By: Camuel Hart
If there is any country whose weather lends itself to feelings of illness and congestion, it is England. Due in part to the perpetual rain, but perhaps mostly my lack of adequate sleep, I was brought to a state of utter fatigue and sickness. Not a worrisome, bed-ridden, miserable sickness, but a benign, minimal, melodramatic sickness. England through itchy eyes and a stuffy nose is an interesting place that anyone who visits should (and given the clime, probably will) experience. In the halls of the home of Lord Byron, all the aesthetic grandeur was humbled by the strain of my vision. The gardens achieved a dream-like quality in my intense sleepiness. My nasal congestion spared me from the ubiquitous aromas of the native wildlife. I persevered, as nothing could diminish my experience, save a torn ACL.
In spite of my mortal affliction, the endeavor was quite an enjoyable one. The large grounds leant themselves well to exploration and contemplative walks, while the tomb of Lord Byron’s dog Boatswain evoked a heartfelt sentiment in its sincerity and uniqueness. Like all great sites in England, this house was rich with history known and unknown, and provided interesting insight into the poet who resided there, as well as the robust lineage of monks who preceded him. Byron was an interesting man, who lived an interesting life in an interesting home, and left an interesting legacy.
I am glad I was able to experience it while my immune system experienced an interesting bug to feign.