Thomas Hardy would have been 185 today.

 Thomas Hardy would have been 185 today. 

It may have been a little known fact but it's certainly true. Today, Thomas Hardy would have been celebrating his 185th birthday. Deep in the heart of rural, peaceful and idyllic Dorset and Hardy's very own Wessex, the bunting will still be out, street parties may well abound and Hardy will be rightly acknowledged, lionised, worshipped and idolised richly so. His name will resound across the vast and picturesque panorama of chocolate box Southern England.  His literary reputation is confirmed, signed, sealed and delivered, a writer of delicious purple prose and poetic lyricism. 

But across the lush meadows, soaring mountain ranges, snug and cosy valleys and winding country lanes of Britain's loveliest lands,  there are a vast majority  in England's green and pleasant land who will know nothing about Thomas Hardy's birthday. The schoolchildren who sat enraptured at Hardy's love poems will never forget where they were when Hardy's name was mentioned and warmly appreciated. You were besotted by the man's sweetly fragrant novels, the delightful word pictures he would think nothing of painting and then there was Hardy's landscape, the rolling acres of corn fields and sun flowers. 

Some of us will always remember the enduring impact that Hardy could exert. He was born in 1840 but even now a quarter of a century into the 21st century and he was the one you recall with a permanent affection. He was the one who subconsciously triggered something indefinable in your mind. He was my inspiration without every knowingly prompting me to pick up pen, pencil or, ultimately, typewriter. 

Having just caught the bug for reading the great British and world classics, you opened up the pages of four of Hardy's heftiest and weightiest pieces of literature and found yourself carried away by the genuine significance of his words, their contrasting colours, their capacity for transporting you instantly to the English countryside and their deeply thoughtful, reflective nature. For a while, it was rather like listening to your favourite jazz album featuring Miles Davis, admiring the sculpture of Rodin or Henry Moore or even allowing an art installation at the Tate Modern museum in London to wash over you. 

And so we recall the glorious Far From the Madding Crowd, Tess of the d'Urbevilles, the Return of the Native, the Trumpet Major, the Woodlanders, A Laodicean and the memorable Jude the Obscure. We try to imagine what was going through Hardy's fertile mind when the ideas and imagery came flooding over him, his motivations for writing, the symbolism he was trying to conjure up and Hardy's literary influences through the middle of the 19th century. 

Maybe it was Dorset's stunning farmlands, the dancing grass with its liberal sprinkling of daisies, tulips and the blossoming roses which decorate every wisteria kissed cottage in the land of Wessex and Dorset. Then you're reminded of the demure milkmaids in Hardy's novels, the tragic fate that befell some of his beautifully drawn characters, the timeless magnificence of the scenery and that other worldly aura of this heavenly corner of England. 

It is some time now since you decided to pick up a Thomas Hardy masterpiece because every word, cadence, sentence and paragraph became so effortless to him while at work. They are comfortably tucked away in the archives of your imagination, like a loose silky thread that meant so much to you at the time, a gentle breeze that wafted past you while walking through a park or sunbathing in your communal garden. It was a feeling that was so utterly satisfying and exhilarating. 

Finally there was Hardy's estrangement from his wife Emma, who was so sadly troubled for most of her life and with whom Hardy shared a turbulent relationship. The house he lived in was almost a poignant reminder of their unhappy years together. Both Hardy and Emma slept in separate beds and a visit to Emma's bedroom was deeply moving. By now Emma was ill and when Emma died, there was a sense that the grief and loss she should have been experiencing never really existed anyway. 

So it is that we pay homage to the glorious Thomas Hardy because today some of us will be overwhelmed with gratitude, thanking him sincerely for your contribution to the world of publishing and literature. Ever since you discovered those pearls and diamonds of wisdom from the great man, there is an acute awareness of his genius. Whenever you do put your fingers to your modern day keyboard on your PC, you'd like to think that Hardy is there with you in spirit and soul, encouraging and coaxing you along, almost smiling and laughing at your modest endeavours. Thank you Thomas Hardy.