Day 8

Dear readers,

I apologize for my delayed correspondence—I had neither time nor internet with which to address the events of these past three days.

Before I forget, I would like to wish my grandfather, a faithful follower of these accounts, a very happy belated birthday. Were we not here, we would have celebrated with you. But upon our return, we surely will make up for our absence.

Speaking on the subject of making up for our absence, to Bath we go! Or rather, to Bath we went, three days previous. Matters were made considerably more difficult by the notable absence of my aunt and uncle and the lack of transportation to and from the house, which is, as the locals say, “Out in the sticks”—by which they mean not conveniently located nearby any easily-reached public transportation. Luckily, their lovely nanny was kind enough to drive us to the train depot from which we headed to Bath Spa station. Bath is truly charming: narrow avenues abound, and all the buildings are old and weathered. If not for the modern shops and cars zipping about, one would think they had been transported to a different time. We first toured the Roman baths--it seems impossible that anyone ever actually used them. After strolling around town a bit, we went to the History of Fashion Museum on the lower level of the Assembly Room. There, in addition to viewing some outfits with a celebrity of their own (a certain notorious Versace sheer jungle print dress, for example), my sister and I played dress up like children, lacing up corsets and trying on hoop skirts.

Is it wrong to want a hoop skirt?

We dined in town, and peeked into the Jane Austen Centre, which was full of unsettling oil paint portraits of Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy. Taking the train back, we were back at the Old Manor before dark (although “dark” here is nearly ten o’clock these days).

Yours,

A

Doing as the Romans did

Playing dress-up at the Museum of Fashion

Unsettling, no?