THE MOTHERLAND OF cozy is England. Of course, this isn’t true for everyone, but even though my Anglophilia is so white-bread and old-fashioned, I can’t help it—I’ve felt a seismic pull since I was a child hiding under the piano secretly watching the BBC’s Upstairs, Downstairs when my parents thought I was asleep. It was written in the sand that I make a cozy pilgrimage there because, well . . . Chariots of Fire; lapsang souchong and trucker teas; roses; butchers; English accents; Jamie Oliver and Hugh Grant; curries; beans and toast; Victoria sandwich cake; fried shrimp scampi; pasties and Cadbury English Flake; dog culture; Hogwarts; parks; manners; the Beatles, bagpipes, and the Rolling Stones; Wolf Hall and Downton Abbey; row houses; The Great British Baking Show and HELLO! magazine; the Tube; all monarchs going back to the 800s; Floris bath oils; rain; Jane Austen, Emily Brontë, Merchant Ivory, Virginia Woolf; tartans; thistles; Nigel Slater; sheep; rolling hills; Dickens. I get it that a lot of this is fattening food, murderous monarchs, and heartbreak, but it’s in my blood.
The bigger picture here, of course, is not that England is the be-all-end-all of cozy, but rather that if you think about who you are, gather your personal experience, and meditate on what you feel connected to, you can journey literally or figuratively to a place that brings you great comfort. I have a jug of thistles sitting right in front of me in New York City because I know every time I look at them, I feel solid—a puzzle piece has settled in. The prickly, spiky bloom happens to be the floral emblem of Scotland.
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THE FIRST DAY in England, I met up with long-time pal Nina at the train station and off we went on the Tube to the Tower of London.
Nina had been studying gardening at the English Gardening School, so we talked a lot about that on the way there, and as I wasn’t going to visit a garden, I pulled out my notepad.
“I think gardening in England is cozier than anywhere else. Maybe also cozy in other places, but not as cozy—and roses are the coziest of all. Brits have a really tender and important relationship with their roses.”
Nina went on as I took notes.
“Maybe picking flowers and arranging them is quite cozy. [Agreed—see the flower chapter.] I suppose planting bulbs is really the coziest, as you’re making little homes for them, away from harm and danger—it’s very much about finding them a private, nourishing place to wait out the season and then really rooting for them to pop up and out and visit.”
Soon we were at the Tower of London. Succumbing is a huge part of coziness—giving in, fully committing. In a museum, that could mean getting the map, investing in the audio guide, or perhaps simply breathing. Your imagination can do its job more effectively when you breathe.
Just as she’d said she would, Nina gave in to all things 1500s England. We donned our earphones, linked arms, and ventured into the past. A very important part of being cozy is letting yourself get swept away by the narrative as if you were a child. The problem with cynicism or resistance in a place like a museum is that it robs you of asking the important question, What if? What if you were a courtier in Henry VIII’s court? What if you got to wear the crowns and silk robes with embroidered thistles? What if you were Anne Boleyn, locked away in the dark, cold, wet tower?
LIST OF COZY THINGS ABOUT THE TOWER OF LONDON