Regular visitors here will know that there’s a form of time-travelling that can go on. Sometimes I’ll put up a post about a garden on the day I visit it, other times it will take months. This is because I really hope I can write something original for each garden I visit, and sometimes thoughts need to settle a little. Actually it doesn’t always matter because the site can be accessed any time of the year anyway, but the downside for those reading these posts as and when they are written is that the seasons can get a bit whopsy-daisy.
Our visit to Chartwell is a case in point. We went in spring, when it was if anything colder than right now. And as atmospherically misty. But Winston Churchill, who lived here from 1924 until his death at the age of 90 in 1965, famously said ‘A day away from Chartwell is a day wasted’, so I think he probably enjoyed all the seasons equally.
Besides, it doesn’t feel to me – and do prove me wrong if I am – that this is a particularly horticulturally sensitive garden. The interest of the visitors when we went seemed instead to be focused on the garden as Winston Churchill’s private retreat. Certainly the man himself is still present everywhere you look.
There’s a wonderful story about his wife Clementine though, who planted drifts of bulbs in London during the war. I know I’ve written about it here but it bears repeating. She called it ’an act of defiance’, because in fact what she was planting was hope that there would be a future and that future would contain beauty, colour and scent. I don’t imagine Winston Churchill was an easy man to live with, but somehow they obviously managed it for more than fifty years – and at least she got beauty, colour and scent with this gift of a rose walk.
So what impression is it possible to get of the man from walking round his garden? Admittedly I am a novelist, and by our very nature, we have creative minds, but I could see a sense of order, if not control…
… I could also see him taking potshots at us visitors too, or at the very least harrumphing in a corner somewhere at the ‘invasion’…
… and there’s his famous wall-building. I actually wanted to rush home and build my own wall straight away. Imagine building something that you can see growing with every brick AND being able to get it so exact? It appeals to all that is Virgo in me, and certainly doesn’t happen with my creative writing.
… the natural heated swimming pool – a mixture of hardiness and also wallowing a little like a hippo. Yes please…
… and then there is the sentimental side…
Jock was apparently his favourite cat, who would stay by WC’s side as he sat on this white chair and they fed fish in the lake together…
And one of my favourite parts of the garden was the little playhouse that Winston Churchill built for his daughter, Mary, and called the Marycot. Apparently all visitors to the ‘Big House’ would come to the Marycot to eat dropscones made on the little oven there. As these visitors varied from Charlie Chaplin to Lawrence of Arabia, with some international statesmen thrown in for good measure, I conjured up a lovely picture of the conversations that must have taken place here. A good premise for a play maybe? The two trees you can see in front were planted by Winston Churchill for his daughters, one for Mary and one for her sister, Sarah – interestingly (for me anyway) I am Sarah and my sister is Mary. Where, I wanted to know, was the Sarahcot???
Easy to see when walking round how the garden must have been a sanctuary from the world. It was fascinating to compare with Howick Hall, the garden of Lord Grey, also prime minister but with a very different political background. Not least because while at Howick Hall, raising seeds and plants from all over the world is a large feature of the garden; at Chartwell, you get the feeling that Englishness is to be preserved at all cost, although some foreign plants are indeed proudly featured.
And if the garden, and the essential visit to Winston Churchill’s art studio which shows what an inspiration the garden was for his painting, make you forget that actually he didn’t spend all of his time on ‘hobbies’, there is an exhibition of letters and memorabilia from his time in office. I was still in ‘private man’ mode though, so it made me laugh to read a letter to members of the civil service. It went something like this: ‘The Prime Minister wishes it to be recorded that the expression “most grateful” is not to appear in any letter for his signature. He says that he is the only person who can decide whether he is grateful or not.’ Ha! Whether I minded or not, whether I felt I was intruding or not, whether I loved it or not, it wouldn’t really matter. The Prime Minister would decide.
So it was that letter, and his somewhat surprising description of his life as a painter as ‘a joy ride in a paint-box’ that gave me the inspiration for the subsequent poem. All the names of colours are from Winsor and Newton Oil Colours.
Venetian red leaving earth behind
before we can strap terre verte on
permanent rose glows viridian raw
raw umber flashing before our eyes
Ambling round the rose
garden through to the white
chair, Jock by his side at the lake.
Scarlet lake ultramarine violet let
let cadmium lemon take us faster
until all we see is lamp black moss
black light red threads in the distance.
Black dog on his shoulder again,
and yet here, brick after brick calming
order, pattern of pleasing richness.
Renaissance gold transparent marooned
in naples yellow Indian yellow both unsettle
with unknowing we only think we know oh
russian prussian blue against slow sap green.
Back to earth, a child’s house,
two trees for two daughters, an oblong
canvas waiting for history’s brush.
Terra rosa up jaune brilliant against
dull pewter phtalo turqouise glows
and burnt sienna heats heats until purple
madder madder madder flake white.
The Prime Minister will decide himself
when he is most grateful. Thank you
for visiting. A day spent away is wasted.