âI wondered why it is that weâre all such bloody fools. Why donât people, instead of the idiocies they do spend their time on, just walk round looking at things? That pool, for instanceâall the stuff thatâs in it⊠mystery of their lives, down there under waterâ George Orwell, âComing Up for Airâ (1939)
I CONFESS that this is a fishy story. I was driving to Crummock Water, one of the Lake Districtâs less tourist-mobbed destinations (if you want a tip, Thirlmere is another), but stopped on the north-east bank of Windermere for a breather. Parked the car near the village of Troutbeck, walked to the stony shore, admired the spirograph patterns of the raindrops on the gin-clear water, childishly stepped out along a row of black stones into the lake, looked down and there was an Arctic charr. The Ice Age fish. I am convinced of it. At first slanting glance, I thought âclub-shape of troutâ, but then the fish carouselled in the water: witch-mouthed; sinister streamlined corporeality; U-boat Type VII; gold pollocking belly catching coal fire as it fled.
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Give it some stick
Galloping through the imagination, competitive hobby-horsing is a gymnastic sport on the rise in Britain, discovers Sybilla Hart
Paper escapes
Steven King selects his best travel books of 2024
For love, not money
This year may have marked the end of brag-artâ, bought merely to show off oneâs wealth. Itâs time for a return to looking for connoisseurship, beauty and taste
Mary I: more bruised than bloody
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A love supreme
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Private views
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Shhhhhh...
THERE is great delight to be had poring over the front pages of COUNTRY LIFE each week, dreaming of what life would be like in a Scottish castle (so reasonably priced, but do bear in mind the midges) or a townhouse in Londonâs Eaton Square (worth a kingâs ransom, but, oh dear, the traffic) or perhaps that cottage in the Cotswolds (if you donât mind standing next to Hollywood A-listers in the queue at Daylesford). The estate agentâs particulars will give you details of acreage, proximity to schools and railway stations, but neverâno, neverâan indication of noise levels.
Mission impossible
Rubble and ruin were all that remained of the early-19th-century Villa Frere and its gardens, planted by the English diplomat John Hookham Frere, until a group of dedicated volunteers came to its rescue. Josephine Tyndale-Biscoe tells the story
When a perfect storm hits
Weather, wars, elections and financial uncertainty all conspired against high-end house sales this year, but there were still some spectacular deals
Give the dog a bone
Man's best friend still needs to eat like its Lupus forebears, believes Jonathan Self, when it's not guarding food, greeting us or destroying our upholstery, of course