Like half-apologetic voyeurs, we ventured through the former house of Dickens; thrilled to see his writing desk, touched by the mementos, and visualising family events from the grief of a young sister’s death to bon viveur dinner parties with the literary elite. Here 2 of the 10 children were born, as were the less fortunates: Oliver Twist and Nicholas Nickleby. How apt that this most renowned Victorian should choose a street, named for the qualities of stoutheartedness, to make his first family home in.
“When I speak of home, I speak of the place where in default of a better–those I love are gathered together; and if that place were a gypsy’s tent, or a barn, I should call it by the same good name notwithstanding.” (Nicholas Nickleby)
And so to our own home – the beacon at the end of a cold, wet and windy night. After the snug of the pub, the Italian food and clatter, after a walk through lights and puddles, linked through the arm of my well-beloved for warmth and the sheer pleasure of togetherness. That is Home: the weekly photo challenge
Charles Dickens Museum