By way of serendipity I am presently reading two books set on the same island: I’m visiting England in both the 9th century and the 20th. I’m going back and forth between the two and in doing so I superimpose a country at war -where violent death is not just an option but something of a near certainty – with the same country very much at peace.
A weird thing, a kaleidoscopic thing, to go from vivid war scenes to the placid description of plants a writer really dislikes. To have the time, the space, the energy to worry about floppy leaves on bergenia’s – it was brought home to me that gardens and gardeners are a by-product of ages of continued peace and prosperity. I knew this, but it was not vivid in my mind. Now, it is.
And because of this I’m shelving an idea I once cherished: even if the option opens, I will not attempt to time travel.