Today, for some reason when I was wandering around campus in a bleary-eyed attempt to collect my assignments and print others (vainly dreaming that someday soon I will be done with this semester) it occurred to me why the fantasy genre was cradled and nurtured in England. My friends, it is because the winters here are miserable. It is foggy and icy, dragon breath is plentiful, winds are cutting and unkind. This place is so un-picturesque and so dull under the winter sky that it would be entirely unsurprising to see a dragon swoop down from the air. I am completely convinced that this has happened at least once: "oh, there's a dragon in the back garden again."
The British would be too cold and too even-tempered to look up or take notice. Boring environments breed wonderful stories. I have myth-busted my dreamy 15 year old self, but I now feel like there is no magic inherently sprinkled into the soil here, no standing stones imbued with power, only the roaring fires and beautifully everyday wood furnishings at The Eagle and Child.
The people who wanted to preserve the ideals of "magic sparkly druid crystal power unicorn" Britain were British nationalists...my favorite authors, people like Kenneth Grahame and T.H. White, Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. Nationalist England is a fantasy too, and it hides the real treasures of Boring Eternal Winter England, where stories originate. I don't scoff at folklore and legends, or how ancient this country truly is, but again I suggest that true magic is found in regular existence. It is possible, after all, to keep one eye open to the street in front of you and the other trained on the minotaurs and snowbeasts who are living just around the corner.
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