Cara/Andrea here, carrying on the library/books theme that Nicola began on Monday . . . If you’re like me, any bookstore sings a Siren song—I find it hard to pass one by without poking my head inside and exploring. Shops that carry old books are particularly intriguing, for one never knows what marvelous (to me, and not anyone else) treasure might be hiding on the shelves.
So I was delighted to stumble across a wonderful article on a very special bookshop called Heywood Hill in the New York Times this past weekend, and can’t resist sharing its story. (Oh, that I could be in London to “stumble” across it in person! It’s first on my To-Visit list for the next time I’m traveling across the Pond.)
Heywood Hill founded the small shop that bears his name (it occupies two floors of a Georgian townhouse, complete with a fireplace and chandeliers) in 1936. To say that it has an impressive pedigree is no exaggeration on many levels. Hill loved books and literature, and according to the shop’s website he liked “to sell not just the best books, old and new, but other beautiful objects and curiosities—a tradition that continues to this day.