ON March 25, 1845, Queen Victoria wrote to her uncle Leopold, King of the Belgians: ‘You will I am sure be pleased to hear that we have succeeded in purchasing Osborne in the Isle of Wight… It sounds so snug and nice to have a place of one’s own, quiet and retired.’
The purchase was something of a dream fulfilled: married five years previously with a growing family, the Queen and Prince Albert had long been eager to find a place where they could escape from public attention, the pressures of official life and the unhealthy atmosphere of London.
The search for a private country retreat had begun in October 1843 and the royal couple visited Osborne for the first time the following year. Queen Victoria already knew the Isle of Wight slightly and, in 1833, had spent nearly two months at the neighboring estate of Norris Castle, a Regency house by James Wyatt superbly set above the Solent (today, in a depressing state of dereliction).
At this moment, the island was changing very quickly. The connection with the mainland began to be served by paddle steamers from the 1820s and, in 1840, the railway line between Southampton and London was completed. As a result, by the 1840s, the Isle of Wight was within about four hours’ travel of the capital. It offered, moreover, beautiful countryside, not to mention the pleasures of sea-bathing and sailing.
In a memorandum dated October 21, 1844, Prince Albert extolled the setting of the property, the privacy of the estate, its connection to the sea and its accessibility from both Windsor and London, as well as the quality of the air (which was also approved by the Queen’s physician). The poor condition of the estate additionally presented him with the prospect of an improvement project.
Denne historien er fra November 06, 2019-utgaven av Country Life UK.
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Denne historien er fra November 06, 2019-utgaven av 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.
