Chatsworth Gardens

Chatsworth dates from the 16th century, and, of course, there were gardens then too. The great breakthrough was in the 19th century, with the landscape architect and gardener Joseph Paxton. He made his name at Chatsworth, and went on to do the Crystal Palace in London, Central Park in NYC, and some other things. The conservatory at Chatsworth was one of his greatest achievements, a football field sized glass-enclosed and heated indoor garden (at this latitude?!) that could grow all manner of sub-tropical and tropical plants. It is gone now, a victim of wars and war economies, but much of his work...the rose garden, the flower garden, the cook's garden, the pine forest, the maze, the  grotto, and most especially the incredible rock garden (acres of it! giant boulders heaped on one another in amazing shapes), remains and could take a whole day to explore just in themselves. Unfortunately, or not, our camera battery died in the midst of the gardens, and I had forgotten to bring the spare.

Grand canal and fountain from House

The Wall here is an enclosed heated wall that supports larger arboreal specimens 
not-native to the climate; a remnant of Paxton's great conservatory

At the top of the Cascade

The Cascade, down to the House

In the Gardens...

Looking toward the Maze

Beginning the Rock Garden

My definition of a cool place...Missoula, Chamonix, Nelson (South Island, 
NZ)... includes the presence, on clear, calm days, of parasails, even the 
motorized types...

Chatsworth House

We have seen a great number of royal and other palaces and great houses in the past several months. For me, Chatsworth was the best, all-around, so far. It is by no means the largest, oldest, most important, historically, architecturally or artisitically. It's art is just so-so. But it's been lived in and cared for by the same family for 16 generations, and everything in the place is authentic, real, and genuine. No "period" stuff. The care is evident in the narrative and in the renovations now underway. And the gardens...Jospeph Paxton's gardens are not nearly what they were in Victorian times...the Crystal Palace had its origins here....but they are by far the best and most interesting I have seen yet, anywhere. I'll have to do a separate post on them.

View from the gardens

Entry hall; "apotheosis of Julius Caesar" on the ceiling (huh?)

State bedroom; reserved for the Monarch

Really nice character log in the study

Library

Dining room, where Queen Victoria had her first meal with the 
grown-ups, age 13

Now there's an antler chandelier!

Music room

Sculpture hall

Artsy shot of the fountains and grand canal

In the gift shoppe: one of the items you see all over the UK

is the "Keep Calm and Carry On" saying from WWII, on

mugs, fridge magnets, mousepads, and everywhere else...

Yorkshire Notes

We are now in Derbyshire, on a hill lay-by between (beautiful) Bakewell and Arbor Low, moving back to the left side, toward Wales. We'll be zig-zagging all the way back to Dover, I suppose. It's really a small island. Today we saw incredible Chatsworth, about which I'll write tomorrow. For now, some notes vaguely related to our second visit to Yorkshire:

1) In Yorkshire, on the Bronte Way walk, I had what I considered the nearly perfect day-hike lunch. First, thin-sliced Spam ("Some Parts Are Mammal"), fried in its own glop until golden brown. Although popularized by the Pythons, it is not really the British delicacy. Too many hikes in Hawaii have inclined me to it. Serving suggestion: don't read the label. Second, a chunk of Normandy cheese, accompanied by a few gulps of red French wine; in my case, Chateau de Tescaux, a very recent vintage, I suspect. Third, a hard-boiled egg (remove shell). Fourth, a handful of salted almonds. And, fifth, a confection, in my case, a slab or two of Romney's Kendal Mint Cake. (Make sure you have finished the wine). Mint cake ingredients are: sugar, glucose, and oil of peppermint. Nothing else. I love the way they sort sugar out from the glucose. Unlike all other British foods, there are no other nutritional notes. Nothing about daily requirements of triglycerides or red dye #4. Apparently Romney's was great-grand-fathered in, or else the appreciative 1953 quote from Sir Edmund Hillary on the package was good enough. It was good enough for me. Hillary...whom we encountered in Nepal and then in New Zealand, and now here, if only on a candy wrapper...really ties things together.

2) Driving in Yorkshire, especially in and around Haworth. The Dales are pretty, but driving up and down these deep valleys can be harrowing, especially in a 22 foot 3 ton van. The roads are rarely more than 12 feet wide, often less, never a shoulder, grades less than 20% aren't even marked (seriously), people park all over the streets, there is always a bus or "heavy goods vehicle" coming at you, there are bicyclists and pedestrians and dogs, and, invariably, there is always a woman and a baby carriage between you and the oncoming heavy goods vehicle, which is in a hurry, on the 24% grade turning road. None of this is hyperbole.

I have been coping, despite driving on the left side of the vehicle, contrary to British custom, and left side of the road. Vicki absolutely freaks out whenever we start the motor and stays that way for the duration of the trip. She braces for impact at the sight of any vehicle. In just four months she has nearly finished the bottle of raspberry liquer; normally it would have taken four years or fourteen years. Tom, our navigator, only complicates matters by consistently routing us through the CBD of any hamlet/village/town/city/metropolis we are near, consistently also on the smallest, steepest, and most exposed roads available. His answer to every query or command, and the first thing he says whenever we turn him on, is "turn around when possible." Turning the Grey Wanderer around, on these roads, is not always my first answer. But we are coping. Fortunately, British motorists, like those we have encountered elsewhere in northern Europe, are consistently patient, couretous, considerate, and smart. I hope they don't mind too much our blundering among them.

3) We did not visit Peniston, and we did not sample the pudding.

The Bronte Way

This is Vicki's third visit to Haworth--she's the Bronte fan and will tell her own story--and she has always wanted to walk the Bronte Way, out the valley from Haworth, past the falls and bridge, and up to Top Withins. So we did this Wednesday, seven miles, a relatively beautiful fall day. (Tuesday was a perfectly dreadful and dreary day, cold and raining, perfect for seeing the Parsonage Museum and Haworth.)

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Vicki adds:

Haworth, England October 7, 2009


Today I finally did something that I have wanted to do for over twenty years ever since my first trip to the Bronte Parsonage in 1989. Today I walked the 7.5 miles to the ruins of Top Withens farm—the setting of Wuthering Heights. It was a beautiful day with much sun and temperatures in the 50s. I had prepared myself by reading both Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights in the last two weeks and spending yesterday on my third tour of the parsonage, museum and church. As one of the men said when we passed him on the way “It's a fine day for a literary pilgrimage.”

It was a beautiful path through the bracken and heather hardly changed since Charlotte, Emily and Anne walked it. Though now it is marked the Bronte Way with stops at the Bronte Waterfall, Bronte Bridge and even a rest in the stone chair that Charlotte would sit in for inspiration. A mile past the waterfall is the farmhouse that inspired Wuthering Heights—abandoned since the 30s and now roofless with some of the walls falling in. I came away with a stone and some heather and many photographs.

On the way back I could not help remembering how I first felt when reading those books in my early teens. How awestruck I was that love could be so passionate and strong between two souls that nothing in heaven, hell or earth could separate them. How awestruck I am today in reading them again for the upteenth time that these women living in a what we would consider the most bleak and lonely circumstances could build worlds even more real than reality itself. It was a literary pilgrimage and I have been well rewarded for my efforts.

Bronte Falls

Curious carvings on the back of the Stone Seat (click to enlarge); the real thing?

The Stone Seat

Vicki in the Stone Seat

The Bronte Bridge

Moors, from the heights

Top Withins, popularly known, even by the Tourist

Information types, as "Wuthering Heights"

Vicki at Top Withins

The fine print

"Those Poor Girls!"

The Haworth church

Church interior

In memory...

Some of the authors' personal possessions

Emily's bedroom

Thornfield chest

Cemetery and Parsonage

So exclaimed the proprietess of the farm campsite we stayed at Monday night, when I told her we were headed next for Haworth. She went on to extol their genius and achievement, despite the dreadful circumstances. I had been to Haworth before, in 1989, but had forgotten just how sad and tragic their story was. The "In Memory" plaque in the church conveys much of it. Mother and six children all died prematurely, the two elder girls before adolescence, Emily and Anne before 30, Charlotte at 39, a year married and pregnant. The son, Branwell, who was thought to be the talented one (the son, of course), drank and drugged himself to death by 31. The father outlived them all, to the the age of 85. A minister, he must have known the Book of Job by heart. The story is all the sadder, indeed, when one considers the genius and achievement.

Swinside Circle

Swinside Stone Circle

A section of the circle and environs

Me, at the entry way

Right there, on the south 40

More beatiful countryside; an estuary of the Irish Sea is

perhaps a mile away

Our last day in the Lake District was Monday, the 5th, and we drove south from Coniston to beyond Broughton-on-Furness to the Swinside stone circle. Everyone knows of Stonehenge and Avebury, but it has been extraordinary to us how many other fine monuments there are throughout these islands. And we have barely scratched the surface. Swinside is a little harder to get to. You can drive right up to most of these sites, park in the carpark, maybe read a kiosk or even go to the visitor center. Swinside, a marveously preserved and large site, 55 of the 60 medium-sized stones still standing, is out there on somebody's sheep/cattle ranch, right on the the south forty, so to speak. A mile-and-a half walk along the farm track takes you to it. (Decent blackberries). No sign, no carpark, no visitor center. And it is all the more interesting for its remoteness.

We had lunch at the circle, examined all the stones--a few possible cup-marks, an interesting four-stone entry way, three pointy stones marking the compass points--then walked back to the camper and drove off in the direction of Yorkshire, staying at a farm campsite that evening.

Ruskin

After the Old Man, or 2/3rds of the Old Man, I visited the Ruskin Museum in Coniston. John Ruskin was the great Victorian artist/critic/educator/social reformer, one of Britain's most impressive and influential thinkers. It is another small, provincial museum, but it conveyed, at least for me, much of what the man was about, as well as the intersections between his interests and mine (Turner, mountains (“nature's cathedrals”), landscapes, geology, touring, representation and interpretation, preservation, education and the people, and on and on). On display were many of his notebooks and sketches and drafts. The man's industry—he must never have spent a waking moment not sketching or writing—is incredible. After the museum I visited his gravesite in the Coniston churchyard. He was offered Westminster Abbey but stayed in the Lake country.

We drove back to Hawkshead to buy a winter Tilley hat I had been admiring (I am a Tilley man, and it was 45 degrees last night) and then camped, as it nearly always were, at a tarn trail carpark on the summit "High Cross" between Hawkshead and Coniston.

Ruskin Museum

Portrait

In his study, in Coniston; sort of a St. Jerome pose...

Rock Band; well, Ruskin's harmonicon, a rock (hornfel)

dulcimer, made for him by the Till family in Coniston,

who were touring world-wide to popularize this form of

music; evidently it was not Elvis who invented Rock

Grave at Coniston churchyard

No Foul-Weather Fell-Walkers, We

We awoke October 4, after another stormy night, now in Coniston Water, to a strange, brilliant, golden orb in the sky; a strangely blue sky, too. It was not raining. 

With this good fortune we decided to walk again among the fells, this time up the Old Man of Coniston, the 3,000 foot peak that towers above Coniston Water. We got as far as lunch, gathering grey clouds, and a few drops of rain. Unlike the Brits, who seem to spend their lives in mountain gear shops, buying water-proof garments and gear, and then, occasionally, using them, we elected not to use ours and to walk back down the Old Man, after only getting 2/3rds the way up. It did not seem a worthy peak to me, in the impending inclemence, and, although the trail was very good up to the slate quarry, it became difficult, more so than we thought prudent for Vicki's Routeburn-wrenched knees. (Was it just a year ago we were landing at Lukla and beginning the march up to Namche Bazaar, Tengboche, and Kala Pattar?). Our descent was lengthened by another extended bout of blackberry picking. But now we are learning the meaning of the British term “September blackberries.” They look ripe and lucious, but best to leave them for the birds and insects, and winter. It never did really rain.

The Old Man of Coniston, seen from town

A six-foot high fence crosses the valley before the mountain

"On belay!" Sunday morning rock climbing

class at Coniston

Tailings from the huge slate quarry, disused since 1955

View back toward town

Coniston Water scenery

Not all that far away, the Irish Sea

With Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail and Peter at Hill Top

Our hoped-for quiet night at Skelwith Fold was interrupted, quite early, by an all-night/all morning gale—make that, now, all-day gale—30-40 mph winds, with gusts to 70, according to the weather service. It's remarkable to me there are any trees left standing, but apparently this is not unusual weather, and the trees, large, old, and varied, are well adapted for it. I am not. The Grey Wanderer buffeted violently, even more than at the North Cape or more recently on the Isle of Skye. All this in a large holiday park in a Fold (hollow?). We slept in, it being pointless to go out. At length we gathered things together and tied them down and set forth for Hill Top, Beatrix Potter's cottage/studio, as well as the gallery of her work in Hawkshead, a few miles back down the road.

It is a surpassingly beautiful countryside, even in a gale, and hers is a relatively beautiful story. The daughter of a wealthy family, she set herself to writing and illustration after an early marriage fell through; her fiance died unexpectedly. She did not marry until age 47, the local solicitor, and by this time her literary career was largely behind her. And she was by this time a very wealthy woman. She became associated with the National Trust and continued buying up Lake Country farms—ultimately a couple dozen farms and thousands of acres, which she managed for conservation and then, upon her death in 1943, donated it all, sheep and buildings and book royalties and land and all, to the Trust. All this was news to me. I had read many of her works to Rebecca and Rachel when they were quite young and probably thought Beatrix Potter was just another Victorian eccentric who wrote children's books. Wrong again. Further, her prime was more Edwardian than Victorian, FWIW.

Anyhow, the cottage and gallery are both quite well done. She actually left instructions for which possessions were to be displayed when the property came to the Trust. In every room of the cottage are copies of the relevant books for visitors to look at and then look at the actual chest, or hearth, or table depicted in the book.

Interestingly, there were no children in her life, none of her own, nor even any nieces or nephews. Peter Rabbit began as an illustrated letter to her governess' child, Noel Moore, I think. The original letter is right there on the desk in her study; as well as a rejection letter from a publisher for subsequent submission. She wrote as she did, she said, because she herself “never grew up.” The gallery, in Hawkshead, is actually her husband's law firm building, also donated to the Trust. He was her legal counsel as she acquired more and more and donated it all to the Trust. It contains many of the original watercolors and other items. You must see both the gallery and the cottage.

The National Trust: if you come to the UK for more than a lay-over, you must join. Membership gives you free admission and free parking at the something like 2,000 of Britain's finest historic properties and lands, which they own and manage, caringly and competently. They are also the world's largest non-profit.

I still have not figured out the relationship between Beatrix and Harry but assume there must be some. These things do not just happen....

View from Beatrix Potter cottage Hill Top

Beatrix Potter cottage from garden

Vicki in the garden

The gallery in Hawkshead

One of the watercolors at the gallery, my

favorite, Squirrel Nutkin

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Vicki adds:

Lake District, England October 3, 2009

Raining, fancy that. I now fully understand why the British Isles are known for their rainy weather. Mark and I feel like we are growing moss. We have been able to enjoy the area though. I can see why the English love it. It is truly one of the most beautiful parts of the world, and we are getting to be fair judges of world scenary. It is in no way spectacular like the Alps, New Zealand or Norway—just bucolic, peaceful and absolutely lovely. Huge oak, fir and other trees set out in outrageously green fields divided by dark gray slate fences. Add the craggy mountains and the lakes and occasional villages and farms—it looks exactly like you want it to look.

Rebecca and I were here about 7 years ago but only brushed the edge of the area and it was high season and the crowds were not appealing. I think late May and early June would be the best time—before the crowds but warmer then now, with Wordworth's daffadils blooming with the rhododendron. We wish we had better weather to do more walking. Somehow I just can't get into the English/Scottish attitude that there is no bad weather, only inappropriate attire. I did buy a lined pair of walking pants today though, since we can't run the heater non stop in the camper. But at least there is no interior rain. I must admit I have never seen a wider selection of waterproof clothing than in the outdoor stores here. And every other store is an outdoor store!