Claremont Gardens and The Homewood

So, today's National Trust expedition was a special treat because my friend Lisa came with me!  Much nicer to have some company.  We started off at Claremont Gardens, from where we were going to get a minibus to The Homewood, a modernist house nearby.  Much hilarity had ensued, as the volunteer who had booked Lisa on the bus talked about it as if it was a flight - when you board, the baggage you bring etc.  We were giggling about this - but were then presented with boarding cards! 
So, we looked around Claremont first, which was pleasant but underwhelming, a bit like going to the park really and you couldn't go in the grotto - most disappointing.  So we weren't too sorry to jump on the minibus, which filled up with a very motley group of people and not the blue rinse brigade we were expecting.  The Homewood was a few minutes' drive away, and fantastic. 

It oozed period character (even though the architect who built it had lived there until his death in 2004) and was stylish and brilliantly thought out - everything seemed to fold away or transform into something else.  We were particularly fascinated by the fact that tenants (with a small child) actually lived in it.  Their main living quarters were private, but they had free run of the house as their home, which seemed almost unimaginable.
The gardens were gorgeous too, overflowing lushly with huge plants and banks of flowers.  There was also a green swimming pool and several ponds.  The house was as interesting to look at from the outside as the inside but I did feel it lacked a certain 'homeliness'.  Maybe it just needed a woman's touch...?

Just a short entry today.  I'm tired from my birthday celebrations last night (35 on Sunday, eek!) and a little upset because of my occasional lover of 16 months' standing, who had upped the ante this week quite suddenly, calling and being unusually (and rather alarmingly) affectionate - as well as telling me all sorts of personal secrets I won't repeat here.  He rang at four o'clock this morning (no, I wasn't happy) telling me how he was going to come over this evening...and then at 8 o'clock this morning texted out of the blue to say he'd decided to end our arrangement.  Very sudden, totally unexpected and definitely odd.  I don't know what's up but as is always the case with these things, there's absolutely nothing I can do.  I hope he's ok but I know I'm better off without him (sob!).  It's just the shock of it that's thrown me a bit.  Do visit The Homewood though!

Mottisfont

So in the spirit of knocking off these National Trust properties in a year (am I really going to manage this?  Who knows!  But ou phrontis...) I made a diversion on my way back to London from Dorset to Mottisfont in Hampshire.  I had selected it based only on the fact that it was on the way home and although I'd read the literature, and taken in that the previous incumbent, Maud Russell, seemed a colourful character I knew nothing else.  Thus I was unprepared for the sheer fabulousness of the place.
It's certainly impressive as you walk up towards the house, with its impeccable grounds and stately grandeur.  Inside I was greeted by some absolutely charming, slightly eccentric, volunteers who clearly loved the place and were happy to chat about it.  The first room you see, the Whistler room, could easily take up an entire visit.  Indeed, I wished I hadn't just 'dropped in' on my way home, flushed with the thrill of free entry.  Whistler painted the entire room as a 'trompe l'oeil'; that is, everywhere you look there is an optical illusion so clever and intriguing and brilliantly executed that your brain longs to just stare and stare at it, trying to make sense of what your eyes are seeing.  Without ruining things for future visitors, a couple of tips are to look at the urn in the mirror opposite and to find the paint pot and brush - whimsical and personal and terrific.  Again, a wonderful volunteer was on hand to answer all my questions, wonder at it with me (as she must do with visitor after visitor, poor woman) and point out the tricks and jokes.  Oh, also look out for the pair of 1930s shoes left casually by a sofa...call me fanciful but I did feel as if Maud had just stepped out of the room.
Other rooms are less interesting (they could hardly hope to match up) but still thoroughly enjoyable, due to their luscious wallpapers, period touches and flashes of the original priory stone where Maud left parts of the wall unplastered to show off the medieval roots of the building to her guests.  It was this that made me feel she was a woman after my own heart...it showed an understanding of and empathy with history, as well as great imagination...and a little bit of showing off!  Incidentally, I love, love, love the touch of the signs telling you which route to follow.  Rather than dull arrows they were cut outs of elegantly gloved hands with pointing fingers, some complete with pearl bracelets, others with cigarette holders.  Priceless.

Upstairs there was a delightful exhibition of the original Flower Fairy watercolours by Cicely Mary Barker which were utterly charming.  Unfortunately, this led into a frankly creepy exhibition of other pieces of 'fairy' related artwork which included a red lightbulb lit bathroom which was supposed to look like a photo developing workshop but was more reminiscent of some ghastly Victorian murder scene, and a cupboard housing a hanging installation of dead wasps with minature skeletons riding them.  I moved swiftly on.
Unfortunately I didn't have time for much of the gardens, although I did glimpse the walled garden and promised myself a return trip in June for the roses (how am I going to do every property if I go back to favourites?!).  I also had a dutiful look at the font which gives the property its name, but looked a bit stagnant to me.  I made sure I saw the angel mosaic, created by one of Maud's lovers, who gave the angel her face (note to self: get a more artistic lover than the current one, who is more decorative) and went into the Cellarium, for which I was totally unprepared.  It is the only significant remaining part of the 13th century abbey, cool, dank and able, I confess, to bring a tear to my eye.  Why?  There's the evocative power of history.  I urge you to visit!

Corfe Castle

So, today I headed off to Corfe Castle, confusing my sat nav in the process (or maybe I was the one who was confused) as the name of the ruin is also the name of the small town that lies in its shadows.  Today was the day to commit myself to joining the National Trust (only wondering fleetingly if this was the nail in the coffin of my youth).  An exceptionally friendly woman took my details and handed over my pack (together with my car sticker offering acres of free parking...the thrill I got from that prospect alone tells me that middle age can’t be far away) and I began my ascent.  It being the school holidays there were several vaguely Medieval-looking tents dotted about the grass leading up to the castle, some containing fervent re-enactments, which I fervently avoided.

The castle itself was great to look around, blessedly free of health and safety notices whilst happily boasting hundreds of health and safety hazards.  It was incredibly imposing and, although a ruin, still managed to provoke my imagination enough to get a thrill from what had happened within the walls.  One or two of the rooms are still intact, which is the best bit, especially the one only accessible through an opening about a metre high.  All very Enid Blyton!

The views are absolutely spectacular, particularly the church and graveyard...although I was pathetically pleased to spot my car in the car park, looking even more like a wind-up toy than it does close up.

Being a miserable old bag, the visit was slightly marred for me by the preponderance of shrieking families, although there was also a gentleman visitor in a green velvet smoking jacket, who lent the whole thing an air of dignity.  Trying to conjure up the sounds of hooves hitting stone and arrows whishing through the air is made all the more difficult when all you can actually hear is “Emily, darling, look!  There’s a horse!  A horse!” and “Can you see the murder ‘ole?” from parents keen to provide some show and tell for their uninterested offspring when the new term begins.  Mind you, it beat the mother whose answer to her 8 year old’s query about the shield-shaped information board designed for youngsters was ‘oh that, that’s just for the children”.  I wonder what she thought her son was: a daffodil?  It also proved difficult to get photos devoid of portly gentlemen in vivid leisurewear, but I persevered nonetheless.

After a very quick look around the town of Corfe Castle I decided to head to Studland, to have the lacklustre sandwich I had purchased in the grocery store.  The drive there was almost sick-makingly gorgeous and distinctly perilous as I forwent keeping my eyes on the road for gazing at the countryside.  However, I did make it to Studland in one piece, thus discovering a choice of beaches.  I remembered having read something about Shell Beach in my newly-acquired National Trust Handbook, so headed there.  Once safely – and freely – parked, I dug the handbook out to check which particular delight it had highlighted, only to realise that its only mention of Shell Beach was the low-water flushing loos.  Undeterred, I sallied forth to the beach!  How lovely to be able to take off my shoes and walk through fine sand, down a narrow path that reminded me vividly of Cuba (only Dorset is much, much nicer).  Breaking out onto the beach I took in the white sands, gentle dunes and lapping waves.  Bliss!  A pleasant spot was found for the sandwich, now limper than ever but just edible and a fortuitous truck delivered ice cream and coffee.  Once the ferry had gone past there wasn’t much to look at, but the sight of a small boy falling into a hole was very pleasing.  Don’t judge, you know you’d have laughed as well (it wasn’t deep, he wasn’t hurt...I’m not a monster!)

The first drop of rain on my Sunday Times Style section told me it was time to go, and my lasting memory of the beach is of a mother calling – not to her romantically named dog as I had first assumed – but to her son: “Dante!  Dante!  Hurry up!”  Clearly a better class of shrieking family at Studland Bay!

Clouds Hill, Dorset

Clouds Hill was the country retreat of T.E. Lawrence – Lawrence of Arabia – when he was stationed at Bovington Camp in Dorset.  It’s reached by walking along a gorgeous, green lane, made tunnel-like by the trees growing over it and getting you in the mood for this rural idyll before you reach it.  The house itself is tiny, brick built in the early 1800s and still without electricity or an indoor loo.  Rather than these tedious encumbrances it is stuffed even now (many of Lawrence’s personal effects were removed by the family when he died) with evocative and astonishing features.  The first room I went into contained a large daybed and was lined with books, with a mullioned stone window he had installed.  There was a strong smell of leather in the room and this, coupled with its stillness and slight gloom, made it atmospheric although not eerie.  A couple in the ajoining room were guffawing loudly with the custodian, so I lingered in the little room, admiring Lawrence’s carefully designed reading chair, plush with deep sheepskin cushions and wide arms to accommodate candles and cups of tea.  When the jollity next door subsided I edged my way in to the bathroom, complete with its gleaming white tub and walls lined in cork, a snazzy design feature if ever I saw one.  I continued getting a real sense of the man who had lived here and tailored it exactly to his liking, and started to get an inkling of inspiration!

Upstairs the other custodian, wife of the gentleman downstairs and equally friendly and helpful, explained more about Lawrence and his tastes – the mantlepiece at the correct height for him to eat from (he was 5’ 5”), the aluminum foil lined spare room-cum-larder where his friends had to sleep next to huge cheeses and bottles of fruit if they wanted to stay over and the top of the range gramophone with its papier mache horn.  Declaring a terror of touching it, lest it should break, this lady summoned her husband aloft and he was delighted to play us a record on it. 

What a unique moment, standing in a slightly chilly, 200 year old cottage in rural Dorset, the weak August sunlight filtering through the windows, listening to music pour from Lawrence of Arabia’s gramophone.

Outside I scrambled up the steep path to see the view which EM Forster urges you to do in a recording playing in the tiny garage which serves as a museum to the house.  Even on such an overcast day it was spectacular, and to be looking at it, surrounded by the rhododendron bushes Lawrence cut for firewood, one had no choice but to be very much in the present moment, whilst beckoned gently by the past.

It was here I thought about our country’s rich trove of historical houses and gardens and wondered if anybody had ever visited them all...and why shouldn’t I?!  I can hardly think of a more pleasant way to spend an afternoon, so why not exploit that, educate myself, enjoy myself and inject my life with some much-needed perspective – as well as a challenge?

How it all began

I was brought to this blog by a series of unfortunate – and fortunate – events.  I suppose it all started with this continued and aggravating position of singledom – more of that later – made worse by the fact that I had to come on holiday alone as the friend I was meant to be coming away with fell pregnant and was worried she might feel sick.  Maybe I’ve just been self-sufficient for too long, but I didn’t really understand it....still, no arguing when somebody has that ace up their sleeve.  So, I came away alone, to stay in my parents’ static caravan in Dorset, on the Jurassic Coast.  I started by feeling a little sorry for myself – not only unmarried and not pregnant myself but dumped by a friend who has it all!  Well, the self-pity didn’t last too long (it’s very boring) and was helped on its way by a lunch with a family friend I hadn’t seen for nearly 20 years.  A more thoughtful, kind, humorous individual you could hardly hope to meet, who had plenty of gentle advice, the most potent being ‘do what you want to do’.  Sounds almost trite written down, and I’ve probably heard it – and intoned it silently – a hundred times, but for some reason the way she said it, it suddenly made sense.  What do I want to do?  I’ve been subsumed so many times by men and what they want to do – and what they want you to do – as well as posturing in order to impress or convince, that I’ve almost lost sight of some of the things that really please me.  One of those is visiting National Trust properties.  Always interesting, great to go to on your own and offering some perspective in a world awash with riots, recession and (lack of) respect.  I’m so tired of wasting time and money on dull dates in the hope of finding a husband I’m not even sure I want, that when the idea of visiting all these wonderful properties – in the space of a year – occurred to me it seemed like a stroke of genius.  I would please myself, and I wouldn’t worry about the fact that it was in a rather middle-aged way!

The blog title emerged from my first visit, to Lawrence of Arabia’s Dorset hideaway Clouds Hill, and means ‘Why worry?’  How apt!