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A Literary Pilgrimage

Leslie-S-Lee
@ TheWalkingWord

I recently spent two months backpacking alone through England and Scotland. Needless to say, it was an incredible experience; it was, without a doubt, the most exhausting, stressful, exhilarating, lonely, and absolutely fun two months of my life.

But by the time I reached the little town of Grasmere, England, with just a week and a half left on my itinerary, I was a bit worn down. I felt like a snail, carrying my home around on my back. My shoes were patched with duct tape. So when I stumbled into the Grasmere youth hostel, grumpy and tired due to my heavy pack and the three mile walk from the bus station, the last thing I wanted to do was take a hike out of town to visit some museum.

However, tea and a shower will do wonders, so I headed out late that afternoon to the Wordsworth Museum and Gallery. I was still grumpy when I reached Dove Cottage (again, my shoes were patched with duct tape) home of the Romantic poet William Wordsworth. But that grumpiness faded away as a pony-tailed tour guy lead us through the tiny, soot-blackened rooms where this literary giant lived with his wife, children, and sister. In the back of the cottage is a steep hill, which William’s sister, Dorothy, cultivated into a wildflower garden. At the very top, overshadowed by pine boughs, rests a stone bench overlooking the garden, the cottage, and the lake beyond. Apparently Wordsworth sat there often, writing and contemplating.
Sitting on that bench, I felt as though I had unconsciously made a pilgrimage there in order to better understand the man whose words have moved so many, including me. This is what people mean when they talk about “literary travel”—the delight, the wonder, and the insatiable allure of tracing an author’s footsteps wherever they have imprinted across the globe. Literature is always inextricably linked with the surroundings and experiences of its author. Witnessing that link can be an inspiration. For Wordsworth, writing and traveling were both ways to connect with the world around him. In his words, “The earth is all before me: with a heart joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about; and should the chosen guide be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.”