The last “official” thing I did this morning in
There was an older gentleman that was taking money in a small hut at the home’s entrance. He was an older sartorial gentleman with a
“To see what inspired Hemingway when he looked out his window”, I told him.
“Tell me on the way out if you get what you came here for then”, the older man told me.
Walking through the grounds, I think I did get what I had come for. Although the house was full of “No Admittance” signs, and treasures under glass, there was glimmer of what the house was when Hemmingway lived there.
After poking around the grounds and home for a little while, I could see why a man could write a novel here. It is peaceful. Even with all the tourists and construction around the house, this space stepped out of that. The sounds and press of 21st century life were not present here. I can’t imagine what it must have been like in the 30’s. No trappings of text messages or CNN, just time to reflect and think.
That’s the key to Hemingway, isn’t it? It wasn’t what Hemingway did while he was at this house that was important to his work. His home in
At the point I figured that out, I left Hemingway house and