It’s hard to start writing sometimes. The words don’t always flow. I can have hundreds of ideas floating around in my brain and the whole world moving around me, but not a single sentence sounds right. My blank Word document stares at me even now, daring me to try something. Maybe paper is better. I’ll try that.
Paper didn’t help.
I’ll try a memory. One from before lockdown, when I was somewhere else—when we could travel and discover the world. Maybe there are words hiding there.
***
I remember reading Street Haunting in my first year of university. I was fascinated by Virginia Woolf’s ability to effortlessly turn observations into worlds of their own and intertwine a clear feminist agenda into these worlds without being overpowering or explicit. Everything was considered and balanced. She captivated me. She showed me what writing could be like.
I read To the Lighthouse, Mrs Dalloway, The Waves and A Room of One’s Own. I wrote essays throughout my studies that drew on her work, and creative pieces that were inspired by her stories. I wouldn’t say I was obsessed, but I was definitely passionate. I wanted to be like her, to emulate her—to be as well-read and deep-thinking as her. I idolised her.
When I went to London in 2019, the first places I visited were Tavistock Square and Gordon Square, where Woolf and the Bloomsbury Group lived and worked. I wanted to see the places that inspired her and map out where her characters walked. When I turned the corner onto the square, I expected something. I can’t say what, but I anticipated a feeling, a familiarity or a kinship. But these places were typical, unassuming squares lined with identical terrace homes. The only evidence of Woolf was a tiny blue plaque next to her old front door, with writing so small it could only be viewed from the front steps.
I was underwhelmed. But I pressed on. I channelled my inner Woolf and flâneured around the streets of Fitzrovia, Marylebone and Soho, trying to picture what it would have been like one hundred years ago with hand-lit streetlights and motorless bikes. I was on high alert for inspiration to strike, to observe a peculiar scene worthy of scribbling down. But nothing came.
I walked back to my hostel feeling further from Woolf than ever.
***
After a few weeks in London I moved to Brighton, just an hour south of London along the Sussex coast. I would be studying music, literature and philosophy—it all sounds rather romantic in hindsight. I spent weekends in Dublin, Edinburgh, Copenhagen and London. I went to the theatre and as many museums as I could. It was glorious.
I had been living there for a few months when I had a poetry assignment due, but I had no words. I decided to open Google Maps and virtually wander around the countryside for inspiration while rain drizzled outside my window.
I started at the Open Market, then followed Lewes Road past Moulsecoomb and the University of Sussex in Falmer, where I was studying, past the Park Farm Shop, then out along the A27. The first turnoff was Ashcombe Hollow. It sounded whimsical and inviting, so I followed it. The first town was Kingston—a small village with a couple of churches. Nothing out of the ordinary for this part of the world. I continued south along Piddinghoe Road. Next was Swanborough, which consisted of a single street and the Swanborough Lakes Luxury Holiday Lodges. I kept scrolling through Iford until I came across Rodmell, where a museum icon with blue writing appeared—‘National Trust, Monk’s House’.
It sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I clicked on the icon.
Author Virginia Woolf’s 16th-century country home, with personal items & art, plus flower gardens.
I was determined to visit Rodmell.
***
Pilgrimages were never something I particularly understood before I embarked on one of my own. I don’t know if I even considered it an act of pilgrimage at the time, but looking back, that’s essentially what it was. I was looking for inspiration and finding another piece of the puzzle that would make Woolf complete.
I made my way up the stone garden path at Monk’s House and into Woolf’s kitchen. The original stone floor remained; my shoes were touching the same surface as hers. A small rope guided my path into the living room, where a range of objects lay about the room; a mosaic table from her travels in Spain, a couple of armchairs for her and Leonard by the hearth, and several bookcases filled with books. I leaned over the rope slightly to read the spines of each one.
‘Looking at the books, are you?’ A volunteer wearing a National Trust t-shirt stepped towards me from his side of the rope.
I smiled and nodded.
‘These weren’t here originally—they’re just for show,’ he continued. ‘That table is original though.’
I suddenly felt like I was on a film set, waiting for the crew to barge in at any moment. The volunteer smiled at me like he’d done me a service, but I felt that same underwhelming feeling creeping back in.
I followed the rope outside onto the terrace, where a stone path led me through the cottage garden to a small orchard. At the back of the garden, I came across Woolf’s studio. Closed to the public, I could just look through the windows to see her desk and writing utensils, with a manuscript sitting atop the table—it all looked authentic enough. I walked around the outside of the studio to the front step, where signs for pilgrims and tourists alike had been mounted on the walls. They included quotes and excerpts from her work, with images of her original handwriting too. I had read most of these quotes before, but I read them all again anyway. It was part of the experience. Standing just metres from where she worked, I came across a diary entry I’d never seen before.
Friday 8 April, 1921
Ten minutes to eleven a.m. And I ought to be writing ‘Jacob’s Room’. But I can’t and instead I shall write down the reasons why I can’t – this diary being a kindly blank-faced old confidante. Well, you see, I’m a failure as a writer.
I’d never felt more like Woolf in my life.
Kate Fleming is a creative writer and freelancer from Melbourne with a special interest in sustainability, ethical fashion and women's experiences. She is the founder and editor of the Mindful Materialist Blog and has had her work published in Peppermint Magazine. You'll often find her perusing vintage stores and adding to her collection of books and house plants.