Tag Archives: garden

English Country Garden

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How many gentle flowers grow
In an English country garden?
I’ll tell you now of some I know
And those I’ll miss I hope you’ll pardon
Daffodils, heart’s ease and flox
Meadowsweet and lilly stalks
Gentain, lupine and tall hollihocks
Roses, foxgloves, snowdrops, forget-me-nots
In an English country garden.

Nana Mouskouri, remember her singing this?

Globally speaking the biggest selling female artist of all time. As a multi linguist she sold all over Europe, America and Asia. Quite surreal to think of this young woman from Crete singing about native English flowers and gardens. 

This garden is in Cheshire. Very close to home. The Dower house to a big estate, and open annually for charity. I love it here. An oasis of tranquility, adjacent to a beautiful boating lake swamped in yellow lillies, and overlooking a village green opposite a cluster of ancient cottages reserved for estate workers. 

The garden to be absolutely frank, isn’t the most cultivated or colourful or groomed, but I like it for those reasons. The English love a good nosey, and here is the perfect excuse, pay a couple of pounds, wander round the borders and the arboretum, and pretend, just for a short while that you are Lady of The Manor, about to disappear indoors to prepare for dinner, you’ve maybe been out earlier with your trug, collecting rose blooms for the table, not it’s time to break out the pearls and enjoy a glass of chilled champagne in a crystal coupe.

If you’re going to have a dream, have a big one!

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Filed under england, English Countryside, flowers, Gardening, home

Dream On

 

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My house is currently on the market.

For Sale. On the crest of the housing market boom. In the bubble.

Hubble bubble toil and trouble.

There’s an offer on the table. HOORAH. It’s a paltry offer. BOO.

Meagre. Scanty. It wouldn’t even buy me the chimney stacks on the Old Parsonage. The pretty, perfect Parsonage with its pilasters and pediment, its Flemish bricks and fossil finials. I want to live here. In a real life Doll’s House, with its sexy symmetry and glamorous garden. Why can’t I live here? Why shouldn’t I aspire to neo-classical neatness and Georgian Gorgeousness?

Because, peeps, because I suffer from the joint diseases of  impecuniosity and proletarianism. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon shoved where the sun don’t shine. All I’ll inherit is a very dubious Ercol dining suite. But one can dream, and one can pretend, which is why we ended up at The Old Parsonage in Arley, Cheshire, last Sunday.

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The National Garden Scheme – Yellow Book –  features gardens in the UK not normally open to the public. Perfect if you are nosey like me.

Or like plants.

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Or flowers.

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Or afternoon tea.

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Or quirkiness.

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Or ponds.

 

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Not so perfect if you are moving house and have ridiculous delusions of grandeur. Sitting on the terrace of a garden bulging with begonias and poppies and peonies and roses and putting off the evil hour when you have to leave through the quaint little gate in the quaint little hedge and return to your not so quaint little house on a not so quaint little street in a positively un-quaint Northern Town.

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Dream on.

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June 4, 2014 · 8:05 pm