Ellis' post about writers houses had me in reveries about a magical day our family spent in England several years ago. We made the pilgrimage by train from London to Roald Dahl's hometown, Great Missenden, a picture-perfect English town where we picnicked on baguettes. Dahl's house has become a museum and his "writing hut" and famous desk meticulously preserved. He wrote in a chair with a board across the arm rests and surrounded himself with strange nicknacks. It was amazing to see the world that inspired that crazy imagination.
This is how, Quentin Blake, Dahl's illustrator and collaborator, described the space:
"As he didn't want to move from his chair everything was within reach. He wrote on yellow legal paper with his favourite kind of pencils; he started off with a handful of them ready sharpened. He used to smoke and there is an ashtray with cigarette butts preserved to this day.
The table near to his right hand had all kinds of strange memorabilia on it, one of which was part of his own hip bone that had been removed; another was a ball of silver paper that he'd collected from bars of chocolate since he was a young man and it had gradually increased in size. There were various other things that had been sent to him by fans or schoolchildren."
