It’s the middle of April, and it looks like spring is finally upon us. The early flowers are poking their heads above the earth, trees are starting to bud, and while there’s still the possibility of snow should the temperatures drop a bit, any such insult would be fleeting. And, of course, in the spring, a not-so-young woman’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of travel.
In general, I’m ready to leave for anywhere at a moment’s notice. I travel light and my passport is up to date, and I love an adventure. We have a big trip back to the UK planned for later this year, when we take our daughter there for university, and… did I mentioned I’m packed and ready to leave anytime?
I’m also working on a novel that sees Our Dear Couple scampering around Britain on a not-entirely-planned journey. Many of the places they pass through are places I’ve seen, but many are not, and that means research. Oh, that the research would be conducted in person, but alas, that is not possible at the moment; therefore, other means will have to suffice.
A NEW MAP OF THE KINGDOME of ENGLAND, Representing the Princedome of WALES, and other PROVINCES, CITIES, MARKET TOWNS, with the ROADS from TOWN to TOWN
We have the advantage, today, of checking out our routes on Google Maps with street view, and trying to apply a mental filter to recreate the scenes as they were 200 years ago. As the roads pass through a village, we can look at the old church and think, “that was here,” but then mentally erase the supermarket across the street, or replace the car dealership with an old mill.
This is helped a great deal by finding time-appropriate source material, in the form of drawings and paintings, or descriptions from travelers.
This latter leads us to the amazing world of travel writing. This was a popular literary genre that could take many forms: travel guidebooks, travelogues and descriptions of travel, even fiction.
I’m sure you all know this scene from Northanger Abbey, when Catherine Morland is walking with Henry and Eleanor Tilney:
They determined on walking round Beechen Cliff, that noble hill whose beautiful verdure and hanging coppice render it so striking an object from almost every opening in Bath.
“I never look at it,” said Catherine, as they walked along the side of the river, “without thinking of the south of France.”
“You have been abroad then?” said Henry, a little surprised.
“Oh! No, I only mean what I have read about. It always puts me in mind of the country that Emily and her father travelled through, in The Mysteries of Udolpho.
The most amusing part of this exchange is that Ann Radcliffe, who wrote Udolpho, had likewise never seen the south of France. Despite the extensive passages in her books about the regions were her characters travelled, often long and intricately detailed, she, too, derived all her knowledge from travel guidebooks, paintings, letters from young gentlemen on their Grand Tours, and the like, as well as her own gothically-inspired imagination.
In one letter, she wrote this of a painting by Claude Lorrain (1600-1682):
In a shaded corner, near the chimney, a most exquisite Claude, an evening view, perhaps over the Campagna of Rome. The sight of this picture imparted much of the luxurious repose and satisfaction, which we derive from contemplating the finest scenes of nature. Here was the poet, as well as the painter, touching the imagination, and making you see more than the picture contained. You saw the real light of the sun, you breathed the air of the country, you felt all the circumstances of a luxurious climate on the most serene and beautiful landscape; and the mind thus softened, you almost fancied you hear Italian music in the air.
What of less dramatic travel writing? With the improvement in roads in the later part of the 18th century, travel became more accessible to the average person (or those, at least, with some disposable income and a good amount of time). We know from Pride and Prejudice that touring great houses was a normal part of travel, and there are many accounts of the best sites to see and places to visit.
Since my novel-in-progress takes my characters through parts of Wales, I went in search of some contemporary accounts of that beautiful country.
I, personally, have found Wales to be stunning almost beyond belief, but it seems that my tastes were not always matched by some earlier travelers. It is interesting, in the accounts, to see how perceptions and expectations changed over the course of about a century.
For your entertainment, I give you some excerpts from 18th– and 19th-century travelers’ accounts of Wales.
1701, north Wales
The Country here looks like the fag end of Creation, the very rubbish of Noah’s Flood.
—probably Edward Bysse, A trip to North Wales (London, 1701)
1720s
Daniel Defoe thought the mountains of Breconshire were ‘horrid.’
In Glamorganshire ‘We began to repent our curiosity, as not having met anything worth the trouble; and a country looking so full of horror that we thought to have given over the enterprise and have left Wales out of our circuit but after a day and night conversing thus with rocks and mountains, our guide brought us down to a most agreeable vale … called the Taff.
In Montgomeryshire ‘we were so tired with rocks and mountains we wished heartily that we had kept close to the sea shore …’
—Daniel Defoe, (1660/1661 – 1731), Curious and diverting journies, thro’ the whole island of Great-Britain
1796 Penmaenmawr
I never shall forget part of this stage, to a person inclined to observe nature, there are scenes here that are really awful to behold. The mountains over you, the sea at such a perpendicular depth below, with only a four foot wall between you and the precipice, and the jumblement (if I may be allowed the expression) of the materials of the great creator seem to give us some notions of what might have been before the world was formed and tell us how insignificant the finest and most elegant work of man is when compared with the very rudest of Nature.
—Ellen Taylor, A tour in England and Wales
1831, Vale of Llantysilio, near Llangollen
A fragment of heaven accidentally dropped upon earth.
—John Parker (1798-1860), The Passengers (Travels through Wales), (London, 1831)
In my novel, so far bereft of a title, Elizabeth and Darcy end up near Llangollen, and I hope my they also think it a fragment of heaven actually dropped upon earth. I have finished a first draft and just received a first set of comments from a trusted alpha reader, so keep your eyes open within the next few months for a tale of travel… and more!
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