Our last day. I was wearing my favourite dress today, and it’s now damp and rumpled; a bit like we are. A bit tired and a bit ready to go home, and a bit sad-looking because we’re not ready to say good-bye. Not to those red doubledecker buses, not to the tea, not to the bookshops. Not to each other.
But, my friend, I have loved being on an adventure with you, loved it so much I wished it would never end. But I think you’re fast asleep, and it’s only another three minutes until tomorrow, and this diary is all that’s left of today. A bunch of words that fail to describe a feeling. Like trying to catch a beam of sunlight.
But, friend, I think we caught it.
So let’s just start again.
(Quote: John Green)
Here’s to all the places we went:
Day One: London
Day Two: London
Day Three: London
Day Four: Winchester
Day Five: Brighton
Day Six: Stonehenge
Day Seven: Oxford
Day Eight: Stratford-Upon-Avon
Day Nine: Bath
Day Ten: Cardiff
Day Eleven: Bristol
Day Twelve: Cambridge
Day Thirteen: Cambridge
Day Fourteen: Norwich
Day Fifteen: York
Day Sixteen: Lincoln
Day Seventeen: Durham
Day Eighteen: Edinburgh
Day Nineteen: Loch Ness
Day Twenty: Glasgow
Day Twenty-One: St. Andrews
Day Twenty-Two: London
So here is where the fairytale happened. Once upon a time (but really, like, ten years ago) an ordinary London girl (or wherever she was from) met a young and handsome prince (handsome-ish, anyway). They went for long strolls along the beach, they had secret rendez-vous’ on the pier, they went book-shopping at the Waterstone’s store on the main road – and he made her laugh so that she would fall in love with him, but everytime she laughed it was him that fell in love.
I like to believe that’s how it went. That it wasn’t just a pretty girl in her underwear that caught his eye, and that it wasn’t just the prospect of a castle that made him attractive. I like to believe that it was this place that made them right for each other.
I like to believe that today we went somewhere where fairytales are still possible.
(Quote: Maggie Stiefvater)
All the people that we watched from the inside today;
Where were they headed? Where do they live? What did they think of the weather, ever changing, ever so unreliable?
All the people that walked past us this afternoon;
Do they think happy thoughts? Have they ever read a story by Dr. Seuss? Have they laughed today?
All those people that we saw and that will never know they were seen;
Maybe a friend walked past, one which I haven’t yet met. Maybe the tired-looking woman with the groceries knows the secret of life; but now she’ll never tell. Maybe the school children would have listened to my stories; now they won’t care.
And it makes me think of all those chances that we miss
By not talking to the people that pass us by.
(Quote: Mike Rosenberg)
There once was a boy named Harry destined for greatness.
There once was a girl named Inga trying to see the light.
There once was a girl named Noemí desperate to find the magic.
There once were oh so many spells and books and forests filled with magic and wonder, and there once were castles full of stories, and there once were fortresses full of mysteries.
There once were. There are. All the children loving fairie tales and yearning for the pixie dust to take them.
There once was a boy named Harry and he spread light and he promised magic, and it was that which made him not a hero, but a friend who would always be waiting.
(Quote: J.K. Rowling)
I never knew I liked cider. Until today.
It’s only cider, but it puts my life upside down. Well, maybe not exactly upside down. Maybe it just shook the ground I built my life on a little bit. Like a tiny, drunk earthquake. What if cider is not the only thing I thought tasted awful but actually turns out tob e rather delicious? Didn’t I have the same epiphany with ginger ale in Matamata two summers ago? What about all the books I promised myself never to read? It scares me that some day in boredom I might pick up a copy of Shades of Grey and like it!
It’s really weird to love something I swore to hate. It makes me want to raise my glass to changes of the heart, to second impressions and to my mind doing its best not to be set on one opinion. Cheers to the earthquakes that make me think.
London has entire streets dedicated to all sorts of bookshops. There’s one dedicated to witchcraft and one sells hand signed first editions of Charles Dickens and one has a café in the midst of paper and ink. The tour guide called it Diagon Alley and I will stick to that (even though it is really called Cecile’s Street).
Oxford Street always makes me a hypocrate. Because I hate that people just shop to shop without needing anything that they buy, but I am one of them and I love commercialism. I bought so much and I needed nothing, and I won’t admit that it felt good.
(Quote: J.K. Rowling)