at the bus stop, a tiny, ancient lady asked where I was headed. I told her, and she thought we would be taking the same bus. I hung back a bit to let all the other passengers on before double checking with the bus driver. Just in front of me, the ancient lady said to the driver, "Now, you need to help this nice American lady get to Nether Stowey."
Whether because the bus driver was himself very kind, or because he had been directed to do so by the ancient lady, he dug a bus route out of a clear plastic bin on his bus dashboard. He explained that his bus did not go all the way to Nether Stowey. He showed me the stop on the schedule, and with a slow shake of his head, shared the sad fact that a bus which would go into the little village would not be along for at least two hours.
This was all going on at just past 3 o'clock, and I had hoped to get to the cottage and have a look around before they closed for the day.
"Where can I get a cab, do you know?"
"There's a taxi stand right around the corner," said a helpful businessman, who clearly wanted me to leave his bus driver alone so he could get on with getting him home.
There was more lugging of luggage, and here's what the taxi stand, Bridgewater, and my room in Nether Stowey looked like:
It took 20 nervous minutes for a cab to come. When it arrived, it was another 30 minute drive through hedgerows, past fields, in a direction that looked to me like there would never be a town...ever again.
Luckily, Nether Stowey materialized around a bend, and I arrived at my B&B, merely called The Old House. Manor, the owner, was absolutely understanding when I interrupted his welcome tour to ask how late the Coleridge Cottage was open, and how far it was. He sent me running the 100 meters up the lane in plenty of time to have a peek before the cottage closed for the day.
The cottage in Coleridge's day was what I now know is termed a 'two up two down.' This table with reproduction writing samples of Coleridge's work was in a front parlor room.
Each restored room has its own docent and all of them were quite keen to talk, as I was clearly the only visitor that evening. In fact they fought over me a bit, making sure each got to fully inform me of all the goodies in THEIR room, before herding me along. They were extremely conscientious and emphasized that I must get on with seeing every room and the garden.
The first docent told me about the reconstruction of the home, and Coleridge's romantic notion of being a self sufficient farmer after being a debt ridden journalist. She talked about Coleridge's friends and patrons, in particular Mr. Poole. Even though my introduction to The Old House had been brief, I recalled that my suite was the Coleridge suite, and that the home was owned by Mr. Poole.
I shared this information with Docent #1, a lithe older lady in a smart tweed suit and golden silk neck scarf. She was quite excited. "This young lady is staying in the house that belonged to Mr. Poole," she said as she delivered me to Docent #2.
"How exciting!" Docent #2 exclaimed, actually clasping his soft, aged hands in front of his chest and curving his trim white mustache up in a huge smile. "How lucky you are! We've never been in that house, have we, Dear?" Docent #2 then went on to explain about fires, laudanum, and all the famous poetry conceived in the very room in which we were standing.
On to docent #3, bewigged and be-breeched, who explained how very irritated Coleridge's spouse was about having to play a farmers wife, after being raised as a gentlewoman. I especially enjoyed the "reconstruction" of the kitchen, and as everyone pointed out, though everything was as historically accurate as they could make it, nothing was antique, so everything was real and touchable. Even the little mice.
I asked all about the wig, fabric, and cut of clothes on Docent #3, and he excitedly shared all about the real-life villager that his wardrobe, wig and overall "look" was based on. He had studied the available portraits, and knew all about the man's life. It was totally geekadorable.
There was a simple, reconstructed bedchamber, and two upper rooms (added during a Victorian rebuild) that housed museum style displays.
After I wandered through these, I went out to the garden.
Coleridge purportedly went through the fence to Poole's (first) house whenever he needed to get away from his wife and kids.
It is still a generous little garden. The docents were especially proud of their brand new new ducks, geese, and pigs.
When did chicken wire sculptures become a thing? They were really well done! I want some!
After a thorough ramble around the garden and yard, I decided to go back into the house and invite the docents to my suite at Poole's house. They had shared their enthusiasm with me and I wanted to return the favor. Besides, I might end up with nice people to have a drink, or dinner with.
The couple, docents #1 and #2, happily accepted. While docent #3 was very clearly disappointed to be told by his wife, the clerk in the gift shop, that they had to be getting home.
The three of us headed down the lane towards the B&B. Just as we were approaching an intersection in the cobblestone main street, the docents veered up and to the right.
"No it's this way," I said, pointing in the other direction.
"Oh dear," said docent #2 with a droop in his shoulders, "Then it must not have been Tom Poole's house. We know which house that one is - it backs up against the Coleridge Cottage."
"According to my innkeeper, it is the house Poole bought later, in order to get away from the smells of the tanneries."
"Oh! Yes?! Well, that makes sense!"
"Sorry that it isn't the house you thought, but if you still want to come and take a look I am happy to share it with you."
"Yes, let's look anyway, Dear," encouraged Docent #1, taking her husband's arm.
All together we traipsed in the back entry, up the servants stairs, and into my Coleridge Suite. While it wasn't the house they were hoping to see, both docents oooohhhed and aahhhhed. They enjoyed all of the historical documentation Manor and his wife had collected into a binder for the guests, plus the portrait of Coleridge, and the lovely room in general.
They went home to their supper instead of joining me at The Albatross for a pint, but even the brief visit was so much fun. I felt lucky that I had access to share a bit of the town and Coleridge history that they had never seen before. I went back up the road to the albatross for a very fine venison steak dinner and a tasting of several wonderful local ciders.
Everyone in London told me that if I liked cider, I needed to get out in the country and try 'scrumpy' ciders, in Somerset. Luckily for me, that's where I was! So I tried two, and had a nice buzz through the evening of cozily eating and reading and dictating before the hearth of the Albatross.
The real winner was this cider that was the same color as the red fox on the bar mat:
Actual yellow-cheddar-cheese-colored, cloudy cider was a first for me, as was cider served warm. It was pure appleiciousness, with a pretty high alcohol content. It wasn't very bubbly at all, and it was definitely more savory than sweet. What I liked about it was that it was not bitter at all - I can't handle things that are bitter, which is why I take milk in my tea. I could taste the apple, and I could taste that it was alcoholic, but there were no other flavor distractions: it was a single, pure, mellow, flavor experience.
And, just to be quite clear: My venison steak (at the recommendation of the barkeep) was incredible:
Everywhere I went, the British chefs were doing incredible things by mashing together carrots and other vegetables. Let's face it, unlike my foodie friends and gastro-whatnotters, I like British cuisine, especially when it is simple and fresh. I'm a meat-and-potatoes, pub-grub kinda girl.
Nether Stowey is a beautiful little town with picturesque row houses, narrow cobble streets and almost nonexistent sidewalks. Oh, the joys of being able to stumble home! Damn, large distances and cars are a drag! As I walked, literally a few hundred yards from my little B&B, I had my second experience with being a solo, woman traveller: dark alleyways. Between buildings, I walked past narrow, completely dark passageways. At the first one, I automatically snapped my head left to look down into it. Into the complete darkness. That was a moment of heart-stopping fear, because I saw nothing...the street, the buildings disappeared into complete black just a foot away.
Lighting on the street was minimal, mostly coming from people's front windows. Many front parlors were lit up as residents sat watching TV or relaxing for the evening. The alternating bright windows, and the sudden darkness a few steps into the space between buildings shocked me. My mind instantly understood, in an entirely new way, wanting to have a weapon.
Anyone in an alley would be completely hidden; They would hear a person walking, but their victim could have no clue they were there. Images of Victorian cutpurses and footpads, and the ease with which someone could be nabbed, dragged only a few feet away, beaten and robbed filled my mind.
I took my hands out of my pockets, and moved out into the street. I told myself I was probably being overcautious. Small town, no one had warned against me walking at night, I would be just FINE...but I felt safer with more distance between me and those narrow black gaps. The footing was better in the street than on the uneven and much narrower sidewalk anyway. I saw no one between the pub and my suite. I arrived home safely, made myself tea and biscuits, and did a little writing. Even though it was a scary realization of what COULD happen, I appreciated the entirely new perspective on places without streetlights every 100 feet. Places unknown to a stranger. Places with architecture that threatened after sundown.
