I dream about you sometimes. The dreams are always pale, disjointed, and not at all like the reality but they make me happy nonetheless.
It's been five years since my visit. I think of you often and how soon I can return.
I love your history. I want to study it.
I love your literature. I want to study that too. Especially John Ronald, James, Jo, Jane, and Jack. And some Will and okay, maybe a little Geoffrey. Just a little. Uncle Geoff, you may be a distant relation, but your stories are weird.
Is it completely mental for me to say that I miss your cities and countrysides, England? That I think back on your twisting, maze-like streets, your ancient hills, and your cute-as-a-button bed and breakfasts with longing comparable to homesickness?
I can't pick one favorite place. I loved it all. York was so wonderful, I had to use it in a story. Lacock was absolute enchantment. I wish I would have walked around that place more. And I'm still kicking myself that I went all the way to Oxford and forgot to ask where John Ronald used to work. Really!? At least I got to go to The Eagle and Child where he and Jack and their other mates got to hang out.
Next time I come, England, I want to go to more castles. Like Alnwick Castle. And pass through York again. I'd love to ride the train and visit other historic sites in London. I want a picture by the statue of Peter Pan. I want to talk to more of your people, visit your LDS temples and churches, see and feel and breathe in every moment.
And I'd love to fight the temptation to do a spirited impression of Robin Hood in the movie Men in Tights when he arrived on your shores: kneeling on the ground, arms outstretched, exclaiming "Home! Home! England!" then bending down and kissing the ground.
But that would be undignified.
Give my regards to William and Kate.