Summer before last I went down to look at William and Jane Morris’ Red House, in Bexleyheath. Made it there just before they closed for the day and spent an enjoyable hour wandering about. The house is quietly spectacular, the garden is lovely but, strangely, the Morris marital bedroom is very small.
I’ve written a few short stories based on the Morris-Burden-Rossetti love triangle; they were self-indulgent, exotic and, in Rossetti’s case, certifiable.
Here’s a view of the garden at Red House from just outside the Morris bedroom door.