Great Missenden, Buckinghamshire

As a special post-exams treat, I caught a train into Great Missenden, the small village where Roald Dahl wrote some of his best stuff, including Matilda and Fantastic Mr Fox. It was a peaceful Tuesday morning, right up until the arrival of a horde of screaming school children. But before the horde, it was nice and quiet on the High Street, which was draped all over in Jubilee decorations.

As it wasn’t yet raining, I took my chances on a walk around town. I made my way past the local school and up a leafy lane just because it looked nice, and wound up at the local church. And then I stumbled upon Roald Dahl’s grave, which was kind of fantastic. There were heaps of really unusual mementos on his grave, including an onion, a tent peg and a 20p coin (someone splashed out). There are normally loads of chocolate bars left there, apparently, but someone must’ve got hungry. 

Can you spot the BFG's footprints?

I headed back into town and located the Roald Dahl Museum, which, of course, had been my primary objective in visiting Great Missenden. Despite being on the smallish side, it was much more satisfying than, say, the Jane Austen Museum in Bath.

The first room was Boy-themed, and contained heaps of anecdotal debris – private letters, Boy extracts scrawled on the walls with Quentin Blake pictures, a video of his sisters dishing the dirt (apparently he used to make one of them hold a cushion and shoot at her with his air rifle to see how deep the bullets penetrated), etc.

The second room was Going Solo-themed, and had lots of interesting information about his years as a pilot. He was so tall that, on his first flight, his head stuck out into the jet stream and he almost suffocated. There was a measure on the wall with character names at appropriate heights. I measure up at Mrs Twit, apparently. Brilliant.

There were also a couple of drawers full of disturbing throwbacks to his adult short stories, such as a collection of severed little fingers. Another drawer contained a shoe full of ice – Roald Dahl’s secret method of stretching too-tight shoes.

And then there was a replica of his writing shed, set up with all his clutter authentically placed. The clutter included photos of his family (normal), a massive ball of chocolate foil that he had amassed over the years (totally normal), one of his hipbones (not normal), and a bottle of his spinal scrapings (eek).

There was a whole room dedicated to his writing process, and his uncomfortable collaborations with just about everyone but Quentin Blake. Roald Dahl wasn’t a fan of the original Charlie and the Chocolate Factory movie; he felt that the Oompa Loompa song missed the whole moral point of his characters.

It was really worth the visit. On my way out, I grabbed a couple of brochures and took off on a bit of a hike through the woods, which were absolutely beautiful. In my opinion, Europe is particularly good for two things: forests and woods.

I found Grandma's bluebells!

I felt just like Beatrix Potter, Perfect Day playing in my head.

So it was with enthusiasm that I plunged into green isolation, spirits barely dampened by on-off rain and knee-deep mud. There were several points where charging through the mud was the best strategy, so I squish-jogged my way along until my feet were squelching too much to care.

I finally returned to civilisation – having only gotten lost once, score – and settled into the Café Twit, mainly to avoid the rain, but also to confront a cup of tea and a slice of blueberry cake.

When the rain took a break, I abandoned the café and hurried off to find Roald Dahl’s old house, where I failed to take photos because his wife still lives there and it felt wrong. And then onto the train, and homeward!

Matilda's library!!