A visit to Coleridge Cottage and Kilve

My friend, Cathy, and I hadn't been inside Coleridge's storied cottage in Nether Stowey long before one of the volunteers asked me the time-honoured question: 'Have you been here before?' And I had, but realised it must have been almost 20 years earlier, as I'd been with my ex-husband, who, I recall, was in a mood because he was missing a football match on the telly.

I didn't feel I could count my second visit, which occurred since the cottage underwent its major restoration in 2010-11, as on that second occasion I'd been with the Northerner, and since he'd never been there before and I had, it was only fair he went in for a look around in the limited time we had that day, while I waited outside with our then dog, Ted, and watched the swifts wing up and down the street. (I did get a poem out of my missed visit, though.)

Last summer, when we visited the behemoth that is Wordsworth Grasmere in the Lakes, I found myself longing for the remembered simplicity of Coleridge Cottage and its garden. A re-visit was long overdue.

my favourite too

'You would smile to see my eye rolling up to the ceiling in a lyric fury, and on my knee a Diaper pinned'

While enthusing with the volunteer who welcomed us to the cottage, I'd felt it politic to acknowledge Sara Coleridge, who was left to shoulder the lion's share of the work of running a house and raising the children, while her husband (who surely had ADHD, given the expansive projects he kept dreaming up but never brought to fruition) spent much of his time in Nether Stowey nipping up the end of the garden and sneaking into Thomas Poole's library, going off on long walks with the Wordsworths, and drinking laudanum). I suppose I was hoping to avoid a lecture on The Price Sara Paid, and indeed, the volunteer warned me there was strong feeling in favour of Sara amongst some of her peers.

I think it's perfectly possible to care about both Coleridges. I feel huge empathy for Sara - I too was left alone much of the time to care for four small and decidedly interesting children - but it's also necessary to acknowledge that Samuel was an exceptional poet, one of our greatest (whereas my ex-husband was just off philandering). And maybe STC had to follow where his mind led him in order to produce 'The Ancient Mariner' and  'Kubla Khan', neither of which would have been written in quite the same way without his opium habit and his wanderings through this wild and remote part of Somerset. 

I drew the conclusion many years ago that poets probably shouldn't get married.

The Ancient Mariner

Samuel Coleridge at the age of about 45

This window is engraved with the scenes Samuel and Sara would have seen when they looked through it

At the back of the house, as pre-warned, we were cornered by one of Sara's zealots, who gleefully told us about the time Sara spilt hot milk over Samuel's feet, rendering him unable to go walking with William and Dorothy. (Though of course he did get a poem out of his missed walk.) 

The well

The privy

Papaver Somniferum

Swifts in the garden

After sating ourselves with cottage and garden, Cathy and I headed to our favourite Hood Arms at Kilve for a vegetarian Sunday lunch, which was magnificent but left neither of us with room for dessert or even a cream tea at the nearby Chantry, which was a crying shame. Instead we waddled from the car park to the beach, enjoying the view down to Devon, across to Wales and up the Severn estuary. 

A fine day out. I could make a habit of it.

Tea and cake with the Wordsworths and the Old Man of Coniston

Most years the furthest north I get are places like Bridgnorth in Shropshire, or Hinckley in Leicestershire, though two years ago, quite spectacularly, I made it to Manchester for my Masters graduation. To be on holiday as far north as Lancaster, then, was a feat, being quite a bit further north than the Northerner's hometown of Barnsley. And since we'd made it that far, why not go further north again, to the Lakes, for the day? So we did.

First stop, the monolith that is Wordsworth Grasmere. I say monolith because I couldn't help comparing it with the rather more modest commemoration of Coleridge in the wilds of Somerset, where the cottage he and Sarah rented is in the care of the National Trust, and boasts a tea room, shop and garden, with parking available in the pub car park over the road. 

In comparison, Wordsworth Grasmere offers an 'immersive family experience', and comprises Dove Cottage, which William rented with his sister Dorothy, and later also his wife; a garden, orchard and woodland; a cafe; a gift shop; its own car park; a purpose-built museum housing the collections of the Wordsworth Trust; a library; an archive; a Reading Room; an art collection of the Lake District; and a viewing platform offering panoramic views of the surrounding area. Plus, a lot of the neighbouring cottages seemed to be part of the enterprise in some capacity or other as well. Phew. 

Helm Crag from outside Dove Cottage

Since we had Cwtch with us, and would have to go on the guided tour one after the other, we restricted ourselves to the cafe, cottage and garden. More than anything else, I'm interested in trying to get a feel of how poets lived. 

As I awaited my turn to go into the cottage, I heard some rather subdued singing at my shoulder and turned to find a robin serenading me with its wistful subsong. Turns out robins are really good at ventriloquy - who knew?

I loved the cottage, with its dim light, though I suspect I'd have found myself chopping my fingers instead of onions if I had to cook in that kitchen.

Poor Dorothy. Beds everywhere as her brother's family grew in size. 

The walls of the small bedroom were covered in newspaper in 1800, in an attempt to insulate it.

the garden giving way to woodland

looking towards Silver How

I left Wordsworth Grasmere impressed, but privately yearning for the simplicity of Coleridge Cottage and a rather less grand day out. I don't want to cast aspersions on the intentions behind Wordsorth Grasmere, but I don't know how possible it is to feel what the Wordsworths must have felt in a place that's so organised and single-minded, somehow, though I'm sure a longer visit outside of the summer season, with the opportunity to walk, would be a start.

Our second and final stop of the day was Coniston Water, where we'd done another über-touristy thing and booked ourselves onto a boat trip. Since neither of us could bear the Swallows and Amazons stories as children, we avoided the one that visits 'Wild Cat Island' - which is actually Peel Island, at the southern end of the lake - though we were still given some information about the gruesome sixsome, along with details about Donald Campbell, the Omaze house that was in the draw last Christmas, and John Ruskin, which seem to be the area's chief claims to fame.

The guide on our boat announced that while the normal length of time required to climb the Old Man of Coniston is three to four hours, with another two to three hours to get back down, the record time is a shade over an hour, with twelve minutes for the descent. Which makes this West Countrywoman wonder what would happen if they rolled a cheese down it.

Brantwood, former home of John Ruskin

the Steam Yacht gondola, owned by the National Trust

Something I didn't even know existed: not sea glass, but lake glass.