Getting To Know Me: My Walk with Jane

Well.

It's been about ten years in the making, saving, scrimping, losing and starting all over again, but I've finally done it. I am sitting on my bed in a low roofed cottage opposite Jane Austen's house in beautiful Hampshire, England. Tomorrow I will tour the other places she frequented, and also the places where her novels came to life in her wonderfully witty imagination. I've walked up and down the tiny village streets where she spent the most prolific years of her adult life, writing the novels that would inspire millions of readers for years to come.

Getting on a plane to travel here, alone, was one of the hardest and most challenging things I have ever done. Since my mother and I were here almost ten years ago, a lot of things have changed in our lives. But through loss, a diagnosis of Rheumatoid Arthritis, college graduation, and a host of other challenges, my dream of returning to England and my beloved Scotland never faded. I took strength from Jane herself and promised myself that if I could not find adventure in my own village, I must seek it abroad.

And so I have.

As we sat on the runway at DFW, waiting to take off, I admit I thought "Never again." Yet once we were in the air, I knew there was no turning back. You see, I am the kind of person who finds herself in a difficult position. I waver between two extremes. One side of me is full, absolutely brimming with wanderlust, a thirst and fire that can't be quenched. I've cried over it, agonized over it, and asked God to take it from me. But it simply hasn't been removed. It would be so much easier, so much less stressful to stay at home. I wouldn't have to worry whether or not my medicines will travel well (will my Humira shots go through security? Will they burst while in flight? What if I have a flare up? What if I get sick?) The list of worries goes on and on. Yet there is always the moment you know deep in your heart that you were meant to be here, at this time, in this place, with these people.

Yesterday I walked up the gravel path to Chawton House, the home inherited by Edward Austen, Jane's brother. My breath was taken away by it's grandeur and it was love at first sight. I instantly knew that my feet were touching the same ground on which Jane and her sister Cassandra walked almost daily to visit their brother. I mounted the stone steps and rang the doorbell, honestly expecting a footman to answer. The woman in charge let me in and I bought a ticket for the lecture that evening on Emma. She asked where I was from and after telling her Texas, she insisted that she take me on a quick tour through the house, since official tours had not yet begun. We walked through the dark wood paneled rooms where the stairways leading to the other wings of the house are uneven after a few hundred years worth of being used by feet. The second floor brought us to a smaller room where a heavy tapestry curtain hung, concealing the window beyond it. As the director pushed it aside, she told me "Now this is the best view in the house." Indeed it was. The tall, paned window overlooked the lane below which I had walked on my way up to the house. I felt regal, almost royal, standing there looking down below where lighted carriages had delivered Jane and her companions to balls so long ago.

The director gestured to a chair sitting near the window and told me that this very alcove is believed to have been Jane's favorite spot in the house, and the place where she was inspired to write Mansfield Park.

My jaw almost hit the floor. I was standing in the very spot where one of the greatest, if not THE greatest, literary geniuses saw The Flash. (If you don't know what that is, see Emily of New Moon by L. M. Montgomery).

There was nothing I could say but "Wow."

It is scary being alone, but we do it to pluck up our courage for the times when we will need it most. And we do it because sometimes, if not always, the hardest things lead to the best things. I will confess, I cried a lot leading up to the moment of departure. Watching my parents wave goodbye was hard. But I took a big breath and thought "I can do this. I have to do this."

It has been lovely meeting the people who live in the village. I walked past the primary school on my way to Chawton house and St. Nicholas church and saw all the little British children playing at recess. Their accents make them all sound like royalty. A woman named Linda stopped me on the road and asked where I was from. We talked for quite a while. She called me a "brave girl" for coming all this way on my own and told me where she lived behind the pub. I would like to go and say goodbye to her tomorrow if I have time.

Traveling alone brings out the can-do attitude. When you're alone, there is no one to hide behind. As you walk along the street, you look up, smile, and say "Hi!" and before you know it, people are asking where you're from and you've made a friend. I studied many solo travel blogs before leaving, and let me just say, everything they said is true. It's scary at first, but once you've landed, there is nothing to do but enjoy yourself. Now I can say I've been to England alone and walked in the foosteps of my beloved Jane. I've touched the banister of the staircase she ascended dressed in a regency gown, probably clutching a book to her chest.

Sigh. I've succumbed to the pull of adventure and it has led me to marvelous and exotic places. 

Jane would be proud.