Can You Forgive Me?

June 23rd, 2011

I am just returned from a fortnight’s sojourn in sunny California, and I have a confession to make. I was wrong about Anthony Trollope.

Flowered Fence

Flowered Fence

Three days after we arrived, an old ballet injury that had been aggravated by the plane ride began to act up with a vengeance. I spent the next week lolling about with an ice pack. Despite the pain and frustration, I have to admit that there are worse places to be stranded with a sore back (note the snapshots littered throughout this post) and I was waited on hand and foot by the world’s most attentive helpmate. Plus, for the first time I can remember, I was allowed to read just as much as I liked.

Diving into a freshly plowed field

Diving into a freshly plowed field

Among others, I made my way through two more from the Barsetshire Chronicles: Barchester Towers and The Small House at Allington. (Yes, I know I missed a couple in between, but my favorite Central Coast bookstore didn’t have them in stock.) I have to admit they were beyond charming. I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough, and spent any number of chapters laughing myself silly. I still hold that The Warden doesn’t show Trollope at his best, but perhaps he was still hitting his stride. And yes, I guess it took me a little while to get used to his style. It was sort of like the first time I read Murders in the Rue Morgue and bewailed its lack of sophistication when compared to later crime dramas; forgetting of course what those later, slicker stories owed to Poe’s trailblazing.

Bitty Bungalow

Bitty Bungalow

So I bow my head with just a touch of shame for my prior jump to conclusion, and present myself as very fond indeed of Mr. Trollope, with thanks to all those who encouraged me to give him a second chance.

Picking Walnuts

Picking Walnuts

Since I didn’t sew a single stitch while I was away, you’ll probably hear next about the rest of my recent book pile while I get back into the swing of things with my needle. It was lovely to be away; the weather was ideal and we stayed in a real California Bungalow of the most darling proportions. Despite my injuries I still managed to drink more than one cup of tea with dear friends, soak in the palm-bedecked Avila sulfur spring, and even got to feed carrots to a certain threesome of handsome horses.

Our Friends' Goats

Our Friends' Goats

  • zoh says:

    California looks spectacular! And spectacularly peaceful. Some day, i would like to live somewhere near some goats. :)

    Welcome back to NYC!

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