One entry, four changes of train, and a page written in the future tense because I have not been.
Written as a plan. Nothing above has happened yet.
Everything I know about this place is secondhand, and I would rather say so plainly than dress up other people's mornings as my own. The claim is that the garden is held as a picture behind glass, unenterable by design, and that the discipline of it is the point.
The travel is the reason it is still on the list rather than in it. Four changes of train, reportedly, and no version of the journey that fits neatly beside anything else in this country. It wants a day given to it deliberately.
November is the season everyone names, which is either sound advice or a habit repeated until it hardened. I intend to go and find out, and this page will be rewritten in the past tense when I have.