"Damn British bastards. The most wicked things in the world are all made by the Brits."
It had already been fifteen days since I completed my latest work, made an excuse to the publisher about an interview, and went on a trip.
The days spent in the UK were fantastic.
By fantastic, I mean they felt unreal and horrible.
The fish and chips were soggy, the beer was lukewarm, and the tea was bland. What's so great about being the country of tea?
For me, tea means green tea or yuzu tea, and a post-meal drink should be an iced Americano, even if it's freezing outside.
No wonder, a nation that mixes mint with chocolate produces such bizarre food. British cuisine is for those with no taste.
I wanted to return to Korea right away. I kept imagining spicy kimchi stew with a bowl of rice mixed with stir-fried pork.
But it would be a waste of the plane ticket, and my professional duty to complete my pilgrimage held me back.
Most of those pilgrimage sites turned out to be incredibly disappointing.
The Globe Theatre wasn't anything special, 221B Baker Street had an expensive entrance fee with little to see, and the supposed King Arthur's tomb at Glastonbury was less interesting than the abbey itself. And why was platform 9 ¾ at King's Cross Station between platforms 8 and 9 instead of 9 and 10? That woman made a serious mistake with her research.
This made me think more and more that my sense of duty was nonsense, and that coming here was a mistake.
This time was no different.
For heaven's sake, even if they brought in a 1940s bus for the tourist concept, shouldn't only the exterior be retrofitted? What were they thinking, having an engine from the 1940s?
"Seriously, if it weren't for this house…"
Greenway House, Torquay, Devon.
The former residence of the Queen of Mystery, Agatha Christie, in her later years, and a sort of holy site for mystery novel enthusiasts.
Though I had moved on to other interests, I was once deeply into mystery novels during high school, and I had always wanted to visit at least once…
"Nothing much."
The house itself had a dull design, which was understandable given the era it was built in.
It wasn't like it was the time of avant-garde surrealist houses like today.
But just like 221B Baker Street with its Sherlock Holmes Museum, these places ended up feeling like ordinary homes.
There were many personal items and collections used by the writer during her lifetime, which could be useful as material, but it still felt like a real house from the modern era.
Perhaps it's better to keep dreams as dreams? When you finally visit a place you've longed for, it's bound to be disappointing.
As I was thinking that and turning away,
"You're very thorough with your inspection."
"Huh?"
I turned around to see an elderly white woman looking at me with a mysterious expression.
Her face seemed familiar, but…
I couldn't tell. She looked like someone I had never seen before.
"Excuse me, ma'am. Were you talking to me?"
"Oh my, you speak our language very well. Are you from the East Colony?"
"Pardon?"
Colony? I was taken aback and asked again.
Seriously, in the era of DTS and Squid Game, there are still such outdated racists?
No, looking at those wrinkles, she must be old enough to have been around during Margaret Thatcher's time.
Okay, maybe she just doesn't know how much the world has changed.
I forced a smile and replied.
"No, I'm a novelist from Korea. I learned English while serving in the KATUSA, working with the U.S. military."
"I see. Then you're from the West Colony?"
"Ha ha ha ha."
Even after explicitly naming the country, she reacted like this.
Are the British just inherently unpleasant, even if they seem nice?
Whether she knew what I was thinking or not, the elderly woman's eyes sparkled as she spoke.
"Anyway, a novelist, huh… So, you came here to trace the footsteps of your predecessor?"
"That's correct."
"Interesting. What kind of novels do you write? Could I read a bit?"
"Oh, sure."
I naturally pulled up my work on my smartphone and handed it to her.
She took out her glasses and started scrolling through the screen.
Wait, my work has never been published in English. How is she reading it?
As I pondered, she nodded as if she understood and began to speak.
"I see, this style, huh."
"Is it readable?"
"Well, it's quite readable. The dialogue is overly abundant, and the sentences are too short, making it overly sensational, but it has its own appeal."
"Uh, um."
So, how is she reading it…?
I couldn't say anything due to the inexplicable sense of intimidation from her.
"To be honest, it makes me think times have really changed. Was it the Beatles? I really disliked that band, but young people worship them like Handel."
"Is that so?"
The comparison is too different!
I was speechless. But wasn't Handel German?
"What about you? Why do people today prefer such sensational creations like your writing or Beatles music?"
"Honestly, comparing my work to the Beatles is a bit overwhelming…"
I scratched my head as I said that.
Hmm, how should I explain this?
"Well, to put it simply, it's because people are too busy."
"Busy?"
"Yes, well."
I don't know much about the Beatles. I only know they were a legendary band that broke up before I was born.
So, let's focus on explaining web novels.
I thought that and spoke slowly.
"Korea is a country with severe overwork. Whether it's studying or working, people are exhausted. They have little time to enjoy art leisurely, so they naturally seek more efficient ways to get pleasure."
"So they naturally prefer more sensational art?"
"Not exactly, but something like that. In short, it's the public's demand."
Of course, video streaming sites like YouTube and TikTok also influence this, but that's a longer story.
"The public, huh… Doesn't that lower the artistic value?"
"The standards of art are different now. It's an era where the public defines what art is. The more the public acknowledges something, the more it becomes 'art.'"
In other words, popularity itself is artistic value.
I explained that, and the old woman nodded.
"Interesting theory. But wouldn't that make carefully crafted works disposable? As a writer, don't you have the ambition to create a masterpiece that will be remembered in literary history?"
"I did have that ambition."
To write something like "The Lord of the Rings" or a new four-part series, every writer dreams of that.
But now, things are different.
"In the era of the public, the title of a great writer is too lofty. It would be more honorable to be called a great writer alongside the public."
"Hm, wasn't it painful to give up on your dream?"
"Not really."
Anyway, as long as it sells well for a long time, that's enough. I said as much and continued.
"Doesn't the owner of this mansion prove that?"
"What do you mean?"
"Agatha Christie wrote nearly 80 works in her lifetime, and her favorite character was Miss Marple. But because the public loved Hercule Poirot more, the writer is also remembered mainly for Poirot. I envy her for not being forgotten."
"Hohohoho."
The old woman laughed mysteriously.
What's so funny about that? I wondered as she laughed.
Beep-beep.
"Ah, it's time for the bus."
"I see. It was a very informative and pleasant conversation."
"Thank you for saying that."
I was about to be late. I hurriedly ran toward the stairs.
But then.
"I hope to see you again, Hansol."
"What?"
What did she just say? Hansol? Did I tell her my name? My name is Jin Hansol, right?
As I thought that and turned around.
"Wha, whaa?"
I felt my body lift off the ground.
Did I just slip on the stairs?
"Aaah!"
Strange. I only slipped on the stairs, but the feeling of falling continued for too long. My vision blurred, and the sounds faded.
Endless solitude.
And when I opened my eyes again.
"Damn it."
I was in England, one and half a century ago, in 1890.
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Not reincarnation but time travel
Okay, let me say this one last time.
My name is Jin Hansol. My job is a web novelist.
I've written quite a few works over the years and am a fairly established writer.
I had taken a long vacation for the first time in a while and came to the UK for a research trip and pilgrimage—why on earth is this happening to me?
"Time travel?"