Today we drove down to Abbotsford, the splendid house built by Sir Walter Scott on the banks of the Tweed. The Borders were near their best with weak sunlight warming fields that had recently given up their crops and the first brush strokes of autumn tinting trees and grasses.
Abbotsford has been recently restored and is run by a trust. The ground floor of the house is fully accessible and there is a well stocked gift shop and café.
Scott was a great writer who achieved international acclaim during his life. When his printer and publisher failed financially and Scott had yet to pay for Abbotsford's construction, he was tempted to declare himself bankrupt. Instead, he wrote more novels and, shortly after his death, his creditors were paid in full. Latterly writing became a chore and a duty. He did it in a small room, now open to the public. It is lined with books, the topmost shelves being accessed by a narrow gallery. The stairs to the gallery were not the only ones leading from his workplace; another flight led to his bedchamber where he fled if unwanted visitors should call. It was strange to occupy the space in which so much great literature came into being. There were no computers then, no spell-checks, no delete buttons, only primitive pens, ink and lots of paper.
The sad thing is that Scott's style is too wordy for today's taste and the fine characters driving his excellent stories remain seldom discovered in their finely bound graves.