A Weekend filled with dreams come true ...

The transition to Kilburn avec baggage was smooth thanks to Obi the mini cab chauffer - it was wonderful to see Chris again and as we sat in her garden room sipping on tea and scones, citron tart and strawberries and cream we bridged the years with talk about Monti - days spent on the terrace over wine and italian delicacies in the shadows of the Garfagnana. Sadly, we also reminsced about our many friends who have now gone - Mary Hill, Ingrid, Jill, Sally ... mostly too young - a reminder -that for those of us who are still here - appreciate life!

Later that evening I made my way to rendezvous with Dylan and Tessa - as the dark skies closed in on us we made our way across the bridge at Embankment and found a spot outside Festival Hall to shelter from the rain... where else but London can one sit on a 'summer' day, in the rain, a cold gale blowing and share a jug of Pimms?

Frozen and needing sustenance- we needed food - and it seemed no better time than now to make our way to Drumond Street, near Euston, where I was able to finally introduce these two 'Londoners' to my favourite restuarant - I have been coming to Diwanas since 1975 - and no visit to London for a feed of Bhel Puri is the same without it - the best outside of Chowpatty Beach, Bombay!

We managed a decent sleep at the Barrons Court bedsit - well, If I snored the others were too polite to complain .. and after a scrumptious croissant and coffee at C'est Ici we made our way to the boondocks of Harlesdon to pick up the hire car. It didn't take long for my two traveling companioins to negotiate their roles for the weekend - Tessa assuming a sort of speedy gonzalez confidence in the traffic, and Dylan deftly navigating as he juggled his google map printouts, London A-Z and road signs - relatively few bouts of impatience were evident - as for me I was just happy to look around from the back seat.

By lunch we had made our way down the world's biggest carpark (M25) and down the A21 to the first of my dreamy experiences - a return to Sissinghurst Castle home of Vita Sackville West and Harold Nicolson. In 1990, Colleen and I had spent a wonderful summer visiting a number of houses and gardens on the Bloomsbury trail - this was an emotional return.

Sissinghust Castle was a mid-16th century mansion. The moated Tudor house, set high on a ridge above the Vale of Kent, was one of the first buildings in England to be constructed of brick.

By 1800, however, the house was neglected and decayed. Records indicate that at this time the building was partially demolished leaving substantial fragments for use as barns, stables and cottages for labourers.Over the next hundred years Sissinghurst slowly degenerated and would probably be a ruin today if it had not been rescued in 1930 by Vita Sackville-West and Harold Nicolson.

Harold planned the garden but it was Vita who devised the inspired planting schemes and carried out the work. She had an abhorrence of regimented rows of flowers and carefully grouped the plants according to colour, texture and season. None of the magic was lost for me - the other visitors seemed to be invisible - my camera busy at work - I lost myself in this world of natural beauty and wonder - my knee made it up the tower steps, past Vita's writing room - down to the library and then into the orchard to the moat house where all those summer's ago Nigel Nicolson had led us through the garden - sat us down and talked - I could still hear his voice as he sensitively put us at ease by asking us - "Do you like maps?"

Just as we were leaving, the sky which had been brooding and moody all afternoon - turned on a a very special farewell - the sun broke through and the bright light lit up the old chimneys of the Oast Houses painting a dramatic picture against the dark stormy skies.

No trip through the English countryside is quite the same without a good cream tea and, that is just what we found in the historic town of Robertsbridge at the George Inn.

Robertsbridge is an old settlement probably founded about 1176, when the only Cistercian Abbey was built on the site of the current War Memorial .It is believed that the name of the village was derived from the bridge built by the 1st abbot - Robert de St Martin, abbey records show it as "Pons Roberti" which translates from the Latin to The Bridge of Robert.

It was just as well that we were well fed and watered because nothing had quite prepared us for our next experience - the Costa Geriatrica. Eastbourne borders the chalk hills known as the South Downs. The famous chalk cliff Beachy Head is at the edge of the town - unfortunately we did not make it here as a quest for petrol saw us cruise right past the turn-off.

Our stay here was one of those experiences that becomes a talking point when later recalling travel - though it is not quite the experience of a 'highlight' at the time! It is as if we had been lifted and transported into a set from Fawlty Towers - only this was Eastbourne, and complete with Pier and a seafront facade straight out of a Victorian-Georgian seafront landscape - it was Big! We were probably the youngset people staying here, and almost certainly the only people who looked like we had a suntan- walking sticks, wheelchairs, tales of the war ... 'I've been coming here for 45 years" I heard one person relate ... dinner in the diner ..nothing could be finer - and then dancing to the thumping strains of the keyboardist 'Kenneth' - Show me the Way to Amarillo and other such gems at which stage Dylan was moved to kick up his heels clad in thongs in the foyer to demonstrate what he had spotted around the corner in the Langham Bar.

No folks we did not partake of this merriment and thankfully after a frantic search for an alternative, sought refuge in the Belgian Cafe where we consumed large quantities of Scampi and Belgian Beer/Sauvignon Blanc. The view along the foreshore was quite spectacular and as I watched the sea surge in over the pebbled beach I could safely predict that this may be the last visit to Eastbourne.

Sunday morning started with some heavy skies and I hoped that the howling wind whipping off the grey sea would blow some of the cloud away. We drove through the wonderful rolling countryside of the South Downs - green and golden quilted and bathed by the sudden bursts of sunlight. We arrived at Alfriston another site of a previous visit in 1990. Alfriston Clergy House in Alfriston, East Sussex, was the first property to be acquired by the National Trust. The house may have been built as early as 1350, following the Black Death which reached Britain in 1348. In the Fifteenth Century the house became the property of Michaelmas Priory, and remained Church property for five hundred years. By the nineteenth century the building was derelict. The local vicar F.W. Beynon started a campaign to save the Clergy House, and in 1896 it was sold for a nominal £10 to a new organisation known as the National Trust. Once again, the garden was adleightful and peaceful experience.

By now it was nearing time for opening hours at Charleston Farmhouse, further up the road on the A27 - I was getting both anxious and nervous about returning here - sometimes it is a big risk to return to place so special that you endanger the memory you have of the experience of it - but this was worth the risk, and after all, I like living dangerously! As we drove up the long driveway to the house - memories flooded back - the concrete urns at the gatepost, the decorative furniture, the view from Vanessa's attic studio, the 'woman in the garden' ...

Charleston is an 18th century farmhouse set close to the foot of the South Downs.
In 1916 Charleston became the home of the artist Vanessa Bell, her fellow artist (and sometime lover) Duncan Grant, the writer David Garnett, her two young sons and an assortment of animals. The two men were conscientious objectors and had come to do farm work.

The unconventional and creative household became the focal point for the Bloomsbury Group of artists and intellectuals. Regular visitors to Charleston included the Woolfs, Roger Fry, Lytton Strachey, John Maynard Keynes, T.S. Elliot, Desmond MacCarthy and E.M. Forster who were close friends. The house was found by Vanessa's sister Virginia Woolf and Leonard, who lived at nearby Asheham at the time. Virginia and Leonard later to moved to Monks House in Rodmell. Virginia thought that Vanessa could make Charleston "absolutely divine" and when you visit here - you can see how she was absolutely right.

Vanessa's husband, the writer Clive Bell, moved to Charleston in 1939 bringing more paintings, books and furniture. Vanessa and Clive Bell, Duncan Grant and their children lived at Charleston until their respective deaths. When Duncan Grant died in 1978 at the age of 93 the era came to an end. After his death the Charleston Trust was formed to save the house and restore it to its former glory.

This was a very special visit - it was wonderful to return here and be remembered - Despite the crowds (we had been spoiled by having run of the house to ourselves on the previous visit) I enjoyed wandering through each room and was pleased that Dylan and Tessa seemed to be quite absorbed in the environment. Mark, the original gardener is back and has restored the walled garden to Vanessa's original design.

Meandering through this garden has its own sublime delights - towering hollyhocks swaying in the breeze, stately echinacea, bright yellow daisies, deep crimson dahlias, apples, artichokes, nasturtiums rambling out of control, clematis of every hue and colour clambering over the flintstone walls - daisies tumbling on to the white pebbled path where one suddenly comes face to face with a sculpture - or a bronze statue. I sat and reflected on the white bench at the foot of the garden - considering the now worn out mosaics, reflecting on the shadows in the pond - I could hear their laughter - I could almost hear the sound of the bombers returning from their missions - those terrible sounds that once made Virginia and Vanessa afraid - I could hear the bumble bees as the flitted from flower to flower in a frenzied dilemma for choice - I could hear Colleen say as she often had done that summer -"have a look at this" or how she patiently gave me another lesson on the Bloomsbury group. It was all there ... like I had been there ... through all the times...through the many experiences.

There are now many additions to the house since 1990 as acquistions have been possible. I was told that thanks to Angelica Garnett (who had visited last week) a number of Duncan Grant's works are to be returned to Charleston and displayed.

After a fitting lunch of Farmhouse produce we departed Charleston but not without a quick diversion up the lane to Tilton House , home of Maynard Keynes and Russian ballerina Lydia Lopokova.

It was late afternoon and there was not much more that could top the weekend so far - little did I know that the next hour would reveal another emotional and memorable experience. We were too close to Rodmell to not chance a visit. By this time Tessa had become a dab hand at slipping down the B road system of leafy lanes, vehicles 'lay-bys' and cries to stop for photo opportunities. We arrived at Rodmell only to find that it was closed to visitors on Sundays - I had been careful not to build up an expectation of going in - so while disappointed I was not as devastated as I normally would have been.

We walked up the lane by the old church of St Peters that borders Monks House. In 1919 Virginia and Leonard Woolf,bought this weatherboarded house in the main street of Rodmell as a retreat from London life. The large garden and beautiful view across the river Ouse to the hills beyond made up for some of the disadvantages of the house. .
After Virginia took her life in 1941, drowning in the River Ouse, her ashes were scattered under an elm just beyond the garden of Monks House.

Determined to get a glimpse into the garden I scrambled over the graveyard along the stone wall (note: no complaints about the knee!) and at the end of the wall under the old chestnut tree - there is was Virginia's Writing Room - I could not believe my eyes - welling up with tears of joy - I was able to gaze down into the garden and into the vegetable patch. What bliss.

To complete the experience we did endeavour to make our way down the path to the River Ouse - sadly this is was only possible part of the way. I couldn't really complain - and as we meandered back to the car - I gave my companions a potted history about Virginia Woolf and as we walked and talked under the now clearing skies we chased butterflies, stopped to gaze at the quilted Downs, we picked up pebbles and placed them in our pockets ... and Tessa said to me ..." imagine, Virginia Woolf once walked on this path" .... and we imagined.

"Death is the enemy. Against you I will fling myself unvanquished and unyielding - O Death!" Virginia Woolf ... The Waves

I'm back at Kilburn - and this has been a very long Blog - hope you are not too bored - but it has been a big weekend in many ways -


Thanks Dylan and Tessa for sharing such a memorable and special experience.