Ode to a Night-in-Heath

I went for a wandering run one Sunday morning. I scribbled vague directions on my hand in the hopes that I’d end up at Hampstead Heath.

Not only did I make it to this hilly pasture but I passed by Keats’ house on the way. After running up and down the Heath I was inspired to make a second trip but two hours later.

It was gray and brisk by the time I ventured out of my flat on onto the rail replacement buses. 3pm felt like 6 but I was already in motion.

I was able to make it to Keats’ residence before it closed and took myself up and around the two-story home. It’s a beautiful, white, stunner with wide windows that face small but manicured lawns to the front back and side.

There’s something oddly Southern about the home, perhaps the plane front (instead of the brick that I see everywhere here) but once inside it’s austere décor and creaky floorboards say English all the way.

It was a less-than stimulating tour since Keats’ play-by-play recorded history in the home is lacking. One suggested bedroom was dedicated entirely to a large poster of the forthcoming movie ‘Bright Star’ opening this month. A few headless mannicans stood next to it sporting the costumes of the movie's Hollywood stars.

Yeah history.



Keats’ room was the most interesting if just for the dedication to his death. A sketch of dead Keats hung to the side of the stiff twin bed. Frightening still, a floating cast of dead Keats slept eerily in a glass case near the fireplace.


Definitely cute, though, right?

However vague, you can't beat the Keats house admission for £5 and a year-long membership (‘we hope you’ll return,’ said the smiling girl at the entrance desk). Done.

I set out for Hampstead Heath, not before grabbing a cup of coffee to warm my chilled bones.

It’s just a hop and a skip from Keats’ pad so it didn’t take long before I was once again standing at the crest of the hill that looks out on Londontown. I could see the weird egg-shaped building (a.k.a the Gherkin) and the tip of the London eye.

The sun was quickly setting and the sky’s pink and purple hues against the dwindling fall foliage were stunning and not easily replicated on camera.


There were a nice group of people joining me on this Sunday sunset – families and multiple couples huddling with cups of coffee and tea against the cold.

It was a beautiful sunset.

Until I realized, shit, that’s the sun setting. Before long those cute hues faded to navy and I was searching in the near-dark for an outlet.

Not wanting to return the way I came (how boring) I decided to just hop on down the other side of the hill. Surely I could hang a left and swing back around to the park’s Southern entrance?

Not as easily done. My left hand turn veered right and before long I was speed walking through thick woods peering into the darkness. I could see the whites of my sneakers and the still-blue of the sky but that was about it.

Being caught in the woods after dark was not exactly my idea of a sightseeing adventure so I picked up the pace to a totally casual woman-in-plane-clothes-jog until I came across a small group (a woman in white pants stuck out like a SOS signal) ambling along.

This bunch of teens/adults/vampires, was a little to languid for my taste. I passed them so the serial killer in the wood could take them first, trampled through some mucky paths and followed the bright light of a street lamp (oh holy street lamp) out of the woods.

I may have exited the park about a mile north of where I came in but I was out and only slightly sweating through my too-few layers.

Nature’s bounty, fear and freedom all before 6pm.

Near-kidnap experience or know, Keats sure knew how to string a few words together. I might just have to see that film anyhow.

Ode to a Nightingale (stanza III)

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.