“Half memoir, half travel, A Yank Back to England...is an absolutely wonderful book, not only about going home again but also about love and family and tradition and the passage of the years.” —Michael Dirda, Pulitzer Prize-winning literary critic (Washington Post) To see the entire quote, click here.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Who knew this was here?
The Hilton House had nothing to do with the hotel chain. Located just beyond Gatwick Airport near the village of Cuckfield, the former Victorian country mansion had been gently converted into a private hotel. Lounges were filled with large overstuffed chairs. The music room had a baby grand. We found the conservatory filled with a wide array of exotic foliage, pineapple plants and orchids. As we walked through, the glass doors that led outside were flanked by tumbling rose shrubs and hyacinth. We strolled onto the grounds across a carpet of green. Old stone birdbaths were surrounded by islands of geraniums, well-weathered park benches were perfectly placed for guests to enjoy the views beyond the garden.
Standing, from L to R: Lew (Dad), Frances (Prodigal Wife), Denis (The Prodigal Tourist), and Jessie (Mum). Floating: Kate (Prodigal Daughter).
About this blog
You are reading random vignettes, deleted scenes, and other extras from and about my book, A Yank Back to England: The Prodigal Tourist Returns. Enjoy, let me know what you think, ask questions, and thanks for your support! Cheers, The Prodigal Tourist
Years ago I shed my Cockney accent and left London's blighted East End for America. Since then, I’ve only returned to see my increasingly cantankerous parents and assorted relatives. Until my American wife comes along. She wants to tour, see the sights. No thank you. It’s not for me. But she insists, and I become a reluctant tourist in my former homeland.