[Nat]

I spent 7 weeks of the summer of 2004 in England. Most of that time was in Oxford, but we visited many places. The graves of dead writers. Shakespeare plays. Museums. Stonehenge. Famous and infamous gardens. Tasting the mineral water in Bath. Lots of pubs. My first Lesbian bar! A gorgeous and delightfully lonely trip by bus and train to Port Isaac on the coast of cornwall, where I stayed in a surf shack and read by candlelight and swam in the cold ocean between cliffs. I never got to Tintagel, but I saw it from a distance which might have been better.

Although I enjoyed it very much, nothing really touched me. Nothing really hit me until we visited the Haworth parsonage. At first being there was like every other place I'd been to - something worth appreciating, something to try to hold onto for later savoring. But then I walked into Charlotte's room. The moment I walked into her room, tears just jumped into my eyes. I didn't cry like a baby or anything, but it was a surprise. Of all the many places I'd been to and through, walking into Charlotte Bronte's little bedroom is the thing that moved me most of all.