Wordsworth climbed from his carriage and held out his hand to wife Mary and sister Dorothy. The crunch of their small feet on the gravel drive startled a robin, who sang as it watched the three visitors look up at Abbotsford.
“Such a fine house and a peaceful place,” William said as the front door opened wide and their friend Walter Scott welcomed them to his home by the Tweed.
Two centuries later I walk the same gravel path and wonder about all this house has seen. Entering I see swords and stuffed animal heads, I smell well-polished wood and sense this is a loved home. In the large reception dominated by Sir Walter Scott’s writing desk, I am drawn to the window and catch my first glimpse of the shimmering Tweed.
Wordsworth may have stood right here. Did this view take his breath away too seeing the mighty river pass through his friend’s land? Or does he reflect on his own small desk at home in the attic of Rydal Mount, a smile turning his mouth as he thinks of his view across his garden to the splendour of Windermere. While he longs for home, he is excited for the days to come in stimulating company.
I explore the house and gardens half in the present, half in the past, on a beautiful spring day, remembering my husband and I walking this same route, holding hands and smiling at each other in happiness. That day too a robin sang.
