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'.