I'm supposed to be writing an essay on John Clare.  It's true that I do actually like the poet I'm writing on for once - Clare lacks all the airy-fairiness of Wordsworth and the 'I'm a super-sensitive soul too good for this world' affectedness of Keats, and gives more of an impression of actually being out there getting his hands dirty rather than just some idiot sitting there swooning over a Grecian urn.  That notwithstanding a day and a half isn't really enough to do him justice which is frustrating; then there's the fact I might just be wishing I could be walking alone 'down narrow lanes o'erhung with dewy thorn' at dusk instead of cooped up in this stifling room with a view of next door's brick wall surrounded by my own wall of books sipping at disgusting Tesco Gold instant coffee with my head pounding as I try and fail to think!  I've recently taken to reading and re-reading Charles Frazier's Cold Mountain instead of the things I'm supposed to be reading.  I like it (in a weird way) because it reminds me of how much I miss the Lakes when I'm here.  Home is to me almost what Cold Mountain (this mythological yet real place in the Appalachian Mountains) is to Inman: 'an upper healing realm' where 'all his scattered forces might gather.'  If only Frazier knew how much I identified with the idea of 'ridge after ridge fading off blue into the distance', or how much affinity I felt with the way outsiders perceive Cold Mountain as 'rough and cold back there.' Dear God how I wish I could just be there happily and write and walk and swim and dive and eat, drink, be merry and enjoy the company of good people forever.

Kate