Memories of Woodstock

The antiquity of Woodstock is not measured by a thousand years and Blenheim is heir to all the memories of Woodstock - Winston Churchill

Last Sunday week, I went to Blenheim Palace to explore the grounds as part of some research about gardens as entertainment venues. I also wanted to search out the site of the medieval palace of Woodstock, where Elizabeth I was kept under house arrest as a princess. She had been granted liberty to walk in the gardens and often re-visited the palace as Queen, having appointed her Champion Knight Sir Henry Lee as keeper. The above dusky photo shows Sir John Vanbrugh's monumental bridge taken from across the River Glyme at the site of the ancient palace of Woodstock, with Blenheim in the background.

Spring or summer would obviously have been better choice for a visit, but last week was my last chance to see an exhibition on "Gulliver's Travels" (Blenheim is the location for a new 21st Century Fox film, starring Jack Black, Jason Segel and Billy Connolly: see www.gulliverstravelsmovie.co.uk for a fun trailer - opens Boxing Day). Sunday was the exhibition's closing day, and, as I discovered when I arrived, the final day that the house was open this year - it re-opens in mid-February.

I was lucky with the weather - that Sunday there was a thaw, with temperatures around 6', till lately what we'd have expected for December. The mild day made quite a contrast with the end of the week, when, along with much of the country, Brighton had been snowbound. There was even some lovely sunshine, and the low sunlight on the golden stone made the palace look more beautiful and strangely mirage-like.

About half an hour from Woodstock, I stopped at some services, reluctantly. Sitting there with a Starbucks, feeling both disorientated and coming to, thanks to the caffeine, there floated over the sound of a silver band - "Joy to the World", of all things. Only in Oxford . . . they even have classy services . . . The band was made up of amateur musicians who obviously played for the love of it (and had clearly been together a long time) - and, so I heard, donations helped keep them going.

By coincidence, another reason I'd wanted to make it that Sunday was that Blenheim was holding special festivities to end the season in style, with the City of Oxford silver band playing in the Great Hall and two choirs in the library (from Marlborough and Cranford House).

Approaching the palace, there were Christmas trees for sale outside, and in the grand courtyard it was fun to see trees between the columns. There was a huge crowd of visitors, but thanks to the enormity of the complex, there was just enough space, and people were in a good mood.

It was a little incongruous, in some ways, though, to see Christmas trees and cannons together. Maybe, a sign of progress, though?

The "Gulliver's Travels" exhibition alone was worth the trip. The high ceilings were hung with miniature red and white striped air balloons with tiny, cube-shaped wicker baskets. Holly wreaths crowned the busts like haloes, comically transforming their solemn appearance. There were Lilliputian homes (dolls' houses) and costumes from the film. My eye was also caught by something not part of the exhibition, a case of miniature lead soldiers from France, modelled on a selection of regiments who fought under Napoleon, which Churchill had wanted displayed in the palace.

The exhibition's star attraction was the sumptuous feast for a giant in the saloon: the enormous table was decorated with gold to replicate the banquet scene filmed in the Great Court. (Photographs weren't allowed but, hopefully, I'll be able to add some official ones soon.) There was a huge chair at the end of the table, an outsize plate and cutlery and a huge flute glass. In the film, so I heard from one of the helpful guides, the table stretched from the palace's front door to the centre of the courtyard, and Gulliver's chair was suitably massive (in the novel, an inhabitant of Lilliput measures the height of your hand; Gulliver was as tall as the tallest trees there).

The tricks of scale were fun, and I enjoyed listening to people's comments. On the huge wine glass - "I like the glass . . ." and "How many bottles would fit in that?" On Gulliver's chair: "That's a big chair"; a little girl beside me repeated "gigantic" in an awed voice, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle.

In the Red Drawing Room, I took in John Singer Sergent's portrait of John Churchill, 1st Duke of Marlborough clad in black armour and looking darkly handsome, as well as the chimneypiece adorned with Cupid and Psyche by Sir William Chambers. There was a magnificent view of the lawn, which in classic Capability Brown style seems both to sweep up to the house and roll to the horizon at the same time; and just above the window ledge you could see white roses.

A lady came to join me at the window and, turning to me, said, "Imagine having that as your view in the morning". An unfathomable thought. When visiting Blenheim, I wondered how many people imagine what it would be like to live there - for some reason, though, the idea of actually living in an historic house doesn't occur to me. I tend to be more drawn to speculate what it might have been like to have lived there originally - and also how the current family live there now. Or, if it's owned by the National Trust or English Heritage, how it's looked after and presented to people, as well as enjoyed.

It was interesting to come upon the bed of white roses on the way back from a wander round the grounds. And that what turned out to be my favourite planting of the day was something I'd first seen inside the house - white roses giving on to baroque gardens and a view of the lawn. The purity and delicacy of the frozen roses struck me as an unlikely but satisfying counterweight to the stately arched windows of the facade.

The last time I was at Blenheim (my second visit there) was to give a talk at the Independent Woodstock Literary Festival a couple of years ago. Afterwards, I walked to the ha ha at the edge of the great court, pictured left; it was a very warm summer's day, and the sheer scale of the place then deterred me from venturing into the grounds. But I knew I'd be back.

So it was satisfying this time to see the gardens properly - though obviously not at their best, they're architectural, with statuary, paths and topiary.
I was more interested in the woodland walks and the lake, in any case. Top of my list was Brown's newly restored cascade, which cleverly conceals the mighty dam. I was also determined to explore the site of Woodstock Palace and, if possible, to go in search of Rosamund's well, where Henry II rendezvoused with his mistress the Fair Rosamund. This was an elaborate banqueting house, with a water garden inside a garden: John Evelyn's delicate drawing memorably captures the chain of pools.

This posting has run on a bit, so I'll just show a few more pictures and try to cut down on the comments. (More details to follow in another shape or form, maybe.) First up, the cascade, which you hear before you see, since the path leading down the slope is curved. At a distance, the sound is gentle, a kind of rustling, then as I drew nearer, it became a torrential rushing of water, crisscrossing ravines. The pictures here can't do it justice, you have to experience it for yourself, but the sound effects are magnifed thanks to Brown's ingenious design, and disporportionate to the apparently modest scale of the cascade.
The dam holds back 570,000 cubic metres of water from the River Glyme, and the resulting 45-hectare lake is 7m deep in places. There was ice on the rocks; the water was clear, the foam snow-white and the yellow stone glowed. I was also impressed by the wildlife (plenty of happy ducks in the pool below the cascade).

There's a new path leading up to a viewing platform. Seeing the cascade from above is quite vertiginous (again, you have to see it for yourself), but it's the acoustics that really impress: the sound is ferocious. As the notes explain, the rocks were placed "so as to create as much movement and noise as possible". It's a kind of hydraulic conjuring act, you could say. There's a sense of the astonishing power of water - yet, after all the sound and fury, when I wandered up a woodland path on the other side of the dam, the lake above was as still as a mirror.

On the way back up to the palace, I walked through vivid red woods (copper beeches). Just to the left, the lake was eerily motionless. There was some novel planting in the shape of bamboos next to bull rushes. You feel miles away from everything yet soon enough the path rears up and you see the towers of Blenheim just above the trees.

A quick few last pictures to finish: a highlight from the point of view of looking at the garden as a venue of kinds, the Temple of Artemis (Diana, the huntress goddess), where Winston Churchill proposed to Clementine while they were sheltering during a downpour, 10th August 1908. They had just been for a stroll around the rose garden. This stately little Greek temple is certainly situated in a lovely spot. There's a dreamy view of Brown's magnificent lake, which moves from wide to narrow, resembling a river in the distance, one of the designer's trademark optical illusions.

I'd had such a good time, dusk was falling by the time I crossed Vanbrugh's bridge in search of the site of Woodstock palace. It was a wonderful vantage point for the bridge and palace; I also loved the little island planted with russet trees in the middle of the lake (which again, Brown the conjuror at work, resembles a river at this point). A couple of swans, luminous in the twilight, completed the romantic picture.
According to my map, Rosamund's well was somewhere by the water's edge and looked fairly off the beaten track (for its probable location see the clearing between trees, on the opposite side of the bridge to the site of the old palace, pictured below). Light was fading fast, and so it would have to wait.
On the way back to the car park, there was a happy atmosphere. Blenheim is so huge and there's so much to see that you're bound to end up tired out, in good way - which is how everyone seemed to me on the way homeward.
In the springtime, I'll return to see more of the gardens, especially the Secret Garden (restored in 2004), and for further exploration of the memories of Woodstock.

Sweet Gum Sunset

A quick slideshow of my recent trip to Kew. The last Saturday but one, I was there for a talk on wild orchids. On the way back, my route led me through plant identification beds, past prairie planting (which now meant something to me, after Sussex Prairies) and on through the Alpine garden, which was mesmerising in its stillness - there was no one else around. I loved the cascade (more like a mini-waterfall, if that's possible, because of its vitality), where the air was clearer and purer, an invigorating place to pause for a while, and sloping paths flanked by beds of exquisite, tiny flowers.

Finally, the slightly grey day opened up into a dreamy dusk and beautiful sunset pictured above. It was the "magic hour" beloved by cinematographers. Two russet pink trees called "Sweet Gum" (Liquidamber styraciflua, USA), framed the red brick Queen's House behind which unfurled a deep crimson sunset.

An immaculate patch of prairie planting, right:


I didn't have long before the talk and, apart from enjoying soaking up the atmosphere and sampling a few of the "100 gardens within a garden", I'd decided on one "must-see" destination. This was the Rhizotron and Xstrata Treetop Walkway, 60 feet above ground, created a couple of years ago.

It took a while to find - trekking westwards made me realise just how huge Kew is - and when I arrived, for one reason or another, my first impressions weren't so good. From ground level, the structure looked like an ungainly rollercoaster, more than a little out of place in the centre of graceful sweet chestnuts, limes and oaks, their thinning autumn leaves making it seem even less likely to be the immersive canopy experience I'd hoped for.

I realised later that I was letting my personal experience of rollercoasters cloud my judgement. Not to digress too much, years ago, I foolishly suffered a car crash experience at Blackpool on what was then the theme park's most extreme rollercoaster. Since then I never use the phrase "rollercoaster ride" as shorthand for an exhilarating experience, and when I hear others use it, tend to think they have no idea - yet anyone who can get away with marketing sheer undiluted horror as family entertainment deserves some credit . . . I should have known better, of course - as children, on a daytrip on the south coast one summer, my brothers and I survived a brush with death on a derelict, rickety old rollercoaster with the world's dodgiest brakes.

But I'd come all that way and, though I was tempted not to bother (and wondered if it was really for children from its fairground appearance), decided it was worth seeing if the walkway looked better in the treetops, as you'd expect. In a nutshell, I wasn't disappointed. It was something else up high, a marvellous piece of engineering and craftsmanship. After the vertigo-inducing climb (although dizzying on the way up, and I've a head for heights - I passed one poor guy clinging to the railing as he inched his way up one step at a time - once you were on the walkway, it was fine, and the descent was no problem either), as soon as you'd progressed past the fairly sparse foliage of the first clump of trees, you were in another world.

Quickly, for now, a few action photos of people on the walkway and one of the carved inscriptions, which reminded me of the botanical garden in Montpellier. Undeniably, the walkway was an exhilarating experience - people looked relaxed, happy,
leant on the bannister to gaze at the trees and views, pointed things out to each other. And there were great views of Kew landmarks - the Pagoda and the Palm House.

I suppose it goes to show that a different perspective, literally, in this case, is often all that's needed. Or, as in my twilight walk back through the grounds, a change of light can alter a landscape beyond recognition.

Gardens ask that you give them time - the opposite of our instant gratification culture. From one moment to the next, they change. You never step into the same river twice, as the philosopher said. The same goes for gardens: give them a little time and they usually surprise you, as I found in the treetops and on the sweet gum sunset stroll to the exit.

Adventures in Sussex Prairies

A fortnight ago, I headed out towards Henfield to see the Sussex Prairies garden. Will add to this post later, but just to say, there had been a frost mid-week which had stripped the place of most of its colour, but this gave it a lunar beauty. And what remained stood out even more strongly - vivid glittering golds and reds. It was an unearthly place in the brilliant sunshine - again, I was very lucky with the weather. A still, bright golden day in mid-autumn and, since it was October, as one of its creators Paul commented, not many people had it in their minds to visit a garden, so I had the place almost to myself. Spanning 6 acres and surrounded by fields, it felt like another country.

Just to post a few pictures for now - will add more comments later. I liked the view shown to the right for the contrast between spiky modern planting and soft Sussex trees and the old gate in the background - so different yet so close together, and somehow it works.

Then there were the quirky cut-out sculptures of bison crossing the lawn . . .

But, best of all, the paths cut into the beds - sometimes, these made vistas, but most of the time, they were alluring routes into the unknown.

Away From It All

I realise it's been a while since I posted anything. But I went to a garden yesterday and, two weeks ago, took in three in a weekend. So it's not for lack of material, or inspiration, since yesterday was Kew and the earlier trilogy consisted of Sussex Prairies garden, a friend's place on a Brighton hill-top, featured in the National Gardens Scheme and Garden Gadabout, and Glyndebourne. About a month ago, I went to Nymans, in East Sussex - so that's five yet to write up . . .

Gardengoing can become more than mildly addictive. Until yesterday's trip to Kew, I was feeling withdrawal symptoms (it had been a fortnight since my last excursion). Be warned - once you get in the habit of going to gardens, you could find yourself becoming a little enslaved to their pleasures. Yesterday, I gave in to the urge to go in search.

I'd been meaning to see Kew again for a while, and my whirlwind tour happened to coincide with a talk I'd hoped to make, so it was double whammy: a wander round a great garden and an enthralling talk by wild orchids world expert Professor Mike Hutchings (more on this in a later epistle). And, after a lengthy absence from new and strange outside spaces, going to Kew was double the pleasure of a usual garden visit.

So what's kept me? The usual - deadlines, followed by more deadlines. I have to admit that catching up on these postings today, though a pleasure, is partly motivated by a kind of internal deadline. Talking with a friend lately, when asked how often I post something, I said about every two weeks. But posting dates on Blogger are there for all to see, and it's been nearly a month. So to stay credible, I'll try not to let it slide again . . .

I also mentioned that I'd left it so long before writing about the latest places I'd visited that they'd really all be virtual gardens by now - after last Wednesday's rain and gales, they'd have all blown away.

With five gardens to report on, I thought that the next few postings after this would more closely resemble slide shows than the Burroughsesque routines to receivers I promised at the outset. Contrary to my initial plans, however, this next has ended up as a lengthy posting, maybe making up for lost time.

So cut to the chase. First off the blocks is the magnificent Nymans, which you can't easily skip through.

A number of promptings led me to Nymans at the end of September. A glaring omission that I hadn't yet been, I realise. But when it comes to gardengoing, I'm a late developer. As with most places I go to, Nymans came my way through recommendations. In an interview with "Sussex Life" earlier this year, Andy Sturgeon singled out Nymans and Great Dixter as two great Sussex gardens to visit for their plantsmanship.

A friend and fellow National Trust member had urged me to go to Nymans more than once (incidentally, we've got a date to see Standen together, at some point, d.v.). And then the clincher was when a conversation with another garden devotee (it's no coincidence that this was over lunch on a beautiful lawn on one of our Indian summer afternoons in early September) touched on Montpellier (a friend of hers had told her of a masked ball she'd been to there that summer - confirming my suspicions that it's definitely a place to be . . .), Giverny and Nymans, and I took away from this that while Nymans is lovely in the spring for fritillaries (in the grassy areas in the Wall Garden), you can go at different times of the year. That sealed it for me. Only a matter of time, I thought.

The last Saturday in September - it was a gorgeous day, and while the chores needed doing, I couldn't face them. I brought my parents, and we arrived at 2. Great timing, as a tour was just starting. I'd been looking forward to my picnic, hastily made before I set out. At the end of a working week and start of the weekend, I couldn't face a possibly slow-moving tour. My parents were delighted to catch it, though, and later told me their guide was wonderful . I'll have to go on one on a future visit, when I've plenty of time . . .

So I left them to be happily educated in the knowledge of plants and colourful stories of its owners (the house was famous for its bohemian parties, so I heard later) while I had a picnic in the sunshine, looking out over the most beautiful views of the countryside. And then I could wander at will, now and then dropping in on the tour, and checking up on my parents, hearing snippets about the place's talented former residents (so as not to appear rude, I mentioned that I'd really come out for a walk that day . . .).

Later, my father told me what they'd learned about the planting in the Wall Garden ("the heart of Nymans", according to the guide book, and the first phase of the garden laid out by Leonard Messel): plants from South America, mainly from Chile, line the south-facing wall; opposite are plants from the Himalayas. I'll have to investigate that next time.

Everywhere you looked, the planting was clearly superb. Later, I showed some of my camera phone snaps to a lady in the nursery shop who enthusiastically identified a few things for me.

The exquisite flowering shrub at the top of this page and above features on the website for Nymans: Eucryphia, from South America and Tasmania. I thought I wouldn't see it when I visited. A slightly defeatist attitude, perhaps - too late for anything that spectacular, I'd imagined. So it was quite a thrill to come across it, by accident. Surprisingly, maybe, the lady at the nursery hadn't seen the actual flower herself but confirmed that it was indeed the same as that on the website - and she had heard that this flowering shrub lined the paths on the way to the house, where I'd found it. As I've since discovered, it flowers in late August - the advantages of round-the-world planting, again . . .

We were urged to come back in May since they all "wait and wait" for a special magnolia to flower at that time. Good to know that the best is yet to come . . .

Meanwhile, here's the enormous magnolia growing on the side of the house that's now in ruins, along with banana trees:

Some of the plants in the formal gardens surrounding the house had evocative names: there were borders of a Salvia cultivar called "Hot Lips" in the dovecote garden (the close-up below shows something of the exuberance of this flower);


A couple of action photos. A little girl running along a path, below right: you can see her behind the pot, looking as if she's in it.

I just missed catching a dove in mid-flight above a lavender border, which, as you see below, is neatly terminated by the dovecote built into a wall. As a substitute, below left, a dove crowning the pinnacle.

What really made my visit was when I recognised the viaduct panorama that I usually see from the train, just after leaving Haywards Heath station on the way to London. This is one of the first glorious views you see as you walk down the huge slope of lawn towards the lime avenue (see photo, below right). When I was trying to capture this, the clouds massed, so it's hard to spot, but, if you zoom in, you can see a train crossing the bridge.






And what a lime avenue! Close up, the leaves are translucent in the sunlight, and you appreciate that these splendid trees have wonderful sound effects: the leaves make the most gentle rustling sound in the breeze. (Fragment of conversation overheard earlier: a lady remarking that Nymans was one of the few gardens where you couldn't hear any traffic.) It really brought home why limes were the choice of kings - avenues of this royal tree were planted in princely gardens. Examples include avenues at Theobalds, an auxiliary palace, by order of William Cecil, Elizabeth I's chief adviser, under the direction of John Gerard, and St James's park by order of Charles II and directed by Le Notre.

That you could hear the sound of the leaves was something in itself - especially considering the huge car park was packed to capacity that day. Also, despite visitor numbers, the grounds weren't in any way overcrowded. The only busy places were the cafe (after an hour's wanderings, I had a reviving Earl Grey tea and lavender scone outside) and, in second position, the shop.

On the way to the lime avenue, crossing the meadow, you pass the pinetum - astonishingly, only two giant redwoods from the original pinetum (which was horse-shoe shaped and dated from around 1895) survived the Great Storm of 1987. The new pinetum was planted in 1990, again in the shape of a horse-shoe . . . On that note, though obviously there's the logic of reconstruction in keeping the same shape, I couldn't resist thinking better luck next time, or at least, here's hoping, given the vagaries of our current climate. While a hundred years isn't a bad innings, it was very sad to think of so many beautiful ancient trees being decimated in a single night.


In the grounds, you come across various attractions and marvels, such as this extraordinary tree with fruit like raspberries and a giant redwood (close-up of the soft, velvety bark below)












and conceits such as topiary sculptures. What looks from a distance like Salvador Dali's Mae West lips sofa is, close up, a yew basket.
A stone figure in the undergrowth seems oddly lifelike, at first (see right).




So, on with the slideshow - a few shots of the formal gardens surrounding the house, with their clipped hedges, gravel paths, pots, ornamental trees and striking topiary; the "lion" gate pictured above, leading up to the house.



















On the way to the nursery you pass the rose garden: here, a startlingly vivid pink rose (right), and another with beautiful dusky red rosehips (below).




In the nursery on the way back, we picked up three David Austin roses and a couple of extraordinarily delicate white flowering euphorbia ("diamond frost").

Our last destination was The Royal Oak, in Poynings, at the foot of the Downs - an amazing location (there's also a lovely garden). Now for the "confessions of a terrible daughter" finale: my parents then told me that it was their anniversary. I shoulda known - unexpectedly, my mother had texted me mid-week to ask if I was free on Saturday in case we could see "All My Sons" (turned out to be sold-out, no surprise) or else Sunday they were thinking of going up to see the Picasso exhibition. I didn't think to ask what the occasion was . . . Anyhow, they said they hadn't told me, not wanting me to worry about a card or present, and they'd had a great day at Nymans - had driven past it numerous times without knowing it was something special.

The roses were a souvenir and present from my father to my mother (early that week they would plant them in a new circular bed under an apple tree). We celebrated with a Guinness (my father), white wine (my mother) and a Sagres (Portuguese beer: me) before heading back to Brighton to continue the festivities.

A last image from Nymans - a beautiful low-growing yellow flower ("campanile") I spotted on the way back through the grounds.








Next posting - Sussex Prairies garden, with links to Glyndebourne and Kew