Dressed for Christmas

Around this time last year I motored out of London to Waddesdon Manor, an estate in Buckinghamshire built by Baron Ferdinand de Rothschild in the late 1800s, built in the style of the French Renaissance. The opening of the manor was advertised as 'Dressed for Christmas' and nature certainly had the building and gardens looking their prettiest, with a recent fall of snow and the winter sun highlighting the honey-coloured stone and glittering metal roofs. Once inside though I felt the decorations appeared a little lack lustre - missing that certain flair. I was expecting a little more innovation, originality and skill with the decorations. The year before I expressed the same slight disappointment at the Christmas opening at Blenheim Palace; there I found even some of the basic preparations wanting. When you are expecting just one guest, or a thousand to call by, you do normally show them the courtesy of having flicked the feather duster around before their arrival.

It is impossible not to be impressed however with either estate, both extraordinary buildings and gardens - two magnificent cameos on the velvet of the English landscape. That December day at Waddesdon was extremely cold - even Apollo and his statuary friends were rugged up against the cold - but I was able to enjoy a lengthy walk around the grounds and magnificent wine cellar. The garden was restored twenty years ago, re-emphasising the parterre design and the woodland paths. When the damp and darkness closed in was time to move to the picture perfect Five Arrows Hotel, just near the entrance to the manor - a wonderful atmosphere, with staff members who are happy for you to explore behind every doorway, and superb fare.

Speaking of being dressed for Christmas you will not find a store bought Christmas bauble at Fairhall, a Georgian terrace home in East Melbourne, housing the extensive and amazing Johnston Collection. Antique furniture, porcelain, artwork and objet d'art were collected by Johnston, an antique dealer, and are now housed in his home, open to the public. For Christmas each year a Victorian region of the Embroiderers Guild make and arrange exquisite decorations and trimmings, following a particular theme in the Collection. This year the North east region of Victoria and Albury are preparing the exhibition. One year the table was laid with felted summer pudding and frosted fabric fruit, on exquisitely embroidered linen. The tree was laden with the highest quality handmade ornaments, along with miniature portraits reflecting the estate’s collection of miniatures. The skill and design on display was quite breathtaking. I have attached a link to the website (to the right of the page) and suggest if you are in Melbourne between now and 24 February 2012 you squeeze onto a tour, and I mean squeeze as there are some tight corners to be negotiated.

I live in Kiribati

My home is, for the time being, in the Republic of Kiribati, a country straddling the Equator in the Pacific Ocean. Formerly known as the Gilbert and Ellice Islands is it now an independent nation, consisting of 33 atolls spread across three and a half million square kilometres of the central Pacific Ocean. I live on the Tarawa atoll, a long narrow strip of reef which bends around a turquoise lagoon. The atoll barely rises above the ocean, and is not much wider than a football field at its widest point. In fact a footballer could kick the footy from one beach over the atoll to the other beach without too much troulbe at all. From my front window I look over the ocean, and from the back window, the lagoon; a lagoon which is much the same size as Port Phillip Bay in Melbourne. When people speak of being ‘in tune’ with the environment then nowhere is it more the case than with the Kiribati people. They are never out of sight of the ocean, never too far to hear the sounds of the waves relentlessly pounding the protective reef. The I-Kiribati are of course dependent on the ocean for survival, fishing daily in the ocean and lagoon, either out in small fishing craft or searching for shell fish and octopus along the reef. Very few tourists come to Kiribati, but a number of travellers arrive, sometimes by yacht or more often on the twice weekly 737. Those tired of the city work routines in their home country come in search of a professional challenge and a complete ‘sea change’. It is certainly a sea change, as I mentioned you are never more than one hundred metres from the sea.

An afternoon at Hidcote Manor

While standing in my kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil I see Hidcote Manor is now appearing this month on my calendar of English Gardens. As far as Hidcote is from my home in Kiribati, both geographically and climatically, and in every possible way different, my visit there last year is very clear in my mind. I and a friend called in on our way back from the national poultry championship in Warwickshire. Now there is a day out - if you happen to be in Warwickshire that is. There they all were in their magnificent finery, from the Lincolnshire Buffs to the very proud and highly-decorated Rumpless Cock; each and every bird groomed to within an inch of its manicured talons.

Hidcote is close to that other regular on English calendars, Chipping Camden, a classic display of what the Cotswolds does best; ancient lop-sided inns, 17th century market halls, bow-fronted tea shops, and more examples of the manicurist’s work, the exquisite thatch roofs and garden topiary.

Lawrence Johnston, when he designed and planted the garden was very much in tune with the current style of the arts and crafts garden. The garden is one of the finest examples in Britain of the use of garden ‘rooms’. Finely clipped hedges of holly, hornbean, beech and yew separate the rooms, each with their individual planting scheme, patterns and design emphasis.

At another time views across the Vale of Evesham would be enjoyed, but for us it was a darker, quieter, almost eerie walk through the garden as the November afternoon closed in and long shadows moved across the garden. Twinkling lights twisted through the shrubbery added to the ethereal beauty of the garden. The tiny lights combined with the berberis berries and rose hips provided a reminder that Christmas was not too far away.

We nearly didn’t have Johnston’s completed work at Hidcote to enjoy, as a story is told that after he was injured while fighting in the First World War he was laid out ready for burial. It appears he moved an arm, or perhaps flickered an eyelid just in time for his comrades to realise it was not time, just yet, to send off the telegram.

Such a contrast

I live on what could realistically be called a sandbar.  I live on Tarawa, a narrow atoll, one of the many atolls and islands that make up the Republic of Kiribati, in the central Pacific Ocean. And yes, my house is one degree (and twenty-four minutes) north. 

On reading other writers’ blogs I read of people who have pared down their possessions, pared down their wardrobe, scaled back their consumerism and downsized their home etc.   In coming to Kiribati I have pared back my life………….., no appointments diary, no commuting, no social commitments, free from Christmas advertising, no rush to appointments, no demands, no distractions.  But of course on the down side, fewer friends around, no theatre or art, no cheese and on the odd occasion it appears, very poor quality chocolate.

Up until earlier this year I was living in central London, and here, now, in my small ocean-bound village I compare my commute to work then and my stroll to my office now.  I walk along the only road, passing by a couple of houses, a neat cemetery and more than a few free range dogs.  Earlier this year I was walking by the British Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, through the delightful St James's Park, beneath the Admiral on his column, and then by the stores displaying their desirable wares on Strand: the handmade chocolate shop, the tweed and tartan shop, the Savoy tailor, the artists’ supplier, the traditional stationers, and of course the gourmet food purveyors. And compared to then, here there is a silence.  Listen, waves crashing means high tide, silence, low tide.  Thud, a coconut is now more accessible.

The visual void I now experience has freed up space in my mind, to imagine and visualise, to think of past experiences, to focus acutely on past views and impressions: ornate door handles on a Paris street, the rooftop shapes over Whitehall, a painted lych gate in a leafy Melbourne street, autumn colours in Canberra.

Paul Theroux observed: 'Nothing induces concentration or inspires memory like an alien landsape or a foreign culture'.