I visited this house, and--amazed that the property still existed, though it was deserted--found the back-door entrance to the cellar. And it was every bit as tiny as [Wilfred] Owen's letter suggests. Standing on the very spot where he prepared to face death 93 years ago made the hairs rise on the back of my neck.
At the time, I wondered whether the empty house might possibly become some sort of Owen museum . . . and amazingly it has.
from Mail on Sunday Travel Editor: How Wilfred Owen's poetry lives on in his forest hideout
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