My net is almost indistinguishable from that which it surrounds. It lifts whales — huge leviathans
and white jellies, what is amorphous and wandering; I detect, I perceive. Beneath my eyes opens—a book;
I see to the bottom; the heart — I see to the depths.”
V. Woolf, The Waves
Ewa’s book has been writing its own story for almost a year now, and it doesn’t stop in this inky stream of intertexts — like the “thought that knows no dam and follows the heart” from a poem by Juliusz Słowacki or the boundless net from The Waves by Virginia Woolf. It has found its home on three continents already, in fifteen countries and on several islands, places so unique that it is impossible to describe them without using passages from poetry. With its words, it has touched the heartstrings of many sensitive souls, and has given rise to new relationships, sequences of events, challenges, journeys, goals that set the course for a road that has no end. Ewa’s constant presence in the lives of those who now smile (even through the tears) at these words reflects this endlessness of the journey in the best way.
„The road now leads onward — As far as can be
Winding lanes — And hedgerows in threes
By purple mountains — And round every bend
All roads lead to you — There is no journey’s end”
L. McKennitt
In May, Ewa’s book — and thus, symbolically, Ewa herself — embarked on a sentimental journey in her own footsteps, but at the same time blazing many new paths, not only those belonging to the world of thought.
In 2012, Ewa had carried out a library study in Bangor, gathering material for her dissertation, and the memory of her Welsh peregrinations warmed her heart to the end of her earthly days. Anyway, best to give the floor to Ewa herself:
I set off along the same route — via Liverpool and Chester. In each of the places Ewa mentioned there is now her book. In Liverpool I discovered an extraordinary place: Big Little Library. You can come there, have a read, take a book for free and donate your own. The array of genres is really impressive. The first book I spotted on the shelf was Malory’s Le Morte D’Arthur. Now it’s with me, and the gap on the shelf has been filled by Ewa’s book — received by the staff with sincere emotion. At the time, I did not yet know that I would be preparing for publication Ewa’s master’s thesis entitled The Arthurian legend from the Victorian perspective in Tennyson’s “Idylls of the King”, in which Malory plays first fiddle.
In Chester, I had an appointment with the lady at the Amblongus Books antique shop. The room is tiny, resembling a hobbit’s burrow, but filled with collections most precious. This second-hand bookshop specialises in 19th century literature, literary history and mythology. At the sight of Ewa’s book and the special bookmarks, the lady even squeaked with excitement. She was even worried that one copy would not be enough.
The mists that at one point shrouded the landscape along the route could only be the sign of one thing: of crossing the border between England and Wales. Bangor — the ‘city of learning’ — appeared before my eyes. I knew that Bangor and Snowdonia were engraved in Ewa’s heart in golden letters. The printed photographs visible in the pictures were taken by Ewa (or of Ewa). I wanted to recreate them and leave a symbolic mark on the places captured. On Garth Pier I found the bench where Ewa had posed, and left there a laminated bookmark from the collection promoting the book. The pier was shrouded in the morning fog, bringing to mind the term ‘otherworldly’ — as if it was a link between two worlds. Perhaps it was? The benches and railings on the bridge caught my eye with commemorative plaques and touching epitaphs, among which I even spotted a Polish name. I have been exploring Great Britain for years, and I delight in it anew each time. I think I am always most moved by the typically British customs of commemorating loved ones: plaques on benches, bridges, often decorated with fresh flowers and laminated messages. All this is surrounded by respect, treated with empathy and gentleness, there is no question of devastation. Whenever I visit the British Isles, I have the impression (and I know that I am not alone in this feeling) that the barrier between the visible and the invisible world, between the world of the living and the world of the dead, between the internal and the external landscape, wanes there like nowhere else.
I was lucky to catch a snippet of the evening service in two languages (English and Welsh) at Anglican cathedral in Bangor, an unusual experience given that there was only one person sitting in the church pews. I lit a candle for Ewa in the cathedral, and my heart was left with the memory of the unusual green glow lining the entrance to the building.
I also did not deny myself the pleasure of visiting Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllllantysiliogogogogoch (no, it wasn’t a cat that just ran across my keyboard — Wales is fond of similar placenames). And there too I left a bookmark as a token of Ewa’s presence.
My visit to Llanberis and an evening conquest of Dolbadarn Castle was also full of impressions and emotions. I don’t think there was a huge Excalibur-shaped sculpture yet in 2012. Ewa would have been delighted. Amidst the ruins, jackdaws has woven a nest of sheep’s wool. One of them, posing in the last rays of the sun, came out in the photo as if it had a few red feathers. Slightly foxed — one would like to say.
The time for the most important purpose of the visit to Bangor came on the next day: I made the donation of the book to the university library. It was received, as everywhere else in Britain, with a great deal of emotion — mutual one, as the librarian took meticulous notes of what I was telling her. In this way the book returned to the place where much of it has had its source.
From Wales I set off towards Haworth with a stop at Hepstonstall, where there is a churchyard with the grave of Sylvia Plath. Near the church is a bookcrossing stall where I also left Ewa’s book. To Haworth wrapped in Wuthering Heights I return as if it were my second home — this was my fourth visit there. The plaque on Ewa’s Bench has been doing well, sparkling golden in the centre of Main Street since last March. When I walked into the nearby “Oh la la” shop and shyly whispered that I was from Poland, the saleswoman responded with the words: “The bench, Ewa!” and hugged me tightly (me and my wet cape, in which I resembled a soggy bat), which was a particularly moving moment, as was meeting David in the Wuthering Heights pub. Having kissed me on the cheek, David (the creator of the bench), picked up Ewa’s book and kissed her picture on the back cover. They say that paper doesn’t blush, but this time it had to be different. Wanting to explain why I love England so much, I may only invoke this gesture. It says it all. And England loved Ewa.
The road led me northwards, bringing me closer and closer to the Scottish border. It was a wonderful experience to reach Holy Island (Lindisfarne). The hours of low tide, allowing safe passage, were favourable. I didn’t miss leaving Ewa’s book in the beautiful “Books by the Sea” bookcrossing booth next to St Mary the Virgin Church. At the signpost I noticed a moro baseball cap left by someone, which I have since worn like an amulet. I followed the signpost I saw before. When I reached the beach overlooking the islet of St Cuthbert with its distinctive cross, I noticed a beautiful bench with the words “Over the rainbow…”. I decided to leave my laminated bookmark there — hoping it would end up in good hands. A few minutes later, I spotted something colourful under another bench, pressed by a black pebble. It was a piece of handicraft — a flower painted in watercolours with a message attached for the lucky finder. When I typed the pseudonym of the signed artist into the search engine, the name “Eve” popped up. A wave of emotion came over me. There could hardly be a more beautiful sign of the Presence that I longed for.
On the way back I visited the Slightly Foxed second-hand bookshop in Berwick-upon-Tweed — the first bookshop in the British Isles that agreed to accept Ewa’s book. And the most beautiful one in the whole of the UK. I had previously stated this a priori, and my visit in May not only confirmed this sentiment, but heightened it. The ‘foxy’ interior, with its distinctive mural dome crowned with an oculus, is very impressive and evokes a passage from a song by Enya: “Imagine sky high above in Caribbean Blue”. Note the beautiful wall art by the poetry section with volumes turning into birds. This is where Ewa has her corner. A few days after my return to Poland, Claire and Lisa of the Slightly Foxed shared a happy piece of news: more copies of the book had been sold (seven have been sold there so far). Fortune — tickled by the wing of my Angel — smiled on the place where this unique book was treated with the utmost respect and tenderness. Looking at the numerous images of foxes adorning the interior of the bookshop, I had the impression of hearing them whisper the last sentence from the Fleabag series, shyly pointing with their paws to the vault of the dome with its little window to the sky: “[S]he went that way”.
She went that way.
Translated by Jakub Niedziela