Relaxing Space

One of the first things I noticed when I moved to St. Albans was that it was a wonderful mix of city and country life. One minute I could be shopping in the town centre, the next I could be on a country walk breathing in the clean air! I’m getting that feeling now as I walk into Notcutts Garden Centre.  I love to slow down and linger on these outdoor garden spaces, surrounded by blushing pink hydrangeas and the fruit of the crab apple tree.

Celebrating its 120th anniversary this year, it was founded in the 1880s by Roger Crompton Notcutt who started out purely as an amateur gardener; however, by 1914 Notcutts nursery had won its first gold medal for its Azalea garden at Chelsea.

I pick up a basket and see a mass of pink shrubs displayed on a round table. The quiet sun diffuses along the tops of their thick foliage. I step closer, pick one up and take in the aromatic scent of its leaves. The assistant smiles as he sees me analyzing it, then tells me that they’re called “skimmias” are quite hardy and can often even survive when neglected. As I don’t have green fingers, they sound perfect and I put one in my basket!

The gravel crunches at my footsteps as I pass by traditional clay chimeneas and terracotta pots; further along, thick logs are stacked in an attractive pyramid log store alongside kindling wood and sacks of compost piled high.

I step under a pergola arch covered with white climbing roses then wind along a path leading to the water features. The trickling fountain designs are mostly contemporary; my favourites are the geometric spheres and cubes with built in LED lighting. I pause; it feels meditative listening to the cascading waters.

Further along the path I spot Calla lily plants and put one in my basket. Their elegant cone shape, depth of purple colour, and lush green leaves will contrast dramatically beside the pink and white roses on my garden table at home.

I walk on, drifts of brown leaves at my feet, listening to the birdsong cutting through the cool October air; feeling relaxed I head inside to get my hands dirty and pick some loose tulip bulbs for my garden.

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Give me wings

We’re welcomed into the De Havilland aviation museum by a volunteer who explains proudly that their collection has the only three WWII Mosquito aircraft in the country. I notice a group of retired gentlemen chatting and laughing in the cafe; he tells us that the BBC is here today interviewing some veterans.

The museum, established in 1959, was the first of its type to open to the public and is dedicated to preserving and communicating De Havilland’s contribution to innovation in British aviation technology.

We step into the field and there before our very eyes is a collection of full sized jet airplanes! I stumble upon the world famous “Comet 2R” built in the early fifties. Only its nose and front fuselage have survived; I stand in front of it and take in the clean curvature of its shape designed for maximum velocity.

I walk on, turn a corner and discover a wooden WWII Mosquito light fighter plane, a prototype. Its first flight was in November 1940, piloted by Geoffrey de Havilland himself. I stand under a wing looking up, trying to fathom how this aircraft ever got off the ground!

I am approached by a volunteer who is amused by my puzzled expression; like many of the volunteers, he is a retired pilot and very knowledgeable; he leads the way into the hangar and shows me a type of flexible lightweight wood used to make part of the wings.

Inside, dedicated volunteers surrounded by historic exhibits of photos and memorabilia

walk around carrying tools and components, quietly working to restore various aircraft.

The volunteer then shows me another fighter plane and invites me to climb into the cockpit of the Sea Vixen built in 1960; I sit there in silence, listening to him as I gaze in awe at the many dials measuring air pressure, speed, fuel and altitude covered by a web of connecting wires; I marvel at the advanced capacity of the human brain able to design these feats of aeronautical engineering. I love the sound of the technical words that he reels off like “tail booms” and “transonic flight.”

By the time we leave, I’m all smiles and tell my husband that I feel raring to go.

“Go where?” he questions.

On my first pilot lesson of course!”

“Not another one of your crazy ideas!” He smiles.

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Doing the time warp again

I turn the street corner, and walk into a yard towards the entrance of the Fleetville Vintage Emporium. I feel as if I’ve entered a De Chirico painting as I approach a collection of half-assembled mannequins and an arrangement of old Singer sewing machines.

I am greeted by a sales assistant as I step into the emporium. Several movie and pop art prints decorate the wall behind her. The radio is playing an Elvis tune taking me right back to the seventies. Suddenly the colour dial seems to have turned up a few notches, and there before me is a vast and wonderfully eclectic collection of vintage accessories, clothing, books, vinyl and art.

I almost feel disconnected from the 21st century, as if caught in a time warp, bombarded by random pieces of furniture, doll’s houses, glass cabinets filled with crystal-cut champagne glasses chock-full with costume jewellery.

There are over 50 vendors in this space and given the vast quantity of paraphernalia, each unit is a little topsy-turvy and merges into the other;

I enjoy having to rummage around and look closely to find things of interest.

There is something for everybody and among my favourite collectables are: manual typewriters, vintage 35mm cameras and sequined clutch handbags; I try on a pair of silver strappy sandals, but alas, they’re too small!

I flick through a book on fashion illustration and start chatting with a trader who is busy tidying; he tells me about his apprenticeship in men’s tailoring in his younger days. It’s a pleasure to listen to some of his anecdotes about learning his craft in London in the late sixties. His clothing is neatly arranged around a huge spiral stand in the middle of his unit, full with colourful shirts, jackets and ties.

Toward the back is a huge selection of vinyl records stored in cardboard boxes, above them hang black and white photos of music legends; an unusual one of Sid Vicious and Johnny Rotten jamming together catches my eye.

As I leave, I spot a cylindrical mustard and white lampshade with orange patterns running across it straight out of 1978! I smile, relieved that some things are destined to stay in the past!

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Artists at home

I love that September feeling when the children are back at school, and everything goes a little quieter. This week I have been enjoying Herts Open Studios, a wonderful collection of mini art exhibitions across St Albans and Hertfordshire, now in its 30th year.

The first gallery on my list is Nude Tin Can Gallery. I open the door, step onto a dark wooden floor and into a white studio. I look up at the contrasting artwork neatly displayed on the walls, from oil paintings on large canvases to small watercolour portraits and framed original prints

A small portrait catches my eye. I gaze into it. The artist is setting up and notices me lingering so we start chatting; he explains the inspiration behind it.

I then wander around; I peer into a glass cabinet and observe some limited edition sculptures cast in bronze smooth feminine shapes reminiscent of Henry Moore.

Afterwards I head to another local gallery, a ten minute walk in the other direction. I climb the stairs and step into an attic. I start chatting with an artist who shows me around. I can’t take my eyes off a large acrylic on canvas of abstract dolphins, an oceanic piece that instantly transports me to a far away place. I enter the seascape and feel absorbed by it while managing to sustain a conversation.

In the other room, I fall in love with a collection of miniature linocuts of sunflowers. I’m fascinated by the way the artist has honed in on sections of the flower and added fluorescent colours to her detailed composition. The artist has succeeded in conveying the flower’s captivating beauty. I’ve often felt that when sunflowers are in full bloom they have an otherworldly feel about them that never fails to capture my attention.

It’s fun being around so much art and taking in the vibrant colours and textures. I’m amazed by the wealth of talent to be found just meandering along these few streets and as I walk home, ponder on the fact that this has been an education; I now feel as if I know more about art mediums, methods and materials that artists adopt to express their imaginations. Fortunately these exhibitions continue until the end of the month, so there’s time to see plenty more.

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I love the city’s historic streets but they are spooky at night

I begin my walk into Romeland and wander down Fishpool Street towards St Michael’s Village; its elevated pavements and numerous former coaching inns remind me that it was originally a stop on the mediaeval route from London to Chester.

According to antique maps, St. Albans originally grew up around the north, east, and west sides of the Abbey extending around the Market Place, along St. Peter’s Street, Holywell Street, High Street, and Fishpool Street, all of which apparently existed by the eleventh century.

This historic district is very picturesque, and even on a cloudy day, the red brick and flower baskets that hang from the timber frames make it feel warm. I absorb the old world charm of the rows of snug cottages, only two floors high and freshly painted in white; their front doors are brightly decorated in unique colours with shiny door knockers and letter boxes, each one exuding its own distinctive character.

With such a long and varied history, I’m not at all surprised that this city is a source of pride and enjoyment to its residents and attracts so many visitors. There were once as many as fourteen pubs alone in this street, offering home cooked pub food and a welcoming atmosphere.

The Lower red lion pub, the only remaining pub on the street, sells real ale, holds weekly quiz nights and even offers bed and breakfast; its main building dates back to the seventeenth century. Mmm I wouldn’t mind waking up in this location and looking out onto the magnificence of the Abbey while enjoying breakfast in bed!

Further down the street is St Michaels Manor Hotel, a stately manor house dating back to 1530, with five acres of beautifully manicured gardens and overlooking a tranquil lake. The perfect location for a wedding, or to impress your house guests with an afternoon tea.

I’d love to go on an historic city tour guide to find out more about the scandals and sinister events that took place over the centuries within these old streets; Mind you, I don’t think I’d like to meander home at night, all alone, after a pint or two through this apparently haunted thoroughfare!

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Our treasure

I love to take a leisurely stroll down to Clarence Park, enjoying its twenty-five acres of wide-open space. It is quiet here today and there’s a sense of privacy as Summer slowly turns to Autumn. This Victorian park is well kept and it feels calming to get away from the city streets. I walk across the vibrant field of grass; the branches of the huge trees swishing over my head.

As I turn a corner, I see a bed of brilliant daisies in bloom, under the dusty glow of the late summer sun. The trellises stand tall and full with soft peach and pink climbing roses. Further ahead, the bandstand and a granite drinking fountain remind me that this park was built in the 1800s and maintains many of its original features. The clouds move swiftly across the bright sky. I close my eyes and face the summer sun drifting into September. A dragonfly momentarily hovers before me then swiftly flies off lost in the sunlight.

The path winds around the vast lawn. The fresh air cleans and restores. The sun comes and goes, warming the breeze and relaxing my senses with light and warmth; I feel merged with the elements. This park, situated right in the middle of the City and gifted to St Albans in 1894 by Sir John Blundell is a treasure for our community and had been potentially under threat from big city developers in recent years. Losing this park would undoubtedly have been a tragedy and would have disturbed our sense of balance and connection with the local natural environment.

Rich leafy hydrangeas in full bloom are emerging beside the park gates, catching the sunlight and shade, their luminous blue clusters vivid and part of the rich tapestry as the late summer harvest approaches. Squeals of delight can be heard from across the field as the children take to the swings. The park clouds over, a dog barks; a frantic squirrel dashes along the branches of a fir tree. It’s time to head home.

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Spending time on the important things

I love the feel of this old country house; far enough from London to feel like you’ve escaped the big metropolis for an afternoon. As I enter the lobby, there she is, my dear friend seated on a chesterfield sofa by the grand fireplace, a beautiful arrangement of roses, orchids and dahlias decorating the side table beside her. We greet each other with a hug and a smile, and make our way to the lounge. The waiter welcomes us in and before we know it we’re sitting at our circular table draped in a crisp white tablecloth, sipping champagne and reclining in our comfy armchairs.

 The place is busy and the hotel guests and tourists are gathered round their tables, chatting away and enjoying their afternoon teas; each table is spaciously laid out, exuding its own ambience and sense of privacy. The décor feels Georgian, the lounge is painted a muted shade of oyster grey and the wall cabinet to our left is furnished with antiquarian books. I look out through the tall sash windows onto the perfectly kept lawn and elegant trees.

 As always with old friends, we chat away, sharing our news as if we’d only seen each other yesterday. The table lamps illuminate the space in a soft peach light, creating a calming ambience. The waiter approaches and sets up the silverware along with two china teapots onto our table. I opt for a pot of vanilla tea, and it’s a Jasmine tea for my friend. We watch him pour as we sip champagne. The cake stand promptly arrives, crammed with finger sandwiches, scones and sweet delicacies, not forgetting the clotted cream and preserves.

 We leave feeling relaxed and refreshed; outside, the sun is setting and peonies are still in full bloom. We’ve had a wonderful afternoon and look forward to coming back for a Spa day, or maybe even an exercise class, actually scrap that, we both agree that we need to make time in our lives for the important stuff like more bubbly and cake!

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A natural order

Walking in the sunlight past the gates of Carpenters garden centre, I feel as if I’ve discovered one of St Albans best kept secrets. The small scale makes it feel private and a pleasure to explore. There’s an inherent sense of order; rows upon rows of shrubbery, bedding plants, perennials, rose bushes, and mini olive trees frame the outer perimeter. Each section is neatly labelled and displayed.

 I continue along the path and look up at the hanging baskets arranged along the bungalow shop at the perfect height for customers to have a good look. They’re packed with pansies in full bloom, bathed in the warm light of this mid-summer afternoon and awash with rich colours.

 At the centre is a working greenhouse. Customers aren’t allowed in so I peer curiously into the murky window. Inside, it is in disarray filled with upturned pots, trowels, watering cans and little plants all over the place. I like that, it feels real and makes you want to go in and get your hands dirty.

 I make my way towards the vegetable section and marvel at the at the huge aubergine plants; it’s amazing to see how things grow and I linger to look at the dark veins running through their leaves. Beside them are some chilli plants, each bright red chilli is still small and has it’s own unique shape.

 Curious to see more, I step inside the shop; the shelves are tidy and carefully displayed; there are umbrellas, doormats, garden gloves and wellies. Further in are organic vegetable soaps, hand creams and aromatherapy candles, I love the minimal packaging and close my eyes as I take in their natural scent.

 It feels like a family business, old fashioned and spacious and the shelves aren’t crammed with products to maximise sales; there are barely any sales assistants around and as a customer, I feel free to explore my surroundings.

Over to the side is a mini grocery store divided into two areas. Huge ripe organic vegetables are stacked and displayed neatly. It feels as if the dark colours have been amplified in their freshness and vitality. The fruit is displayed with precision, just looking at the bright oranges, lemons and limes feels energizing.  Supermarket fruit and veg seem drab and lack-lustre by comparison. I buy a thick bundle of greens crisp and deep in colour, along with some organic beef tomatoes and a bunch of dark orange carrots, then head home to make a magnificent vegetable soup!

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Eccentric exhibits at the Natural History Museum

We enter the Natural History Museum at Tring housing one of the finest collections of stuffed mammals, aquatic creatures, birds, reptiles and insects. Once the private museum of Lord Rothschild, established in 1889 and donated to our nation in 1937.

The museum is divided into six galleries. We take the stairs to galleries three and four, and walk along the balcony of the central atrium. We open a collection of wooden cabinets filled with specimens. The sheer biodiversity is astounding! Never mind Natural History, some of these creatures look supernatural! The first cabinet I open houses a huge millipede and some weird and wonderful moths and butterflies, their iridescent wings patterned with shots of vibrant green and red.

Hundreds of rare bird species such as hummingbirds, sunbeams and comets native to New Guinea and multi-coloured Quetzal birds native to South America are presented in a Victorian hexagonal cabinet. I’m amazed by how tiny some of them are and I love their peculiar names, such as the purple-throated sun angel. Next we see some gigantic fish from a ferocious barracuda, to a sleek silver-blue swordfish, and a crab with legs so endlessly long that they span the entire cabinet.

We take the stairs and find ourselves stepping into a dark corridor furnished with wall-to-wall cabinets filled with hundreds of mammals. There’s an extensive collection including extinct animals such as the Dodo and the Moa. I seem to have turned into a teenager as the unusual ones have us in hysterics. My daughter and I are giggling at an extinct elephant-bird’s foot, at a giant Emu staring menacingly at us, at a saiga with weird bloated nostrils, and at a chubby walrus with huge tusks looking up at us. The dim lights, crowds and length of the corridor are quite disorientating and we both feel as if we’ve entered into a David Lynch film.

Downstairs is a central atrium with more cabinets filled with altogether more recognisable mammals. I pause and stare into the intelligent eyes of a chimp and at the luminous blue and red stripes across a mandrills’ elongated face; just a sheet of glass between my face and theirs. It’s pretty noisy in here, as its the school holidays. The space is packed with children filling in their worksheets on clipboards and yelling with enthusiasm as they’re presented with angry gorillas and ferocious tigers.

Later, we have the Rothschild room to ourselves. At its centre is a life-size replica of a giant tortoise, but I’m more fascinated with old black and white photos revealing Lord Rothschild in all of his glory riding on the back of a tortoise, and riding in a zebra drawn carriage. I pop into the shop to end our tour and buy his biography, curious to find out more about this eccentric aristocrat and his remarkable menagerie.

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A peaceful haven

I walk along St. Peter’s street, gradually leaving the hustle and bustle behind. I approach the church, walking by a row of listed cottages, and step passed the open gateway. The ancient churchyard feels spacious and is dotted with headstones and old oak and yew trees.

 St Peter’s Church, originally an Anglo Saxon wooden structure, is one of the three churches built along with St. Michael’s and St. Stephen’s over a thousand years ago, and stands on one of the three main roads leading into St Albans.

 Its central tower dates from 1254 offering striking views of St Albans and the surrounding countryside; you can even go on a tower tour if you can manage the narrow spiral staircase and steep ladder.

 Inside, the church is deserted, silent. I walk down the nave bordered by elegant arches. The hexagonal pulpit dates back to 1863, is richly decorated with carvings of the Evangelists and adorned with vines and grapes. I notice the subtle intricacy of the stained glass windows in the north aisle dating from the 13th century and recognize the medieval craftsmanship of the heraldic shields. An exquisitely designed pelican set in a medallion has captured my attention in its small scale and vibrancy of colour. Apparently the pelican is an old medieval Christ symbol given the sacrificial act of wounding her breast in order to feed her young.

 Over to my right, the stained glass is Victorian featuring iconic saints and scenes from the parables. The church was partly rebuilt in the mid 1700s, then later remodelled by Lord Grimthorpe in the late 1800s. Many changes have been made to the building and, although it doesn’t give me that ancient sense, it is still beautiful.

 As I step outside into the churchyard, tall pine trees with low branches dim the daylight and it feels cool. Burials here include soldiers killed in the War of the Roses battles. There is a sense of Gothic wildness to it, as some trees have been hit by lightening and others’ roots have burst from the ground, splitting headstones into several pieces.

 I walk further and approach the garden of hope, set aside for the burial of ashes; I sit on a bench and take in the summer sun. The tree of life memorial sculpture, sparkles in the dappled sunlight. It’s a wonderful spherical structure, designed to hold stainless steel glass leaves with names and dates to commemorate the departed. I feel at peace as if I’m a million miles away from anywhere as I take in the view; strange how within two minutes I’ll find myself walking through the hectic marketplace.

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