You remember Coleridge of course - he wrote such classic poems as The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Kubla Khan...
whilst out of his tree on a pharmaceutical mixture of alcohol and opium.
Well he did it, over three years, here:
|This is actually the Victorian extended improved version|
This was the first parlour. When they had house-guests like William and Dorothy Wordsworth (who stayed for months at a time), those lucky guests slept in here:
|This photo slightly exaggerates the size of the room|
This was the main parlour where the family lived (Coleridge, wife, children, guests) hung out in the daytime and Coleridge wrote at night:
This was where Sara Coleridge cooked, in the lean-to. There was no oven of course - she had to go down the street to use the bakers' oven like everyone else.
And upstairs the family and their servant girl all slept in one room.
The whole place was overrun with mice, btw. It must have been disgusting. And mind you, this was a respectable middle-class household, quite comfortable by the standards of most people. It wasn't like any of the men were doing manual labour for a living - they wrote poetry and newspaper articles and indulged in long walks on the hills, and generally left any hard work to wives and 12-year-old servant girls.
|The cottage had its OWN WELL! Luxury!|
|He was a piss-poor gardener as well.|
It's a reminder that writing talent, virtue and - apparently - hygiene are in no way connected to one another.