Hampstead

Ladies and gentlemen, Frommers has come up big once again.  You see, its become so near and dear that I sleep with it on my nightstand.  So just before I rolled out of bed Saturday morning, I reached for my trusty old guide and flipped through its now weather-beaten pages for something both accessible and cheap.  Hampstead, a trip I had dog-eared a few weeks back, seemed perfect for the day.  Popular with artists and intellectuals for centuries, Hampstead lies just outside of central London, about a twenty minute ride on the Tube.  With no traveling companion and little motivation to work out a complicated plan, I stuck the Frommers guide in my purse and headed for the door.  I figured I read the more detailed description on the Tube and plan my trip while en route.

When, in typical clumsy fashion, I stumbled out of the Tube station, I managed to stay upright for long enough to realize my trusty guidebook had directed me to just the kind of escape that I needed.  Bereft of the crosswalks and intersections that summon images of an infernal gauntlet and noticeably devoid of hordes of fanny-pack laden tourists, Hampstead actually felt distinctly like home.  Well, not exactly home, but it strongly reminded me of one of my favorite neighborhoods at home: Shadyside.  The streets, lined with modest tudor homes and populated with new parents and their blankie-toting toddlers, radiated a much more welcoming feel than those I've frequented over the past two months.  The shops, neither tourist traps nor haughty designer venues, were uncrowded and full of interesting, unique items.

After marveling at how incredibly comfortable I felt in Hampstead, I proceeded to try to use a map.  Hah.  If you think that all of those years of first-rate private education have instilled me with the ability to read a map, you are sadly mistaken.  For my first hour or so in Hampstead, I stumbled through the town, trying to reconcile the map in my hand with the landmarks in front of my face.  Through sheer dumb luck I happened upon signs marking a few of the buildings on my agenda, no thanks to my navigational skills.  Thank God for GPS!

The Burgh house, Hampstead's community center and local museum, gently introduced me to the history of the town.  Hampstead, home to the very same Hampstead Heath that inspired C.S. Lewis to pen The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, was originally marketed as a weekend and summer escape for Londoners.  After perusing the small but well-kept home for a half an hour or so, I set out in search of John Keat's house.

Tucked away on a street now referred to as Keats Grove, the celebrated poet resided in the home of his love Fanny Brawne towards the end his short life.  It was in that house that he conceived his most acclaimed work, Ode to a Nightingale.  The house-turned-museum, filled with original manuscripts, is quite well preserved and easily explored in about forty-five minutes.  After taking in the entirety of Keats' house, I ambled back towards Hampstead High Street and enjoyed a cream tea.  Oh, cream tea is the classic British delicacy which combines clotted cream and scones (and tea).  Sounds gross, tastes awesome.  After pausing to savor the afternoon in a very British way, I hopped on the Tube for a few stops to visit Highgate Cemetery.

One of London's most historic cemeteries, and final resting place to the likes of Karl Marx and Virginia Woolf's father, visiting Highgate Cemetery amidst the autumn sunshine and fallen leaves was like happening upon the set of a Halloween movie during the peaceful opening scenes.  Armed with a map of notable graves, I found the scenery perfect for an afternoon stroll.

Although I feel I made the most of my afternoon in Hampstead, I still missed out on a few of the notable sites in the area.  Hampstead, briefly home to Freud after he fled Vienna, houses a Freud museum which I've heard is quite inspiring.  And although I caught a glimpse of it from afar, I never quite made it to the Heath.