I sometimes believe in second chances, thus haven’t written bed-and-breakfasts off for good. A friend of an acquaintance runs one called Two Rose Cottages, about an hour away from London. Everything I hear and read about it sounds (as many English people would say) “splendid,” and I would love to spend a night there the next time I’m in the area.
When I was 19, I studied abroad in England, had a blast, and haven’t been back since. I was there very briefly and had such a magical time, so long ago, it all seems like a dream (a friend who I went with remembers it in a similarly happy haze) until I look through dusty old photo albums and see page upon page of proof that it really happened. It wouldn’t be hard to get myself back there this year. I considered going last year, and maybe a couple of years before that, always voting against it in the end.
I used to know someone who adored her undergraduate university to the point where she chose not to stay for grad school because she figured her life as a grad student would be heavier, and didn’t want to create any non-idyllic associations with that school. The more I’ve thought about it (the tweets I get from this English bed-and-breakfast have triggered the thinking), I suppose I understand what she means.