Early June brought yet another sign of Sylvia’s burgeoning reputation. The BBC devoted a twenty-five-minute program exclusively to her poetry, a mark of distinction, she told her mother, that put her in the company of Robert Lowell and Theodore Roethke, poets whose work had received similar treatment. The next week Aurelia arrived to mind Frieda, now just beginning to toddle, so that Sylvia and Ted could join the Merwins on their French farm for a two-week holiday. Ted said nothing at all about the Merwins’ negative reactions to Sylvia’s behavior, continuing his policy (as Dido Merwin described it) of never taking issue with his wife’s behavior.

In July, the couple joined Aurelia in Yorkshire, uniting with the Hughes family while Sylvia and Ted began looking for a country home, preferably in Devon, for their expanding family. Sylvia was now four months pregnant. The couple wanted easy access by rail to London, but also a more southerly climate—especially for Sylvia, who found Yorkshire cold and grim. By the end of July, the couple had discovered their dream home in Devon: Court Green, a nine-room house that included a wine cellar and an attic. It had a thatched roof, a cobbled court, and a lawn, making it a virtual picture-book English estate. At one time the home of Sir and Lady Arundel, Court Green is situated on land that had been farmed since the eleventh century, with a tumulus signifying the remains of even earlier Roman occupation. The three-acre walled estate included a two-room cottage and a stable that would serve as a garage. The grounds also included a vegetable garden, an apple orchard, cherry trees, and blackberry and raspberry bushes. An abandoned tennis court could be made into a yard for the children to play in. And there was a village, North Tawton, nearby. It was all quite grand, but also quite dilapidated. And it was not anything Ted and Sylvia could afford. An enthusiastic Aurelia wanted to foot the bill, taking out a mortgage for the whole property, but Ted resisted this proposal, ultimately agreeing instead to loans of $1,400 each from Aurelia and his parents, which greatly reduced the mortgage.

Busy planning their move to Devon, Sylvia and Ted sublet their London flat to a young Canadian poet, David Wevill, and his German-Russian-Jewish wife, Assia, both of whom made a strong impression and inspired a sense of identification, Sylvia told her mother. After all, Sylvia and Ted were just a few years ahead of this other twosome trying their luck in literary London. Writing to Lucas Myers shortly after moving into Court Green in early September, Ted observed that England gave Sylvia the leisure to “develop naturally” for a “more & more appreciative audience whereas America would be cramping & stunting & distorting her with that dreadful competitive spotlight, to which Sylvia is so susceptible, when she’s under it, as any Easterner over there.”

Sylvia luxuriated in her new home, swept clean by the Arundels. The coal stove warmed the first floor, and an electric heater took care of upstairs. As he always did when they moved into a new place, Ted built bookshelves. Sylvia had festooned the house with flowers from the garden and served breakfast with freshly picked blackberries. She had located a prenatal clinic nearby and seemed entirely pleased with her peaceful surroundings, which Frieda also found delightful. She was evidently taking after her mother, picking up every little crumb in her playroom. Sylvia had also lined up a midwife and doctor (his surgery was just three houses up and across from Court Green), and she was looking forward to another home birth in January. A local woman was engaged to do some cleaning and washing up. Warren visited in early September, and Sylvia loved the way he pitched in, mowing the lawn and chopping wood. He also sanded an elm plank that she used as a desk in the best front bedroom. Ted’s study was in the attic, a room of his own that had him joyously leading the kind of life he always wanted, Sylvia assured her mother.

Sylvia’s received gifts of money from Olive Higgins Prouty and her grandfather, which covered many of the moving-in expenses. Sylvia had sold a story, and Ted was doing some work thirty-five miles away at the BBC studio in Plymouth. From Exeter, about an hour away, he sometimes took the train to the BBC London studios. His descriptions of Court Green and its surroundings were nearly as ebullient as Sylvia’s, although he found their little village “grim.” Still, he had banished the “headache” of London and felt as though he had removed an ant’s nest from between his ears. He counted seventy-one apple trees, one less than Sylvia’s total, and was busy with strawberry plants, imagining there was money to be made out of their produce. He took pleasure in picking his own fruit and eating it atop his own prehistoric mound.

Writing to Daniel Weissbort, an old Cambridge friend, Ted congratulated him on his marriage, an institution Ted recommended. But he also made an oblique comment that reflects, perhaps, what it was beginning to feel like settling into a fully domesticated life without urban distractions, but also without the outlets the city provided. “Marriage is a nest of small scorpions, but it kills the big dragons,” Ted wrote. For all the couple’s talk about sharing the same wavelength, it is inconceivable that Sylvia could have written such a sentence—at least not then.

Unlike Ted, Sylvia really wanted to settle into village life, and she contacted the Anglican rector about attending church, even though, as she explained to him, she was a Unitarian. The broad-minded and well-traveled clergyman was most welcoming, although Sylvia found the Sunday service a rather tepid affair. The rector appears, along with other local characters, in Plath’s charming story, “Mothers,” revealing how curious she was about the lives of her neighbors, whom she invited into her home, bestowing on them the respect that her husband would not have thought of expressing. Sylvia’s satisfaction did not mean, however, that she did not miss her homeland. In mid-October she asked Aurelia to send a few issues of the Ladies Home Journal. She missed “Americanness” now that she was in exile. And she did not section herself off from what was happening in the rest of the world—especially the atomic testing that she feared would raise the levels of strontium 90 in the milk supply. Expressing herself just like a Brit, she declared the American fallout shelter craze “mad.” She wrote to Marcia Brown, hoping to coax her into a visit. As was usual with a close friend, Sylvia was more candid than she was with her mother, admitting the village was rather ugly and the rector dull and stupid. He had taken one look at the books on Sylvia’s shelves and called her an “educated pagan.” Still, evensong in the Anglican chapel soothed her. She realized that to the locals she was a curiosity, but they treated her with warmth and generosity.

During the autumn of 1961, Sylvia made occasional visits to London to see editors and publishers, attending the occasional party and meeting writers. But she never remained long and was always anxious to return to Court Green. Village life, including a hunt meet, continued to intrigue her. Red-jacketed, brass-buttoned foxhunters paraded through the village tooting their horns, accompanied by “sulphurous dogs.” Such events, she told her mother, were “oddly moving,” although she sympathized with the foxes.

Sylvia wrote reviews of children’s books for the New Statesman, assembling quite a collection for Frieda, and soon, Nicholas. Repairs to the house continued. She enjoyed peaceful interludes in the Anglican chapel and long walks with Frieda. On 9 November, she was elated to learn that she had won a $2,000 Saxton grant to support her proposed novel, the subject of which Sylvia still did not share with her mother. Instead, she reported to Aurelia that The New Yorker had just accepted her poem, “Blackberrying,” clearly based on one of her jaunts with Frieda, when they picked juicy ripe fruit that made them part of a “blood sisterhood.” Indeed, the blackberries are described in terms of Plath’s body, “big as the ball of my thumb.” The simple pleasures she described in letters to her mother become in this poem an unflinching evocation of rapacity—both hers and nature’s—suggesting the way humans eat and are eaten by the natural world. Blackberrying takes her down a sheep path that opens out “on nothing,” just a great space and the “din” of what sounds like silversmiths “beating at an intractable metal.” Even as Sylvia told her mother that her world was coming together, her poems offer an alternative vision of futility.