I knew the Heath before I ever breathed—my mother walked here every day when she was pregnant with me. When I was a child， my father ran here at five every morning， a coal miner’s lamp strapped to his forehead， a source of light in the dull London mornings. It was to Hampstead Heath that I was 11）frogmarched， frozen and complaining， to do cross-country running for school， until one of the girls saw a 12）flasher on our circuit and after that we stayed on school grounds.
George Orwell puttered on the Heath when he worked in a nearby bookshop； Katherine Mansfield moved to Hampstead， hoping the healthy air would cure her 13）tuberculosis. Keats， drawn by the same vain hope， heard his nightingale here. Shelley sailed paper boats on one of the ponds. John Constable painted the skies from almost every angle； the whole Dickens 14）clan relocated to the edge of the Heath one summer， when cash was tight. John le Carré and his characters frequent the Hampstead Bathing Ponds. There are too many artists to name.
Several years ago the Italian sculptor Giancarlo Neri erected a huge sculpture called The Writer in the middle of one of the Heath’s meadows； it was a simple chair and table made of wood and steel looming 30 feet high as a monument “to the loneliness of writing.” I know of no better place in any city for a writer to claim that blissful solitude—to walk， to breathe， to contemplate. But that giant， looming desk， evoking the ghosts of a hundred Hampstead writers， was more than a little intimidating. It was a hugely affecting sculpture， and I was relieved when they took it down.
Not everyone shares my passion. In Samuel Richardson’s 18th-century novel Clarissa， the character Robert Lovelace is 15）dismissive： “Now， I own that Hampstead Heath affords very pretty and very extensive prospects； but it is not the wide world neither.” Well， true， and it is good， sometimes， to be reminded of it， even by a 16）scoundrel like Lovelace. From the top of Parliament Hill， that wide world opens up below you. Mistshrouded even in summer， here lies the whole of London—its churches and skyscrapers； its slums and palaces； its 17）stucco and concrete and glass. From here， the glittering curves of the river are hidden； north and south are unified by height and distance. Of course there is a bigger London， a wider world. But here is the highest point， for me.