Warwick

I don’t think there was anything ugly in Warwick. No, the town was almost maddeningly cute and perfect, with lots of little brick houses and walled gardens and very narrow streets. One of the most interesting spots in town was Lord Leycester Hospital, a collection of topsy-turvy 14th-century timber-framed buildings clustered around the old Norman gateway into Warwick. It was once home to Warwick’s medieval guilds, but now it’s a sort of retirement home for ex-soldiers.

 

The day we were in Warwick was frigid and crystal clear. We explored Warwick Castle for hours, climbing to the tops of towers and standing in the freezing dungeon reading messages scribbled by prisoners long ago. By the time we started making our way to our hotel, I was stiff with cold and lumbered along on numb, block-like feet.

 

I was so relieved when we finally reached Charter House, a bed and breakfast situated in a tiny, lovely Tudor cottage on West Street. The house was timber-framed and charmingly crooked, with window boxes full of frost-covered geraniums. And it was so cozy and warm inside!

 

The proprietress, Sheila, showed us to our room. I followed her in a sort of frozen daze.

 

The cottage really seemed to me like a little Hobbit dwelling; the stairs were so, so narrow and steep and winding, and the interior walls weren’t straight at all–they billowed and bulged in the most intriguing way. Rob had to duck to enter our room (the doorway was so short). There were large, dark exposed beams in the ceiling, and the floors were wonderfully creaky and slanted–hilly! I tried to take everything in and absorb the fact that we were staying in a 600-year-old house.

 

Sheila started fussing with the radiator. She was probably about 65 and very grandmotherly and kind. (She kept calling me “dear,” which I love.)

 

“Is it warm enough?” she asked. “Shall we bump it up a bit here?”

 

The room was so cozy. I was standing just inside the doorway, still in a sort of delirium. There were so many little lamps–six–and there were tea cups by the bed, along with a little pot for boiling water. There were “cakes,” too, to go with our tea (well, actually they were blueberry muffins).

 

“We keep a little sherry in the dining room,” Sheila told us. “Please help yourselves. It might help you sleep in a strange bed.”

 

I knew I wouldn’t have any trouble sleeping. This was probably the most comfortable room I’d ever been in. The bed was big and soft, layered deep with blankets and covered in a brocade bedspread. There were loads of pillows, and lots of rugs on the floor.

 

I just felt so well taken care of. So sleepy. We said good night to Sheila in a sort of haze.

 

It was only about four in the afternoon, but it was completely dark outside. I went around admiring all the room’s homey little touches. There were pretty flower-shaped soaps in the bathroom, and the towels were hanging on a warming rack.

 

“Hey Rob,” I called, “the towels are warm! They’re heated!” I’d never seen the like.

 

We were starving, but none of the restaurants in town were open yet. So we just waited, sitting in the lamplight by the miraculous radiator, reading about Warwick Castle in the souvenir book we’d bought at the castle gift shop. (Rob was reading aloud from it.) I ate my blueberry muffin. Then I fell asleep. And then it was five and time to go wandering around in the cold dark again searching for a place that served something vegan. Luckily we found a great little Thai restaurant! (The owner was so nice; she took our coats and arranged a little space heater at our feet. With a big smile she talked about how homesick she was, in winter, for Thailand. “I want to go home,” she said, saying something sad but smiling so sweetly.)

 

When we got back to our room we had the best time watching a nice, soothing, very British documentary on Victorian carpet gardens. (One fellow filled his up entirely with different kinds of lettuces.) We also got to watch a little segment about door mice nesting in a wooded highway median. I kept hoping we’d find a show about hedgehogs (the most English things I could of), but we didn’t.

 

Still, it was the best night. The room was so snug, and the bed was so soft, and I was so, so thankful to be warm.