A summer fruit harvest

We drive past the ‘Pick your own fruit ‘sign, park and walk up to the hut; we select three empty punnets and read the whiteboard with a map of the different fruit areas. The first fruits I see as I walk into the field are hundreds of squat red currant bushes. We walk on and to our right, as far as the eye can see, are rows upon rows of raspberry plants over a metre high. I’ve never seen anything like it! The sun is shining and nourishing the leaves, highlighting the dense foliage.

I’m amazed by the organization of this operation. Each raspberry plant has been placed in a pot that rests on bricks for clear drainage, with three horizontal wires holding up the vines; lower down I see a hose running along each row as a built in irrigation system. Presented with such an abundant harvest, my husband has a good look then gets to work; as I’ve never really done this before, he reminds me to make sure I pick the darkest raspberries that come off the stem easily.

Soon its time to move on and in front of us are many rows of raised strawberry beds; the fruit is mostly ripe, abundant and spilling over the edges of the bed; a delicious bounty. I draw closer, breathing in their scent, in awe of how Nature provides. There are lots of little white flowers. Some of the hanging strawberries are still a light green-creamy colour; others are perfectly ripened, a brilliant red, vibrant and ready to be picked.

I stop to look around. It’s great to see my husband relaxing in Nature, away from his computer. He’s in the zone and has even started humming! A few families are fruit picking and I can hear the sound of buzzing bees and childen’s laughter in the distance. I spot an assertive toddler running amidst the shrubbery clutching the handle of her half-filled punnet, occasionally stopping to gather more redcurrants. Her blonde locks bouncing as she runs on; her mother hardly able to keep up. I can see there is a magical freedom to growing up in the countryside.

Further along are the blackberries, transforming from light pink into deeper and deeper shades of burgundy and ripening in the full sun; their texture is much softer than the strawberries and I pick them with care.

Soon our punnets are filled. I’m proud of my pickings and swing the punnets contentedly by their handles. My husband takes a photo of me, as he can see my childlike wonder at what I’ve picked with my own hands. Later that afternoon I make a crumble. The sweet aroma of apples and blackberries simmering in the pan fills the kitchen. After dinner, I serve it up for dessert with some custard and within minutes, it’s gone!

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In the stable yard

I take in a breath of clean country air and look up at the abundant wisteria dressing the red brick arch. Before we enter the courtyard, on our right is a boutique packed with luxury home accessories. I enter the shop and have to look twice at the lush hydrangeas and deep pink roses to make sure they’re actually artificial! The retail assistant smiles as I tell her about the dreadful ones my aunt used to have in the middle of her dining table in the late seventies! I buy a few stems of silk pink peonies before leaving.

We walk along the avenue leading to the stable yard; the Tudor buildings feature mullioned windows and red tiled roofs. In the middle is a running fountain with a stone Obelisk towering at its centre and at the very top is a golden pineapple, historically a symbol of wealth and hospitality in architecture.

I stand by the fountain with some tourists. To my left are wooden gates leading to the house and gardens, and in front of me is the Hatfield House Gift Shop. To my immediate right is The Coach House restaurant with an entirely glass façade. As it’s gone three o’clock, we pop in for a pot of Earl Grey and a huge slice of Victoria sponge.

We sip tea and it’s a pleasure to linger and take in the view. Although we’re sitting in a contemporary glass structure, it somehow works with the Tudor surroundings; we feel as if we’re still outside in the spacious courtyard as the light floods in.

Afterwards, we walk passed an old cart brimming with freshly watered flowers to the gift shop. The place is bursting with merchandise! I walk down the narrow path between chests and shelves brimming with colourful stock like soaps, scented candles, packets of fudge and wooden puzzles. At the far end, is a tall cabinet displaying a sizeable collection of tin soldiers from various eras. Their shiny uniforms painted and varnished with care.

It’s my husband’s turn next, and I find myself in a country gentleman’s outfitters. Inside, glass cabinets are filled with binoculars, torches and telescopes. I feel as though I’ve entered Bear Grylls’s territory! Being an urban girl, I’m fascinated by all of this country attire like flat caps, checked waistcoats, socks and garters; they even sell a colorful feather for your cap! I imagine Prince Charles shopping here with his valet before setting off for Balmoral! I make my husband try on a tweed jacket and a cap. He agrees that he looks hilarious! Even the shop assistant can’t suppress a smile!

We head back towards the archway and leave this tranquil yard. We’ve had fun and look forward to coming back later in the year to do some Christmas shopping and eat more cake!

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Writer’s house is much how he left it

I walk up to Shaw’s Corner, stepping passed the green gates and onto the curved gravel path. The climbing hydrangeas completely cover the front façade in white blossom. The front door has a swirling Arts and Crafts design set in glass and the brass knocker is of Shaw’s head wearing a hat. I pause to have a closer look, almost expecting the disgruntled ghost of Jacob Marley to jump out at me!

I’m greeted by a guide who explains that this Edwardian villa was home to the Irish playwright, George Bernard Shaw for over forty years. It is now owned by the National Trust, and is set up much as he left it.

I enter the study, and am standing on a worn out Indian rug. Everything feels as if it is in its right place. The Underwood typewriter takes centre stage on the wooden desk. The room is furnished with old filing cabinets, wall-to-wall shelves packed with books and papers, an antique sofa and some old leather suitcases. On the walls are some interesting prints by Aubrey Beardsley and a portrait of William Morris.

The mantelpiece in the dining room is a central feature and is filled with curios including a sketched portrait of Mahatma Gandhi and a black and white photo of the house where Shaw was born in Dublin; copies of Science of Life magazines are piled on the dining table.

As I climb the stairs to this spacious house, it feels perfectly proportioned; its tall windows letting in ample light. On entering the museum room I see Shaw’s Nobel prize for Literature beside a copy of Pygmalion and some black and white photos from the 1938 film. Wow! Then I see an Oscar statuette in a glass cabinet. Some of its gold coating has worn off. I’m impressed, although apparently Shaw used it as a doorstop!

I go back downstairs, walk through the kitchen and step out onto the huge garden. The tranquil grounds are vast and feel private. I walk across the lawn, my only distraction, the occasional ripple of a butterfly wing. I’m fascinated that the revolving hut could face any direction Shaw wanted and can’t wait to see it.

As soon as I peer into the window, I observe how Shaw arranged his creative space. It is Spartan with nothing but a bunk, a desk and a typewriter with a pair of spectacles resting beside it. I imagine him making the walk at the beginning of each day and realize that it is here within this small space that he would bring the wealth of his imagination to life with every deliberate tap of his typewriter.

I look back at the house in the distance, pine cones are strewn across the ground at my feet. It is here that that Shaw was able to write in peace; behind these towering tree trunks, perfectly secluded and hidden from his fame.

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Losing ourselves at the arts fair

I drive past the wrought iron gates and into the Childwickbury estate. Along the way, mannequins dressed up in frilly frocks, colorful hats and scarves, direct us to the arts fair, their macabre faces theatrically made up. The fair is held within the courtyard and stables connected to this huge manor house. I look forward to this twice a year and am always astounded by the richness of talent and craftsmanship.

Two colourful banners flank the central arch welcoming visitors and quite a few people are milling about in the courtyard; an artist is drawing in a small crowd as she knits, surrounded by colorful woollen blankets and pretty quilted pillows. We wander into each stable filled with artists at work. Our first conversation is with a glass artist. The shelves are filled with neat displays of colourful glass ornaments; she shows us a soldering technique apparently invented by Tiffany, as she places copper foil around the edge of each glass piece that she’s working on.

Our next stop is a theatrical hat shop filled with hundreds of imaginative designs. There are hats that are almost as big as me like a Pegasus top hat fit for a carnival, and bright fascinators for formal occasions. I embarrass my daughter with my enthusiasm and the designer lets us try some on; he tells us that good millinery skills are crucial in bringing his imaginations to life.

We meander along and see many works of art from Still life to portraits. I start a conversation with an artist selling iconic pop art prints. A fluorescent print of the beautiful Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra catches my eye; the artist has enhanced her headdress with silver and gold beading and I’ve got to have it!

We encounter printmakers and silversmiths as we walk on and see how they’ve set up their compact workshops. Artists’ trolleys are brimming with paintbrushes, oil paints and half finished canvases. My daughter points of how there is a slower pace here, a sense of calm. It feels good to take her out of her school routine and show her artists at work.

On our way out we see an artist ‘doing a Rembrandt,’ peering into a mirror and painting his self-portrait. I quite like the painting but I can’t help telling him that he is more handsome in real life! He laughs and I step away relieved that he has seen the funny side.

The Manor belongs to the family of the late film director Stanley Kubrick and there is a marquee dedicated to the wonderful artwork of the host Christiane Kubrick; she is happy to chat with her visitors and we’re lucky enough to get a copy of her book signed. Being a teenager, I’m not sure my daughter is familiar with that name, so all the way home I do not draw breath as I rave about the genius of Stanley Kubrick’s filmmaking.

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Church a quiet sanctuary

It’s a gloriously sunny morning in June. I enter the churchyard and feel as if I‘ve discovered a hidden treasure. There is nobody around and I walk up the winding path, around the Church to the arched entrance. St. Michael’s Church is a late 10th early 11th century Anglo Saxon building. Based on the writings of Matthew Parris, Abbot Ulsinus built it along with the churches of St. Peter and St. Stephen at the entrances of the town in the year 948 to serve pilgrims coming to venerate the Abbey’s shrine of Saint Alban.

 The first thing I see as I enter is a 15th century baptismal font, I walk down the nave. The place is soundless and has a dream-like quality. I step towards the altar and to my left is an elaborately carved Elizabethan pulpit. Beside it, two lit candles are flickering on a stand along with a book of prayer requests. I stand in the stillness. The stained glass from the north transept casts pink light into the space. I feel lucky to have the place to myself and sit in quiet contemplation.

 I take in the beauty of this small church, seemingly simple, yet subtly complex with many architectural features characteristic of the period such as lancet stained glass windows, medieval paintings and a tympanum. In the Chancel is a seventeenth century marble statue of Sir Francis Bacon.

 I walk back down the nave and have a closer look at the windows in the north aisle. I’m always fascinated by how rays of light are depicted, the image of the annunciation catches my eye, luminous rays of the Holy Spirit, represented by a dove, pour onto Mary. The sheer artistic skill of this effect within such a quiet hidden church is as impressive as anything you might see in a grand European Cathedral.

 At the back is a stunning stained glass window installed in 1860. This features three of the Archangels, with Michael at its centre and Gabriel and Raphael on either side of him. Michael clutches his sword firmly poised in victory, having defeated the demon under his feet, indicating his role as a spiritual warrior; he also holds up the scales weighing up our souls at the hour of death.

 I emerge into the sunlight and walk along the path out in the Churchyard; huge cedar trees cast a protective canopy over the grounds. I sit on an old bench and think about Lord Grimthorpe’s insensitive restorations to this and other ancient buildings. He once commented: “The only architect I have never quarreled with is myself.” I take a sip of my water and smile; now there’s an historical figure that I would never dream of inviting to one of my dinner parties!

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Life in a Roman city

Entrance into Verulamium Museum is free for St Albans residents and we are warmly welcomed. I haven’t been here since my daughter was at junior school and vaguely remember her rummaging around in the dressing up box and modelling a roman soldier costume.

We step through the doorway and into a circular reception area. After walking along a brightly lit corridor we enter the first couple of darkened rooms, and are presented with illuminated cabinets filled with artifacts on life in Verlamion, the pre-Roman Celtic settlement.

We’re then led into Verulamium and life in the Roman Empire. This central atrium is circular and surrounded by archways each leading to a small chamber covering particular themes of daily Roman life.

I enjoy learning about roman recreation such as board games, gambling, feasting and storytelling. The public baths were a place where they’d discuss current affairs. It’s hard to imagine that working nowadays; getting into heated arguments about Brexit while lounging about in the Westminster Lodge swimming pool!

We meander into the area on Merchants and Markets. I admire the neatly displayed hand-minted silver and gold coins depicting Gods, Goddesses and Emperors. My husband tells me that Augustus was the First Emperor and Creator of the Roman Empire, showing off his A Level in Ancient history!

In the diorama of a wealthy citizen’s home, there are cabinets filled with jewellery, cosmetics and unusual objects like ear scoops. Trompe l’oeil painted walls show how these homes were beautifully decorated. I’m drawn to a small bronze statuette of the so-called Verulamium Venus; her proportions are slender and gracious and her gowns are flowing. Some say it’s a figurine of Persephone holding a pomegranate from the underworld. Shrines of Gods and Goddesses were a common feature in most households, and daily offerings of food and wine would be placed before them on altars.

This leads us back to the centre where a group of school children are listening to a guide standing before some stunning mosaics (still intact, although discoloured with age) and explaining how 49 mosaics were discovered and the significance of their designs. My favourite, dating back to AD145 – 150, depicts Dolphins and Lions. It’s so beautiful. Dolphins were considered to be good luck and were apparently the only animals that knew how to find the “blessed isles of the afterlife”.

I have a wander around the attractive shop on my way out. I’ve enjoyed my visit and as I walk away I think about how amazing it is to be standing on the site of one of the largest roman settlements in Britain.

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Sipping history

It’s a quiet midweek afternoon, we pass by the River Ver, over a footbridge, and head to one of the oldest pubs in England. Outside, old wooden church pews furnish the front garden and beer kegs are piled high. A steel cockerel towers above the sign “Ye Olde Fighting Cocks”, with two hanging baskets filled with pansies on either side of it welcoming us in.

As I step through the miniature doorway, darkness prevails and it feels quite labyrinthine given its unique octagonal structure; it’s a challenge to find my bearings, even before I’ve had any ale! I look up, bowed Tudor beams are running across the low crooked ceiling and it feels as if the short wooden posts are the only things holding this place up.

We approach the curved bar with its old world charm that feels so much cosier than the contemporary clean lines of modern pubs. The friendly barman can see that I know very little about ale and shows me two separate rows of ale pumps labelled with curious names like: Heavenly blonde, Dark Star and Chief Jester. He offers me a taste of a few, and much to his delight, I go for the Dark Star, a velvety ale which, he reveals, is their very own and locally brewed.

We find a table and I sip my ale (… mmm it’s perfectly smooth) and take in the country pub atmosphere. Coach lamps hang at either side of the ample fireplace and I can imagine how cosy it must feel in the winter. A stand up piano sits beneath a small window and traditional Axminster carpets cover the creaking floorboards. Framed sketches of literary characters like Don Quixote and Job Trotter from The Pickwick Papers, along with illustrations from pheasants to Shire horses hang on the deep red walls; I sit there pondering how deeply steeped in history (and revelry) this pub is.

This site dates back to the 8th century and the building was erected in the 11th century; it was moved to its present site after the dissolution of the Abbey in 1539. Apparently there are tunnels stretching from the beer cellar to the Abbey once frequented by the monks. By the 17th Century, it had become a local centre for cock fighting, a popular pastime, later banned in 1849.

We walk home through the park, relieved to get some daylight, and to come to our senses. My husband decides that it would be fun to cross the running stream via the stepping stones, assuming that half a pint is not enough to make me lose my balance. How wrong he is!

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Hope for the future

It was late on a Sunday afternoon, we were all in need of a little fresh air and decide to go for a walk into Heartwood forest. I’d already read about the stunning sea of bluebells every Springtime, but had heard from a neighbour that there is even more to see than that. Heartwood forest is a large area of ancient woodland nestling beside newly planted trees and is made up of four woods – Langely Wood, Pismire Spring, Well & Pudler’s Wood and Round Wood.

Back in 2008, the Woodland Trust acquired over 800 acres of arable farm land, and over the last decade has not only protected the ancient woods, but has planted over half a million saplings, transforming it into beautiful woodland with wildflower meadows.

Once we had arrived we decided to be really adventurous and go on the Magical Meander, a mighty mile and a half walk! As we started along the pathway, I noticed huge oak and birch trees to our left, yet to our right were hundreds of saplings – still so small and young. It was fascinating to see a forest in the making; to see the unusual contrast of old and new.

Being city dwellers, we made a wrong turn once or twice, but saw countless bluebells, poppies and daisies along the way. Skylarks and goldfinches were darting high above us swooping their way in groups, and closer by, unusual butterflies danced in and out of the dappled sunlight. As we continued further along the grassy path, it gave way to a shaded ancient forest. The tree branches arched over to meet each other creating a canopy high above us, and as I treaded the cavernous cool darkness below, I felt as if I’d stepped into a Grimm’s fairy tale.

Eventually we found our way onto the main path, enjoying the vast spaces and distant views of the green patchwork hills and fields. Heartwood forest offers acres to explore by bike, horse or on foot. It’s amazing how you can immerse yourself in nature, and within ten minutes find yourself back in the centre of St Albans sipping a cappuccino. As we leave, I realize that I’ve been completely captivated over these last couple of hours, grateful that this woodland forms part of my daughter’s young memories and hopeful that, through these acts of reforestation around the world, our planet might be saved after all.

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Roman roaming

Since moving to St Albans, we have spent many afternoons in Nature as a family. This park stands on what was once Verulamium, the third largest city in Roman Britain; it’s ruined city walls, constructed in around 270 AD, dominate the landscape. It covers over one hundred acres, offers magnificent views of St Albans Cathedral and is surrounded by many ancient and picturesque houses.

Huge oak and willow trees are planted in rows along the length of the central lake within a wide-open tranquil setting. They are perfectly reflected in the water, the contrasting shades of their green leaves swish in the breeze. There’s a harmonious sense of proportion and plenty of open space to watch your dogs running around on the grass. We used to enjoy rolling down the hills or feeding the ducks and watching them diving for food when our daughter was little; these days we prefer a game of badminton or Frisbee.

As well as Roman ruins and an ornamental lake, there is a café, a crazy golf area, tennis, basketball and netball courts. The toddler splash park is a delight for children while the park is the perfect setting for a leisurely walk or a jog. The lake is a haven for wildlife and rich in biodiversity. There is talk of placing aquatic plants on the lake’s fringes to soak up the pollutants, clean the water and reduce the silt levels. It is home to a number of water birds such as herons, swans, and ducks. Then of course there are the Canada geese, step a little closer if you dare, they’ll steal your lunch and pin you to the ground!

In 1929, when the park was still agricultural land, the Earl of Verulam sold it to the council. In the thirties, the lake was dug out and extensive archaeological excavations by Sir Mortimer Wheeler, and his wife Tessa, were undertaken. Amazingly, the remains of a theatre along with a hypocaust were uncovered, along with many everyday roman artifacts.

On quieter colder days, the park becomes a peaceful sanctuary. I enjoy the tranquillity, taking in the beautiful views and breathing the crisp clean air. I feel as if I am eons away from the hustle and bustle of the marketplace and always leave the park feeling restored and refreshed.

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Historic waffle

It is a warm sunny afternoon in May and as soon as we step passed the gateway into the Kingsbury water mill and waffle house, I can smell a concoction of sweet and savoury flavours. The friendly staff welcome us in and we sit by an old fireplace. The low ceiling is lined with Tudor beams, we feel the warmth coming from the busy kitchen and can see out of the sash window along the length of Fishpool street. An antiquated pendulum clock hangs on the wall above us alongside framed black and white photos of the mill, faded newspaper clippings and old menus.

We take a look at the menu and there are many combinations to choose from. Within minutes my daughter looks up at me enthusiastically and we both agree, that it’s got to be Chili con carne on our waffles. Wow! It turns out to be the perfect choice; the meat and vegetables are generously topped with sour cream, grated cheese and tortilla chips and the flavours blend wonderfully together. As for dessert, it’s a no-brainer, and we share a banoffi waffle; the warm toffee sauce and banana slices merge perfectly and are topped with chocolate shavings and icing sugar.

Afterwards we go and look at the mill museum. We peer through a glass wall at the millwheel and machinery and imagine how noisy it must have been when the huge cogs were in motion. The building is Tudor with a later Georgian brick façade, and before the Dissolution of the Monasteries, the original building belonged to the Abbot in the parish of St Michael’s. We discover that milling for flour continued until the mid 20th century and that it was turned into a working museum and waffle house in 1978.

We decide to have our coffee outside; it’s such a tranquil setting, we take in the sun and spot an abundance of little fishes in the water. Amazing to think that this river has been flowing through its valley since the last Ice Age! It sustains a great variety of plants and flowers; kingfishers and butterflies can be spotted further along the river together with grebes and herons. Later we cross the road and head into Verulamium park, ready for a leisurely stroll around the lake; a perfect opportunity to take in the fresh air and work off those calories.

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