The country-house kitchen garden, such a deserved visitor attraction throughout this country, is, in most cases, a miraculous proof of life after death. Forty years ago, most such places had all but faded from the public consciousness. The great rectangle of tall brick walls typically stood in a curiously isolated position behind great shelterbelts, the old doors firmly shut. Within was a scene of silent abandonment, at best a great court of sheep-grazed grass, at worst a plantation of Christmas trees or a caravan park, all presided over by a grim row of collapsing Edwardian glasshouses. There seemed no prospect of a brighter future.
What a change in modern times. Wherever we go nowadays, we expect to walk into that distinctive space and find a busy scene of productive order, with trained fruit against the walls and labels announcing the presence of Lord Derby, Peasgood’s Nonsuch and the Revd W. Wilks.
The causes of this thrilling revival are many and various. No one should imagine the economic world of Mr Asquith’s Britain has returned. What matters is that, in each case, a happy combination of expertise and enthusiasm with a degree of commercial flair has breathed new life into these unique features. The spirit of Harry Dodson surely looks down benevolently upon them all.
In terms of sheer vastness, the walled garden at Gordon Castle, on the lower reaches of the Spey east of Inverness, is as gasp-inducing as any of its contemporaries. Ben Stokes could barely hit a cricket ball from one wall to the other. These walls arose in 1803 as part of a new project on the site of the ancient Bog of Gight, not, at first hearing, the obvious setting for the production of fruit, vegetables and cut flowers.
Diese Geschichte stammt aus der February 19, 2020-Ausgabe von Country Life UK.
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Diese Geschichte stammt aus der February 19, 2020-Ausgabe von Country Life UK.
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Save our family farms
IT Tremains to be seen whether the Government will listen to the more than 20,000 farming people who thronged Whitehall in central London on November 19 to protest against changes to inheritance tax that could destroy countless family farms, but the impact of the good-hearted, sombre crowds was immediate and positive.
A very good dog
THE Spanish Pointer (1766–68) by Stubbs, a landmark painting in that it is the artist’s first depiction of a dog, has only been exhibited once in the 250 years since it was painted.
The great astral sneeze
Aurora Borealis, linked to celestial reindeer, firefoxes and assassinations, is one of Nature's most mesmerising, if fickle displays and has made headlines this year. Harry Pearson finds out why
'What a good boy am I'
We think of them as the stuff of childhood, but nursery rhymes such as Little Jack Horner tell tales of decidedly adult carryings-on, discovers Ian Morton
Forever a chorister
The music-and way of living-of the cabaret performer Kit Hesketh-Harvey was rooted in his upbringing as a cathedral chorister, as his sister, Sarah Sands, discovered after his death
Best of British
In this collection of short (5,000-6,000-word) pen portraits, writes the author, 'I wanted to present a number of \"Great British Commanders\" as individuals; not because I am a devotee of the \"great man, or woman, school of history\", but simply because the task is interesting.' It is, and so are Michael Clarke's choices.
Old habits die hard
Once an antique dealer, always an antique dealer, even well into retirement age, as a crop of interesting sales past and future proves
It takes the biscuit
Biscuit tins, with their whimsical shapes and delightful motifs, spark nostalgic memories of grandmother's sweet tea, but they are a remarkably recent invention. Matthew Dennison pays tribute to the ingenious Victorians who devised them
It's always darkest before the dawn
After witnessing a particularly lacklustre and insipid dawn on a leaden November day, John Lewis-Stempel takes solace in the fleeting appearance of a rare black fox and a kestrel in hot pursuit of a pipistrelle bat
Tarrying in the mulberry shade
On a visit to the Gainsborough Museum in Sudbury, Suffolk, in August, I lost my husband for half an hour and began to get nervous. Fortunately, an attendant had spotted him vanishing under the cloak of the old mulberry tree in the garden.
