gem gems aka english muffin: The Most Scrumdiddlyumptious Author

Even before I learned how to turn a page, images of clever crocodiles and roly-poly birds swirled around in my little curious head, while listening to an audiobook before entering a dreaming slumber.

After learning to read, I eagerly snapped up books with generous giants, brilliantly intelligent young girls, and pots of magic potion. Not uncommon for British children of my generation (and the last one), I thought Roald Dahl was whizpoppingly magnificent.

And thus I, with a heart of 15 years ago, finally visited Great Missenden, his English village.

My grandpa's good friend Patricia lived only a three minute walk from Dahl's own gloriumptious Gypsy House. I peeked over the brick wall to see his gardens and his cozy hut in which he did much of his writing. So the magic did in fact have a starting place, an origin, a normal, real setting. Like every child who eventually grows up, I had to accept that the swashbunking Dahl was in fact human, like the rest of us.

We three then skipped down to the buzzsquiggly museum.

In two parts, historical and enjoyable (the first being both, the second being quite the latter), the museum housed many old letters and excerpts from Dahl's notebooks, as well as his old bag and old RAF pilot hat.

Dahl could not have been quite so successful without his illustrator,
Quentin Blake (another hero of mine)

A haven for imaginative young minds, the interactive museum tried its didlydupering best to encourage writing and a love of reading.

Patricia, enjoying the short film on Dahl

"I'm wondering what to read next," said Matilda.
"I've finished all the children's books."

In the gift shop I eyed plenty of lovely momentos, and the adult book shelf...which reminds me, I must email kindle about their pitiful Dahl selection...

Afterwards, Patricia, bless her, suggested we walk up the hill to the St Paul & St Peter chapel, to pay respects to the monument to the great man.

..."You seemed so far away," whispered Miss Honey, awestruck.
"Oh, I was. I was flying past the stars on silver wings," Matilda said. "It was wonderful."

The narrow road was jungle-esque, bringing to mind many ramscriddlyscotchy monkeys swinging about, perhaps one of the culprits which sparked the characters in the actual books.

The grave had several artsy momentos strewn upon it, and a handful of change from various origins, as if to say, "Yes, I live quite far away but I came here, and my appreciation for a good swifflyhuffycheding is no different from yours". I left an American quarter which was bouncing rather dejectedly around in my purse.

Roald Dahl said many catabunkdungingly brilliant things, but I'll leave you with a certain one to ponder:

"I began to think of how simple life could be, if one had a regular routine to follow with fixed hours, a fixed salary, and very little original thinking to do."

The classics...The Witches, Matilda, Charlie & the Chocolate Factory, & the BFG