Exploring Aging vs Longevity

in the tranquil setting where Virginia Woolf's influence defies time

In the tranquil Sussex countryside, where time seems to stand still, a simple 100-year-old house challenges our sense of aging vs longevity. Here, amidst the literary echoes of Virginia Woolf and her beloved Monk’s house, the question arises: Is aging the same as longevity?

Come with me through the nooks and crannies of Monk’s House as I come to see aging as merely an inevitable biological process but longevity as a transcendence of life’s physical confines to the lasting influence of an intellectual legacy.

Virginia Woolf and husband Leonard purchase Monk's House, nestled in the heart of rural Sussex, in 1919. Its rustic simplicity and 'no buses, no water, no gas, no electricity' are a world away from the hustle and bustle of London's Bloomsbury.

Whitewash, weatherboard and thatch ably describe this nook of the Sussex countryside. Monk's House is actually three small terraced workers’ cottages opened up to accommodate the famous couple and their equally famous guests.

To step inside is to step back in time into an intimate home full of the couple's favourite things.

Eyes are immediately drawn to the heavy supporting posts, which indicate where the original cottages started and finished, the only things out of proportion with the tiny rooms. Cottage-height ceilings with exposed dark beams create a cosy, homely feel with appropriately proportioned red-brown flagstones and vintage rugs. A fireplace takes on new significance in a home minus utilities taken for granted in London society.

Edwardian green walls are adorned with artwork by Virginia's sister Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant. Eclectic but functional furniture includes a dining table and chairs painted by Bell and Grant with Virginia's initials in the design. As I move to re-align one of the chairs a couple of inches, I hear the voice of the National Trust remind me from the corner, 'Don't touch'. I am instantly snapped back into the present.

A bust of Virginia, by Stephen Tomlin, sits on the windowsill, light flooding in around her.

Leonard's desk is covered with the correspondence of a writer, socialist and journalist. His chair is pushed back as if he is taking a walk in the garden.

I am drawn to the small, intimate sitting room with three mismatched but comfortable chairs. Could I sit for just a minute and join the engaging thought-provoking conversation?

Outside, the quintessential English country garden, created by Leonard, is formed into 'rooms by the original cottages' red-brick paths heading straight from their back doors to the bottom of their long, narrow gardens.

We are indulged with Spring colour: dusty pink roses, pink and white anemones, brilliant orange-red flowing nasturtium, and bright yellow-petaled daisies with contrasting purple-brown eyes.

The enviable vegetable plot is a required feature of a house in the country in post-WW1 England. The orchard with leaning apple trees, espaliered pears, and two bee hives inspired Virginia's short story "In the Orchard'.

Tucked away in the back garden between the orchard and an expansive lawn is Virginia's Writing Lodge.

A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.

The unpainted weatherboard single-room lodge is a sanctuary envied by all aspiring writers who visit. A worn-out but functional timber desk sits in the centre of the room on an equally worn rug not entirely covering the raw timber floor. Between two desk draws either side is a simple rattan-seated chair. A respite, more comfortable chair sits in the corner.

Copies of The Times, which probably arrived with the weekend guests from London so the Woolfs could catch up on the latest world events, rest to one side.

Writing paper, pens and ink pots, scrumpled paper, a leather bound diary, simple round horn-rimmed spectacles evidence work in progress. Mind you, I am led to believe that this is tidy compared to her normal state of the room. Lytton Strachey once observed that 'the place was littered with filth; packets of pen nibs, cigarette ends and scraps of writing'.

A pushed-out chair suggests that Virginia has stepped out for air and inspiration.

While she is out.....

I sit and immerse myself.

Light streams in from the orchard behind me.

Looking up from my work, I am immediately drawn to the view through the thrown-open double doors revealing the full vista across the expanse of lawn to the Sussex Downs in the distance. Low, fluffy white clouds converge with the landscape at the horizon.

I venture out and take a moment to sit in one of the deck chairs. I introduce myself to John Maynard Keynes, T S Eliot, E M Forster or any of the guests visiting this perfect Spring afternoon. Bowls or croquet, anyone?

No, there’s no one there. I sit in a deck chair and contemplate aging and longevity. It becomes evident that longevity, as illustrated by Virginia Woolf's profound intellectual legacy, is not bound by her physical markers of time but by the enduring impact of her contribution. Virginia’s insights are just as relevant 100 years later.

Her complex narrative structures might belong to a bygone era but still provide a cognitive fitness workout for my aging brain. What would she have thought of a 280-character tweet, a 250-word Atomic Essay, or the enormous amount of banal content on the internet today? Short sentences with much white space reduced to ‘bite-sized’ packets of triteness? No, give me the meaty sentences of ‘A Room of One’s Own’ or ‘Three Guineas’ that take time to digest and leave an aftertaste that repeats, giving the brain something to ponder over and over.

Her longevity also exists thanks to the National Trust, who maintain this precious property. Writers can wander and be inspired by a life cut short, what could have been and ‘what is’ in the form of her enduring legacy.

Her ability to engage readers through her indelible impact on literature affirms that true longevity is measured not by years lived but by the lasting impressions left on the world and the minds of those who continue to explore her rich literary legacy.

A visit to Woolf's Monk's House encourages us to seize the day, find beauty in the ordinary, and create spaces that echo our deepest selves as we acknowledge the fleeting nature of our existence.

My favourite Substacks this week:

Everyone needs a place for the stories they don't want to tell by Susan G.S.Abel

Living Without Borders by Cathey Cone

What I’m Reading by Cindy O’Dell