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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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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