"London at night is absolutely stunning, and you stop and stand there and think Wordsworth got it right, there is probably no place more beautiful." For Clare Morpurgo, who grew up in London in the difficult years after World War II, the city seems remarkably friendly compared to the austere place of her youth.
But Morpurgo treasures it for its literary associations: Oscar Wilde was a guest, and Geoffrey Chaucer, author of , wrote at this site long before it was a hotel.
You can stand on the balcony from which Monet painted the Thames." But isn't it corrupting for an author to spend so much time in the lap of luxury?
Does anyone really need such a vast array of breakfast options every morning?
LONDON — How's this for a job description: Michael Morpurgo wakes up daily in a luxurious hotel suite, takes in the view of the River Thames, has a sumptuous breakfast in the dining room downstairs, then goes up to his suite and climbs back into bed. Propped up by overstuffed pillows, reclining on whisper soft, high-thread-count cotton sheets, he takes out a pad and writes longhand, scratching out novels in tortured penmanship only his wife Clare can grasp.
He writes for three hours, max, then gets up to exercise and explore.