Faeries? Brian Froud. His books have sold more than eight million copies worldwide, an impressive feat by any standard. But most alluring was one simple little fact: Brian Froud absolutely and unequivocally believed in the existence of faeries.
Thanks to John Walker, I had rediscovered the legendary Brian Froud. And by some miracle, after a brief introductory phone call, the quiet, magical man had invited me to come to Devon to meet and interview him and his wife, Wendy. Wendy Froud herself is an internationally renowned sculptor and puppetmaker. Known for her work on The Dark Crystal , Labyrinth , and the sculpting of a little character from Star Wars we like to call Yoda, she is no small potato in the fantasy world, either.
I would be traveling by train to Heathrow Airport, where I would pick up my rental car and make my way to Chagford, the nearest town to the Froudâs home, a seventeenth-century thatched-roof cottage called Stinhall, located a mile or so from the village.
With Becky, Tony, and their two kids, I was properly marinated in a general feeling of safety, relaxation, and love, so the drive from Heathrow to Chagford was seeming somewhat less terrifying.
Sitting aboard the train, I was struck with a wave of gratitude for it all, and quite unexpectedly, I found myself suddenly close to tears. Twelve hundred thirty-three days ago I had lost my father. Twelve hundred twenty-four days ago I had gone back to work, walking the streets of New York City like a zombie for months on end. Seven hundred thirty-two days ago I met a man with a dimple in his left cheek named Eric at a party in Brooklyn. Thirty or so days after that, I decided I wanted to write a book about faeries. The weight of being here, on a train in England, settled in like ten pounds of gold, and my heart welled with it. I was alone, I was free, and I was here. I was living my dream.
And for the first time, it truly felt okay that I had no idea what would happen when I finally awoke. I only had to learn to trust.
7
Off to See the Wizard
At the edge of our dreams the faeries stand and wait in reflective vigil. They have waited so long, and yet so few of us have willingly crossed over the threshold.
âBRIAN FROUDâS WORLD OF FAERIE
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T HE moment I shut the car door and adjusted the mirror of my tiny rental car, my relative calm went right out the window. My budget had forced me into a manual transmission, and the stick shift was on the left. I am miserable at doing anything with my left hand.Toss into the mix driving on the âwrongâ side of the road, the twisty English roadways, my debilitating lack of a sense of direction, and little gifts from Satan called roundabouts, and youâve got one hell of a recipe for disaster.
I arrived at my first British roundabout to discover that all common sense had left me. I knew I had to drive on the left, but should I go clockwise or counterclockwise around the circle? Lord help us all, I was unknowingly ill-prepared for roundabouts! Taking a deep breath I pulled out on the left-hand side of the road, heading counterclockwise. Directly into oncoming traffic. I must have screamed. What had been an empty roundabout a split second before was now a major thoroughfare of flashing metal and blaring horns. Terror struck, and I did what any sensible person would do. I froze. And the car stalled. Shit, shit, shit! What would Lynda Carter do? Starting the engine again, I worked my foot on the clutch as I struggled to find first gear. And instead shot backward at top speed. I slammed on the brakes and finally managed to pull over. How on this sweet earth was I going to drive the three hours to Chagford? I was going to kill half the population of England.
Iâm going to go to England and prove the existence of faeries! La-la-la! Rainbows and butterflies! Teach me, faeries, and I shall live as you do, on nectar alone!
I wanted, so badly, just to smack myself, really, really
Thanks to John Walker, I had rediscovered the legendary Brian Froud. And by some miracle, after a brief introductory phone call, the quiet, magical man had invited me to come to Devon to meet and interview him and his wife, Wendy. Wendy Froud herself is an internationally renowned sculptor and puppetmaker. Known for her work on The Dark Crystal , Labyrinth , and the sculpting of a little character from Star Wars we like to call Yoda, she is no small potato in the fantasy world, either.
I would be traveling by train to Heathrow Airport, where I would pick up my rental car and make my way to Chagford, the nearest town to the Froudâs home, a seventeenth-century thatched-roof cottage called Stinhall, located a mile or so from the village.
With Becky, Tony, and their two kids, I was properly marinated in a general feeling of safety, relaxation, and love, so the drive from Heathrow to Chagford was seeming somewhat less terrifying.
Sitting aboard the train, I was struck with a wave of gratitude for it all, and quite unexpectedly, I found myself suddenly close to tears. Twelve hundred thirty-three days ago I had lost my father. Twelve hundred twenty-four days ago I had gone back to work, walking the streets of New York City like a zombie for months on end. Seven hundred thirty-two days ago I met a man with a dimple in his left cheek named Eric at a party in Brooklyn. Thirty or so days after that, I decided I wanted to write a book about faeries. The weight of being here, on a train in England, settled in like ten pounds of gold, and my heart welled with it. I was alone, I was free, and I was here. I was living my dream.
And for the first time, it truly felt okay that I had no idea what would happen when I finally awoke. I only had to learn to trust.
7
Off to See the Wizard
At the edge of our dreams the faeries stand and wait in reflective vigil. They have waited so long, and yet so few of us have willingly crossed over the threshold.
âBRIAN FROUDâS WORLD OF FAERIE
Â
Â
Â
Â
T HE moment I shut the car door and adjusted the mirror of my tiny rental car, my relative calm went right out the window. My budget had forced me into a manual transmission, and the stick shift was on the left. I am miserable at doing anything with my left hand.Toss into the mix driving on the âwrongâ side of the road, the twisty English roadways, my debilitating lack of a sense of direction, and little gifts from Satan called roundabouts, and youâve got one hell of a recipe for disaster.
I arrived at my first British roundabout to discover that all common sense had left me. I knew I had to drive on the left, but should I go clockwise or counterclockwise around the circle? Lord help us all, I was unknowingly ill-prepared for roundabouts! Taking a deep breath I pulled out on the left-hand side of the road, heading counterclockwise. Directly into oncoming traffic. I must have screamed. What had been an empty roundabout a split second before was now a major thoroughfare of flashing metal and blaring horns. Terror struck, and I did what any sensible person would do. I froze. And the car stalled. Shit, shit, shit! What would Lynda Carter do? Starting the engine again, I worked my foot on the clutch as I struggled to find first gear. And instead shot backward at top speed. I slammed on the brakes and finally managed to pull over. How on this sweet earth was I going to drive the three hours to Chagford? I was going to kill half the population of England.
Iâm going to go to England and prove the existence of faeries! La-la-la! Rainbows and butterflies! Teach me, faeries, and I shall live as you do, on nectar alone!
I wanted, so badly, just to smack myself, really, really
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