I thought getting to Rosamunde's place in Lelant would be easy (you all know I've been there before), but taking a wrong turn onto a golf course is never helpful.
The warning came to me in the form of some men's voices deep in the heart of the West Cornwall Course.
"Wait! You aren't supposed to be here," said one.
"You might get hit!" said the other. I could have told them that I already knew this, having been yelled at years ago with friend Rosie, her Ted, and our Em. WE had wandered onto the course, prompting the manager to yell, grab his cart and whirl us away. I didn't really feel like being humiliatingly yelled at and whirled away again, so I made my escape.
The voices mercifully faded.
I hid for a while, and hiding like this made me feel strangely like Peter Rabbit escaping from Mr McGregor. But every cloud has its silver lining, and mine was the place I accidentally escaped to.
You won't believe it. The place I accidentally escaped to ROSAMUNDE PILCHER'S AUNT LOUISE'S HOUSE IN THE BOOK 'COMING HOME'! I literally gasped.
'COMING HOME' is my personal favorite of the great writer's novels, and in it we meet Aunt Louise. She is very interesting, drives like a maniac, plays golf like a man, and strikes up a friendship with an idiot named Billy Fawcett. You must read the book, and find out all about it.
I had heard (from a St Ives artist) that Aunt Louise's house in the book was actually a house Rosamunde had lived in, in real life. I had seen it once, with the Brotherly Traveler when we'd played golf in 2016, and lost a myriad of balls because it is a Links course, and almost nobody can keep track of a golf ball on a link.
The house is exactly as she had described it. That is the magic of wandering around St Ives, Carbis Bay, and Lelant, having read her descriptions. You can be directed to the places she lived in and loved, right from her own words.
Oh - and Billy Fawcett's house was there too, just where she said it was. I wonder if the people inside them know that their houses are famous to thousands, even millions of us who know the stories.
I did, finally, reach Rosamunde's house in Lelant. Standing in front of it were a group of people staring up at the lovely home. I joined them.
"Rosamunde Pilcher lived here," I whispered.
"Yes. Riverview House," someone replied.
"Americans always like British novels," said another. "They love the novels of...oh, I can't remember the author's name. What other woman British author do you love?"
I stood, unable to guess. The group finally wandered off, and as I stood taking pictures, I heard a shout.
"Hello! Hello?" the lady called from a distance.
"Yes?" I replied.
"VIRGINIA WOOLF!" she blasted. "Americans love Virginia Woolf!"
I waved at her, trying to come up with even one book I knew of by Virginia Woolf.
I'm drawing a blank.
See you along the way!
the SconeLady
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