Milky Bar* and Malteser*, two cats who live locally and claim ownership of our garden, have competition. There’s a new kid on the the block. Caramel has arrived on the scene, oozing cheeky charm and kittenish cuteness. He first appeared just before Christmas, watchful, tentative, a stranger in a strange land, hoping for the best but plainly fearing the worst.
Since the start of the New Year he’s been coming more often, and is gaining in confidence. Our garden is a bit chaotic (I lack both talent and enthusiasm in the gardening department!) so there’s plenty for him to investigate, plenty of adventures to be had. Transfixed, we’ve watched the intrepid explorer through the window, anxious to do nothing that might alarm him.
Everything’s a game to Caramel. He’ll be strolling nonchalantly through the garden and then suddenly go crazy, stalking inanimate objects, pouncing on windblown leaves and swatting invisible insects. One time, for no obvious reason, he attacked the withered stem of a pondside plant. After grappling with it for a while he succeeded in breaking the stem free. Then he daintily picked it up between his teeth and proudly walked off in the direction of his own house, clearly keen to present this hard-won trophy to his bemused owners.
We probably shouldn’t do it, but we’re in the habit of treating Milky Bar and Malteser to snacks when they visit. Milky Bar is quite a fussy eater these days, but will happily down a couple of mouthfuls of freshly cooked chicken. Malteser, on the other hand, has no such reservations, and is hopelessly in love with Pawsome Pockets, “chicken, turkey and duck crunchy pillow treats with a soft centre.”
Caramel is also developing a taste for Pawsome Pockets. The first time I opened the door to throw some out to him his instinct was to run. Good! Some people do unspeakably cruel things to cats, and it’s important that he works out who he can trust. But he soon decided that I’m one of the good guys, and was keen to investigate the little treats I tossed in his direction. Sniff, sniff, sniff! Crunch! Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch! And then stared at me with his mad kitten eyes and gave me THAT LOOK, the look that says “Keep ’em coming, I’m a growing kitten don’t you know!“ So I kept on tossing them out, and Caramel carried on wolfing them down.
Last week there was a major breakthrough in our relationship. With a bit of encouragement Caramel plucked up the courage to approach me and stand at my feet. I knelt down and offered to hand-feed him his daily dose of Pawsome Pockets. He snatched them from me and gulped them down, hardly bothering to chew at all. And then he approached even closer, clearly inviting me to stroke his back and fondle his ears. I did my duty, and the little ginger guy looked suitably pleased with himself, almost as pleased as me!
Milky Bar is doing his best to ignore the irritating teenager
Already I can see Caramel is growing up. Soon he’ll be putting his kittenish ways behind him, but his prospects for the future look good. Milky Bar* and Malteser* will look after him – we think they all live in the same household. He appears at ease in their company, and they tolerate him in the way that adult humans put up with irritating but basically likeable teenagers. And when he needs to fill his belly with Pawsome Pockets or have his ears fondled, he knows just where to come!
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*The Milky Bar and Malteser story
Milky Bar and Malteser have featured many times in this blog. You can read about Milky Bar here, here and here. Malteser’s story is told here, here and here. Just click on the links to find out more about this fantastic feline pair.
It’s that time of year again, the time when the UK’s dedicated nature lovers take part in the RSPB’s (Royal Society for the Protection of Birds) Big Garden Birdwatch, a national survey that has been running annually in one form or another since 1979. It is also, sadly, the time when I have to confess that once again Mrs P and I have failed miserably in our attempt to attract a wealth of birdlife to our modest suburban back garden.
The Woodpigeon was one of just two species to visit our garden over the Birdwatch long weekend
The first event, in 1979, was aimed at children and was a good deal more popular than anticipated. For over two decades the Big Garden Birdwatch continued in this form. Eventually the RSPB must have realised that the buzz created by the Birdwatch every year would be even bigger if anyone could take part, so in 2001 participation was opened up to adults as well. It worked: last year over half a million people took part in the Big Garden Birdwatch, and between them they recorded a massive 9.1 million birds!
The RSPB is understandably very proud of its Big Garden Birdwatch, which it claims is “the world’s largest garden wildlife survey”. The benefits are wide-ranging: media coverage helps raise the profile of birds,- and environmental issues more generally – with a wider audience; those taking part get to focus their attention on nature for a while and enjoy consequential benefits for their mental health, and the RSPB collects a wealth of data on which species are thriving and which are struggling.
We were also visited by two male Blackbirds
Unhappily, the picture painted by the Big Garden Birdwatch is not encouraging, with the number of birds plummeting over the decades since it began. For example, House Sparrows are down 57% since 1979, while the number of Song Thrushes has collapsed by 80%.
Our own experience echoes these dismal findings: the results of this year’s count at Platypus Towers were, as expected, absolutely abysmal. The Big Garden Birdwatch 2024 ran over a period of three days, during which participants had to record the birds landing in their garden in a one hour period of their choice. In our garden, the number of birds seen throughout the whole three days – not just one hour! – was four.
NOT SEEN! – RobinNOT SEEN! –House Sparrow
Yes that’s right, we saw a measly four birds in our garden during the entire Birdwatch long weekend! OK, I admit that we weren’t watching every daylight minute of all three days, but the room where I work on my laptop overlooks the garden. In addition we spend every tea break in our “garden room”, watching what’s going on out there (and remember, we’re Brits so we have LOTS OF TEA BREAKS!) Not much passes us by, meaning the count of four birds is sure to be fairly accurate.
I’d been topping up the bird table for weeks to get the local birds in the mood for food, and on the first morning of the Birdwatch it was groaning under the weight of the goodies we’d provided. But they went largely ignored. The birds simply stayed away.
NOT SEEN! – Long-tailed TitNOT SEEN! – Wren
It wasn’t always like this. We’ve lived in this house nearly 40 years, and back in the day we welcomed a variety of avian visitors. Starlings, House Sparrows, Blue Tits, Long-tailed Tits, Robins, Wrens, Goldfinches and Dunnocks have all been seen. Memorably, for a few days one winter, a Pied Wagtail and a Grey Wagtail called our garden home. Once we spotted a Sparrowhawk sitting on the roof of the garden shed. A little later we found the remains of what we reckoned to be a Collared Dove on the path, and without doubt the Sparrowhawk was the guilty party. Even a Pheasant, hopelessly lost of course, once dropped in to say hi.
But in recent years, the number and variety of birds in our garden has fallen drastically. I last blogged about the Big Garden Birdwatch in 2020, under the title Birds Don’t Come Here Any More. That year, we saw just one male Blackbird! This year, between 26 and 28 January, the only birds to visit our garden were two woodpigeons and two male blackbirds.
OK, we did better in 2024 than in 2020, but there’s nothing here to celebrate. I wish I could believe it’s simply because all the local birds got a better offer, a garden with tastier food (Mrs P’s theory) and fewer visiting cats, but I fear it’s worse than that. All the evidence suggests that bird numbers are declining right across the country. It breaks my heart.
NOT SEEN! – Pied WagtailNOT SEEN! – Grey Wagtail
Next year, of course, we’ll do the Big Garden Birdwatch again. Maybe we’ll do better than this time. We could hardly do much worse.
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Update, 5 February 2024
A week has passed since I wrote this post at the end of the Big Garden Birdwatch, and as expected the birds are back in numbers. As well as the Blackbirds and Woodpigeons, over the last seven days we’ve been visited by a Starling and a Dunnock, and three (yes, that’s right, THREE) Robins. It’s almost as if they know and are taunting us. Huh!
Updating the update!
No more than 20 minutes after writing the above update two Blue Tits arrived and started inspecting the nest box we’ve put up on the side of the shed. They seemed interested. Things are definitely looking up, and my broken heart is beginning to mend…for now at least.
One year on …
The 2025 Birdwatch was marginally more successful: Two Woodpigeons, two male Blackbirds, two Robins and a Magpie. Typically, however, the Wren didn’t turn up until 48 hours after the count had ended. It was ever thus …
No trip to Scotland is complete without visiting a castle. Last year, on our way north to Orkney, we did just that when we broke our journey at Dunrobin, which has been home to the Earls and Dukes of Sutherland since the 13th century. Boasting no fewer than 189 rooms, Dunrobin Castle is the largest great house in the Northern Highlands. It is also one of Britain’s oldest continuously inhabited houses, dating back to the 13th century.
Although vestiges of the early medieval castle remain, they are today buried deep within a much larger and grander structure. A series of extensions over the centuries have transformed the original fortified tower into something altogether different, something apparently straight out of a fairy tale.
One of the men most responsible for the Dunrobin we see today was architect Sir Charles Barry (1795 – 1860), who oversaw a massive remodelling exercise in the mid-19th century. Under Barry’s guidance, Dunrobin morphed into a grand house in the then-fashionable Scottish Baronial style, similar to that adopted at Queen Victoria’s Balmoral residence.
Barry had a big national reputation. Amongst numerous other accomplishments, in 1836 he won a commission to design the new Palace of Westminster (Houses of Parliament) in London. The Duke of Sutherland’s great wealth and extensive social connections are clearly evidenced by his ability to secure Barry’s services at Dunrobin.
As it happens, that wealth was generated to some considerable degree through the forcible eviction of many thousands of estate tenants during the notorious Highland Clearances. This is something that should, I feel, give visitors pause for thought when they murmur appreciatively at Dunrobin’s undoubted magnificence. The cost of Dunrobin should properly be measured not just in financial terms, but in human terms too.
Dunrobin Castle had an eventful time in the 20th century. In 1915 much of the interior was destroyed by a huge fire, so what we see inside today is largely the work of Scottish architect, Sir Robert Lorimer (1864 – 1929) rather than Charles Barry. Despite the fire, parts of the castle were used as a naval hospital during the First World War, then, later in the century between 1965 and 1972, it was used as a boys’ boarding school.
Today no trace of the school remains, and instead visitors are offered glimpses of an opulent lifestyle that is almost certainly beyond their reach. The formal gardens are also rather grand, and are another part of Sir Charles Barry’s legacy. They are arranged into two parterres, both laid out around circular pools where fountains playfully splash. The layout of the gardens has changed little since they were planted more than 150 years ago, although new plants are constantly being introduced.
Barry took his inspiration from the Palace of Versailles in Paris. That the Duke of Sutherland was prepared to commission and bankroll such a project in this remote, windswept corner of the Scottish Highlands speaks volumes about his cultural awareness and social ambitions. Visionary? Pretentious? Completely out to lunch? You’ll have to make up your own mind on that one!
Although Dunrobin Castle is impressive and its formal gardens are majestic, I have to confess that the most memorable part of our visit was the falconry display. Falconry is the ancient art of hunting with birds of prey, and for reasons that aren’t entirely clear Dunrobin puts a show every day. No actual hunting takes place, but the birds – including Peregrines, Gyr Falcons and Harris Hawks – are exercised on the Castle lawn, under the watchful eye of the resident and highly knowledgeable falconer.
The birds are given the opportunity to fly around freely and do so with obvious pleasure, often whizzing just above the heads of an enthralled audience. In the end, however, the birds always return to the falconer, secure in the knowledge that he’ll be providing dinner once the show is over! It’s highly unusual to be able to get so close to birds of prey, and as they were bred in captivity and are plainly well cared for we had no qualms in watching and applauding the show.
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What, then, is the overall verdict on our visit to Dunrobin Castle? Perched on a high terrace and bristling with fairy tale spires and turrets, the castle sits somewhat incongruously within the Scottish Highlands’ landscape. It is a relic of another age, an age when great wealth and all the opportunities that went with it was concentrated in just a few fortunate hands. The splendid gardens and the falconry display add to this other-worldly feeling, making a visit to Dunrobin a somewhat surreal experience. It’s a fascinating place to spend a few hours, but don’t make the mistake of thinking this place has anything to do with the real, 21st century world!
Magpies are unmistakeable. Members of the crow family, seen from a distance they are long-tailed birds with distinctive black and white plumage. Up close, however, the colouration is more subtle. In the right light a Eurasian magpie’s wing feathers take on a purplish-blue iridescent sheen, while the tail bears hints of a subtle glossy green. It’s a handsome bird, and also – in some circles – a controversial one.
Some people dislike magpies because they are noisy, raucous birds that posture and strut around gardens, parkland and fields, apparently believing themselves to be top bird. Others object to their omnivorous lifestyle, which can include raiding the nests of smaller birds and carrying off their eggs and chicks. And their reputation for stealing jewellery and other bright, shiny objects wins magpies few friends amongst their human neighbours.
However, while their fondness for scavenging and their bully-boy tendencies on the bird table make them unpopular with squeamish bird lovers, it is their alleged association with Satan that upsets others. Yes, that’s right, folklore tells us that magpies are in league with the Devil. According to this tradition, magpies refused to join the other birds in mourning at Christ’s crucifixion, thus marking themselves out as the Devil’s own.
The magpie’s supposed indifference to Jesus’ crucifixion is just one of a huge number of tales and superstitions that surround this striking bird. In the UK, one of the first nursery rhymes many children hear is about magpies. The rhyme references the birds’ association with prophecy, and is found in countless variations up and down the country. Here is just one of them:
One for sorrow Two for joy Three for a girl Four for a boy Five for silver Six for gold Seven for a secret never to be told
So, according to this piece of folklore, the future that awaits you is indicated by the number of magpies you see. It’s a compelling part of our oral tradition, and I must confess that one day a little over a year ago – when a new baby was expected in our family – Mrs P and I happily counted the number of magpies we could see in order to predict the gender of the new-born. On the day in question we spotted three together in a field, and the baby, when born, was indeed a girl. Spooky!
The same nursery rhyme indicates that spotting a single magpie is a harbinger of bad luck. Again, this belief is deeply embedded within our culture. I clearly remember a former work colleague revealing that, when out for a drive in the countryside, he and his wife would wave vigorously to any lone magpies they spotted, because in so doing they were bidding farewell to ill-luck.
Alternatively, to dissipate the impending misfortune associated with seeing a single magpie, you should point it out to someone else, presumably on the basis that bad luck shared is bad luck halved. And if there’s nobody else around to take on the burden, the best course of action is to salute the magpie with a cheery ‘’Good morning Mr Magpie, how is your lady wife today?’ in the hope that he will take pity on you!
How did a single magpie become associated with bad luck? One theory is that, as magpies mate for life, seeing one by itself may suggest that its partner has perished. The surviving magpie has therefore suffered bad luck, and associating with it may cause its bad luck to transfer to the observer. However, by asking after the welfare of the lone magpie’s wife you demonstrate your belief that his partner is alive and well, which, if true, means no bad luck awaits you.
As well as waving to a lone magpie, or asking after the health of his wife, there are other ways in which the bad luck might be avoided. These include raising your hat to the bird, spitting three times over your shoulder, blinking rapidly to fool yourself into thinking you’ve seen two magpies rather than one, and flapping your arms about wildly and cawing loudly to mimic the magpie’s missing mate. But be warned: most of these activities, if undertaken in public, are likely to result in ridicule, arrest or an enforced appointment with a psychiatrist.
This post barely scratches the surface of the superstitions surrounding magpies. Variations on the theme include the following:
In Scotland, a single magpie seen near a window warns of an impending death. However, in the county of Sussex a magpie perched on a house roof is a good sign, indicating that the roof isn’t about to cave in.
In Wales, if you see a magpie moving from left to right when you set off on a journey, that journey will be hazardous.
Yorkshire folk associate magpies with witchcraft, and when seeing one (a magpie that is, not a native of Yorkshire!) you should make the sign of the cross to ward off evil spirits.
According to tradition in the county of Dorset, if a fisherman sees a magpie before he sets sail he won’t catch any fish that day.
In Somerset it is advised that you carry an onion with you at all times to protect you from the bad luck a magpie may bring. (As an aside, while I cannot testify as to the veracity of this advice I will readily admit that during my working life I sometimes kept a bulb of garlic in my office to ward off the accountants. I’m pleased to say it seemed to work!)
Regular readers of my blog will know I have a passion for folk music, and it’s therefore a pleasure to share with you below a link to a song about magpies. The harmonies may be challenging, but the story told is highly relevant to this post. It was written around 50 years ago by a guy called Davey Dodds. The story goes that one day Davey gave an old lady a lift in his new car. Davey was bemused, and probably a little horrified, when the lady insisted on shrieking “Devil, devil, I defy thee”, and spitting on the floor of his Jaguar every time she saw a magpie.
Intrigued, Davey looked into the mythology of magpies, and this song is the result. Its lyrics* reference some of the magpie superstitions I’ve written about in this post, and others that I haven’t had space to include. This version on YouTube was recorded in 2014 by a trio of singers called the BlueBirds.
At first glance, magpie mythology is totally out of place in our rational, comfortable, well ordered 21st century lives. I mean, it’s all a load of nonsense, isn’t it? Of course it is! But on the other hand, the mere fact that humans embraced these stories for millennia tells us a lot about our species. Our ancestors believed that magpies were the Devil’s disciples. Gullible, weren’t they?
Today, large sections of society enthusiastically embrace the conspiracy theories and other vile lies peddled relentlessly on the internet. Their need to feel good about themselves, their quest for certainty and their desperate desire for simple answers to complex questions leads them to believe stuff that is patently ridiculous, often downright dangerous and occasionally evil. Gullible, aren’t we?
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* The complete lyrics to Davey Dodds’ song are as follows
Chorus (after every other verse) One for sorrow, two for joy, Three for a girl and for for a boy, Five for silver, six for gold, Seven for a secret never told, Devil, devil, I defy thee. Devil, devil, I defy thee. Devil, devil, I defy thee.
Oh, the magpie brings us tidings Of news both fair and foul; She's more cunning than the raven, More wise than any owl.
For she brings us news of the harvest Of the barley, wheat and corn. And she knows when we'll go to our graves And how we shall be born.
She brings us joy when from the right, Grief when from the left. Of all the news that's in the air We know to trust her best.
For she sees us at our labour, And mocks us at our work. And she steals the egg from out of the nest, And she can mob the hawk.
The priest, he says we're wicked To worship the devil's bird. Ah, but we respect the old ways And we disregard his word.
For we know they rest uneasy As we slumber in the night. And we'll always leave a little bit of meat For the bird that's black and white.
Have I mentioned that Mrs P is fascinated by windmills? She grew up in a village just a few minutes drive from here, a village that boasts a highly unusual six-sailed windmill that I wrote about in this post a couple of years ago. I guess it was this magnificent structure that fired her interest in all windmills, wherever they are. And so it is that, whenever we’re travelling about the country, we seek out and visit any windmills in the neighbourhood. Last year, 2023, was a good year for windmills!
Chinnor windmill, Oxfordshire
Perhaps I should clarify what I mean by a windmill. Encyclopaedia Britannica defines it as a “device for tapping the energy of the wind by means of sails mounted on a rotating shaft.” I understand this to mean that windmills power machines used to process a range of materials, including the milling of grain into flour, the sawing of timber and the manufacture of goods such as paper and paint.
Jill windmill, Clayton, West Sussex
These days, however, “windmill” is also used in some quarters to describe those towering, gleaming edifices used to generate electricity from wind power. Most people I know refer to the latter as wind turbines, and although we have no problem with them (in the right place!), they all look pretty much identical and have nothing to recommend them in terms of their individual character or history. To be absolutely clear, Mrs P and I do not spend our days out visiting and taking photos of wind turbines…we may be a little bit eccentric, but we’re not totally out to lunch!
Ovenden windmill, Clayton, West Sussex
In terms of their history, windmills have been around for over a thousand years. The earliest written references are from Persia – now Iran – in 644 AD and 915 AD. The use of windmills in Europe expanded rapidly from the 12th century onwards, and they remained a visible and vital part of the landscape until the early 20th century. Today they have little practical value, but as reminders of a simpler, lost world they have many fans. Across the country nostalgic groups of windmill enthusiasts work hard to maintain many of those that still survive, much to the delight of Mrs P.
Left: Chailey windmill, East Sussex. Middle top: Berkswell windmill, West Midlands. Middle bottom: Oldland windmill, Keymer, West Sussex. Right: Brill windmill, Buckinghamshire
An interesting example of this enthusiasm is Chinnor Windmill in the county of Oxfordshire. Built in 1789 as a flour mill, it was abandoned in 1923 and finally condemned in 1967 to make way for a housing development. However, someone involved with this decision had the foresight to recognise that future generations might be interested in this local landmark, so instead of outright demolition the mill was dismantled and some of its components put into storage. Forgotten for many years, the pieces of old windmill were rediscovered in 1980 and plans were set in motion to rebuild it a short distance from its original location. As Mrs P’s photo shows, this was good decision!
Left: Hawridge windmill, Cholesbury, Buckinghamshire. Middle: Lacey Green windmill, Buckinghamshire. Right: Herstmonceaux windmill, East Sussex.
The “Jill” Windmill at Clayton in West Sussex is another fine example of a restored windmill. First built in 1821, it ceased operation in 1906 and was badly damaged by wind two years later. Basic restoration was carried out in 1953, and in 1978 work was undertaken to restore it to full working order. Flour produced by the mill is sold to visitors on Sundays, when it is opened to the public.
Left: Green Ridge windmill, Patcham, West Sussex. Centre left: West Blatchington windmill, Brighton West Sussex. Centre right: Ringle Crouch Green windmill, Sandhurst, Kent. Right: Stone Cross windmill, East Sussex
Ovenden Windmill in Polegate, East Sussex survived longer as a commercially active mill. Built in 1817, the mill continued to be wind powered until 1942. It was then powered by an electric motor until it ceased operation in 1965. At this point it was bought by a Preservation Trust, which set about restoration work. The windmill’s future now appears secure, but sadly members of the public are no longer able to enter it as the floors in the tower have been deemed unsafe. Hopefully, one day, they will raise enough money to sort out the problem, but until then visitors will have to be content with viewing the windmill from the outside only.
Left: Rottingdean windmill, East Sussex. Top right: Quainton windmill, Buckinghamshire. Bottom right: Kings windmill, Shipley, West Sussex
Each windmill in today’s landscape has its own unique history and challenges. Mrs P took photos of nearly 20 new windmills last year. It seems like a lot, but there are still hundreds more to track down, scattered up and down the country. That should keep us busy for a few more years!
The visitor to Scotland is guaranteed lots of treats, including rugged mountains and romantic castles, glittering lochs and golden beaches. And maybe even a glimpse of a majestic red deer showing off an impressive rack of antlers. But a Japanese garden that’s more than a century old? Really?
The Japanese Garden at Cowden Castle was the brainchild of pioneering Scottish traveller and explorer Isabella Christie (1861-1949), better known to family and friends as ‘Ella’. Daughter of a Scottish industrialist and landowner, from an early age Christie made annual trips to Europe with her parents. When her mother died she continued to travel with her father and also alone or with a friend, visiting Syria, Egypt and Palestine.
Christie’s wanderlust, as well as her bank balance, received a boost following the death of her father in 1902. From 1904 to 1905 she travelled east to India, and then on to Kashmir, Tibet, Ceylon, Malaya and Borneo. Two years later she visited China, Korea and Japan. In 1910 and again in 1912 she took herself off to the Russian Empire, travelling part of the Silk Road and visiting Ashkhabad, Bukhara, Samarkand, Tashkent and Khiva. At a time when most of her contemporaries found their horizons severely restricted by prevailing attitudes towards women, Ella Christie broke the mould.
As an intrepid and inquisitive traveller Christie* must have been exposed to a huge variety of new ideas, but it was Japanese gardens that particularly captured her imagination. So, following her return from the orient in 1908, she decided to recreate a taste of Japan in her own backyard.
Christie’s home was at Cowden Castle just outside the small town of Dollar, lying 36 miles north west of Edinburgh and 37 miles north east of Glasgow. She decided to set aside 7 acres (3 hectares) of the castle’s grounds to create her own Japanese garden. To plan and design it she enlisted the skills of Taki Handa (1871-1956), a Japanese garden designer who was studying in England at the time. This seemingly routine appointment was in fact revolutionary, with the Japanese Garden at Cowden becoming the first and only garden of its size and scope to be designed by a woman.
The work involved in creating the garden at Cowden included damming a stream on the castle estate to create an artificial loch [lake], importing plants, shrubs, trees and a traditional stone lantern from Japan, and building a tea house. It was clearly a job well done, as in the mid-1920s Professor Jijo Suzuki, Head of the Soami School of Imperial Garden Design at Nagoya, declared Cowden to be the best Japanese garden in the western world.
In its heyday the Cowden Japanese Garden enjoyed a steady stream of visitors, but after Christie’s death in 1949 things began to go downhill. The garden opened to the public for the last time in 1955, and in 1963 it was badly vandalised by local teenagers when tea houses and bridges were burnt to the ground, and stone lanterns were thrown into the water.
The garden languished – largely untended and apparently unloved – for nearly half a century until, in 2008, it passed to Sara Stewart, Christie’s great, great niece. Determined to restore the garden to its former glory, Stewart created a charitable trust for this purpose and led a fundraising campaign to raise £1m (USD 1.27m) to pay for it.
Restoration began in 2014, guided by the renowned Japanese architect and garden designer Professor Masao Fukuhara. Although the project was not completed until 2022, Cowden Japanese Garden re-opened to the public in 2017 as a “work in progress”.
We visited the garden a few months ago and were pleased to see that Ella Christie’s achievement has been successfully revived. The garden is clearly not in the same league as those of – say – Kyoto and Tokyo, but as a taster of an approach to garden design that most Brits will find unfamiliar it’s definitely worth a visit.
Ella Christie* called her garden Shāh-raku-en, meaning a place of pleasure or delight, and that name is well merited. Its restoration serves as a fitting memorial to a formidable and truly remarkable woman.
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Footnote – more about Ella Christie
IMAGE CREDIT: Anon. none given by Nat’l Library of Scotland – dated 1909, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
* Ella Christie was –
fluent in four languages
the first western woman to meet the Dalai Lama
the first western woman to travel from Samarkand to Khiva
one of the first cohort of women to be elected Fellows of The Royal Geographical Society
a published author, who in 1925 wrote “Through Khiva to golden Samarkand; the remarkable story of a woman’s adventurous journey alone through the deserts of Central Asia to the heart of Turkestan“
Many of the UK’s grand stately homes rely on entrance fees to pay for their upkeep. And their owners have long recognised that a few random yuletide decorations, plus the occasional fir tree draped in flashing lights, are a sure-fire way to boost winter visitor numbers and income. After all, we Brits are creatures of habit – we’ve seen all of this a hundred times before but, what the hell, it’s the season of goodwill so we’ll gladly pay to see it again somewhere else. And so it was that this year Mrs P and I ended up at Burton Constable Hall.
Located in a sparsely populated corner of East Yorkshire, Burton Constable Hall dates from the mid-16th century. A couple of hundred years later it had become unfashionable, and so was substantially redesigned and rebuilt in the 1760s by owner William Constable (1721-1791) to give us the building we see today.
The exterior of the Hall is impressive, but not nearly as spectacular as its interior. Some of the stately homes we have visited over the years at Christmas have gone so overboard with their seasonal decorations that the rooms themselves have almost become invisible. You could be anywhere, with the merits of the buildings becoming lost beneath a mound of gaudy yuletide bling.
Fortunately this was not the case at Burton Constable, where the grand rooms remained the stars of the show. The Christmas trees – often tucked away unobtrusively in corners – and other decorations we encountered were well executed without being excessive, discreet seasonal additions that in no way detracted from the Hall’s Georgian elegance.
Having said that, we look forward to returning at another time of year, when Christmas is but a distant memory, to focus exclusively on Burton Constable’s history, architecture and design. This is an exceptional building, regardless of the season of the year, and deserves to be better known than appears to be the case.
And with that, it’s time for me to sign off for 2023 by thanking anyone out there who ever reads or comments on this blog. Your continuing interest has helped keep my spirits up throughout another challenging year. It’s my absolute pleasure to wish you a Merry Christmas, and Happy & Healthy New Year. See you in 2024, guys!
The Bluebell Railway is without doubt a gleaming jewel in the crown of the UK’s heritage railways. Its locomotives puffing serenely through 11 miles (18 km) of rolling countryside in the county of Sussex, the Bluebell is thought by many to be England’s best steam railway experience. So, when we were in the area earlier this year, we decided to check it out for ourselves.
Railway nostalgia is big business in the UK. There are, astonishingly, well over 200 “minor and heritage railways” operating across the country as a whole. According to the government’s Office of Rail and Road (ORR):
“Minor and heritage railways are ‘lines of local interest’, museum railways or tourist railways that preserve, recreate or simulate railways of the past, or demonstrate or operate historical or special types of motive power or rolling stock….Much of the rolling stock and other equipment used on these systems is original and is of historic value in its own right. Many systems deliberately aim to replicate both the look and operating practices of historic former railways companies.
The Bluebell Railway, which is named for the profusion of bluebells that flower in the area each spring, fits the ORR’s definition perfectly. It is Britain’s oldest preserved standard-gauge railway, and is run by the Bluebell Railway Preservation Society. The Society ran its first train in August 1960, less than three years after British Railways closed the line to “regular” rail traffic. A ride from one end of the line to the other takes around 40 minutes, but most passengers break their journeys to explore what each of the stations along the route have to offer.
The star attractions are, of course, the vintage steam locomotives. They seem to have personality, not something I would ever say about 21st century railway technology. And don’t you just love the sooty smell of a locomotive in full steam, a smell from another era that seems out of place in our sanitised modern age. The Bluebell Railway Preservation Society has more than 30 steam locos under its care, making this the second largest collection in the country after the National Railway Museum at York. We were pleased to see – and smell! – several in action during the course of our visit.
In addition to the wonderful locos there are nearly 150 carriages and wagons, most of them dating back to the first half of the twentieth century. As well as riding some of the rolling stock as it trundles along the Bluebell’s tracks, it’s also possible for visitors to get up close and personal with more examples in the huge loco sheds and carriage workshop.
But it’s not just the rolling stock that offers glimpses of a lost world. The stations have been restored to show how they would have looked at different stages in the line’s history: Sheffield Park Station reflects the 1880s, Horsted Keynes Station the mid-1920s and Kingscote Station the 1950s. As a result, the Bluebell Railway and its stations have been used as locations for scenes in movies including Muppets Most Wanted, and period TV dramas like Downton Abbey.
A souvenir of the Downton Abbey period tv drama!
In common with every other heritage railway, the Bluebell is dependent on volunteers. There are some paid staff, but most of the people keeping the show on the road do it for free, and presumably for fun.
The cynic in me says that the anachronistic steam locomotives are little more than “big boys’ toys,” while the guys (and it is, I think, mostly men) who dress up as train drivers, guards, signal operators and buffet car assistants are a bit like Peter Pan, kids who never quite managed to grow up!
But where’s the harm in that? The Bluebell has clear educational value, it boosts the local economy by attracting tourists and keeping them entertained, and enables ordinary people to play an active role in a wider community venture. Everyone’s a winner on the iconic Bluebell Railway.
By late November Christmas is already impossible to avoid. Television channels are boasting endlessly about their holiday schedules. Shops are groaning under the weight of seasonal goodies. A yuletide wreath, laden with holly and ivy, is proudly displayed on a neighbour’s front door. And in stately homes up and down the land the Christmas lights and decorations are going up, sending their electricity bills through the roof. But no worries – we, the paying public, will cover the cost!
Castle Howard is a grand stately home in North Yorkshire. Dating from the 18th century, it’s said to be one of England’s finest historic houses, set in a parkland dotted with lakes, fountains, temples and statues. Twelve months ago we were fascinated by a television programme revealing the extraordinary lengths to which its owners go to attract hordes of additional visitors during the Christmas season, so this year we vowed to check it our for ourselves.
Every year Castle Howard selects a new theme for its Christmas celebrations, and in 2023 it is Peter Pan’s turn to put on a show. Here’s what the visitor guide has to say about it:
This year we fly to Christmas in Neverland, entering the world of J M Barrie’s boy who never grew up. It’s a world of sparkles and shadows, of pirates and mermaids, of shaggy dogs and Darlings, where dreams and reality fade imperceptibly from one to the other. Where better to find the story of daydreams made real than in the fantastical surroundings of Castle Howard?
Source: Printed guide for visitors to “Christmas in Neverland” at Castle Howard
Wow, they don’t lack ambition, do they? And modesty’s clearly not their strong point either! But is all this hype justified by the reality of Castle Howard’s extravaganza? Read on and find out.
Sadly, things don’t start well. We’ve already bought timed tickets over the internet, which should allow us to walk straight in at our allotted hour. But when we arrive queues are snaking out of the entrance into the courtyard, and it’s 30 minutes or more before we can get out of the cold and begin our tour.
My cynical outlook on life quickly leads me to conclude the underlying problem is greed, too many tickets sold in a feverish attempt to make as much money as possible. As it happens, a friendly member of staff suggests the problem is a coach full of visitors that has arrived late and thrown the rest of the day’s schedule into disarray. Hmm, OK, sounds plausible…maybe.
But anyway, all things must pass, and in due course we get into Castle Howard and begin our exploration of Neverland. And now I have a confession to make…Peter Pan’s never appealed to me! Don’t know why, but the concept of a perpetual child, his fairy companion and random pirates, Lost Boys and crocodiles leaves me cold.
On the deck of the Jolly Roger, Captain Hook’s pirate ship
So although a series of more than a dozen extravagantly dressed rooms and other spaces are designed to take the visitor chronologically through the Peter Pan story, it doesn’t really work for me as I’ve never read the book or seen the film. I must therefore judge what we see at Castle Howard simply as a visual spectacle, regardless of the links to J M Barrie’s tall tale.
The mermaid’s bedchamber
As it happens, the spectacle is, well…spectacular. Although I don’t know the story I can appreciate the tableaux depicting it, including a bath-time scene, the deck of a pirate ship, a mermaid’s bedchamber and a dining table set out with a lavish Christmas feast.
Bath time!
With a nod in the direction of the Disney movie, there are also some action scenes created through the projection of moving shadows on to brightly lit walls and ceilings. These include the fairy Tinker Bell flitting hither and thither, and Peter Pan and the evil pirate Captain Hook fighting with cutlasses. It’s all very entertaining, enthralling visitors both young and old. At one point an enormous shadow crocodile appears out of nowhere and snaps his jaws at the horrible Hook. Go on my son, do your worst!
The cutlass fight between Captain Hook and Peter Pan, cleverly depicted in moving shadows
Clearly, no expense has been spared to create a festive atmosphere in Castle Howard’s Neverland. Coloured lights and lavish decorations abound, just what we need to get us in the mood for Christmas. And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it. The world’s in a bad way right now, and an afternoon’s innocent escapism offers a welcome break from the relentless torrent of bad news that threatens to drown us all.
Table laid for the Lost Boys’ feast
Well done, Castle Howard, for this brave attempt to raise the spirits of your visitors. Even the queues didn’t spoil our day there – it’s the season of goodwill, after all, so I’ve forgiven you! But we must make a return trip at another time of year, so we can fully appreciate the house itself without being distracted by all that gaudy Christmas bling.
Murals are springing up all over my home county of Derbyshire. A little while ago I wrote about a magnificent painting of a kingfisher that had suddenly appeared on the side of a house in our local town. And just a couple of weeks later we came across another unexpected mural, this one featuring a railway locomotive in full steam.
To be fair, the steam train mural has been there since 2021, but it’s in a part of the county we rarely visit. Driving through the village, Westhouses appears totally unremarkable, and my initial reaction was to question why anyone would choose to cover one wall of its abandoned social club with a painting of a long extinct mode of transport. All of which proves how little I knew about the history of that corner of Derbyshire!
It turns out that Westhouses owes its very existence to railways. The village is named after West House Farm, but there was little if any other habitation in the area until the middle of the nineteenth century when the Midland Railway company drove a line through it to serve numerous local collieries and ironstone pits. The company needed to put in place a range of support facilities, and so in the 1870s it set about the creation of a new village, including workers’ houses, a school and a church, as well as a big engine shed to stable and maintain its locomotives.
Once upon a time railways were the lifeblood of Westhouses, but not now. Both the engine shed and railway station closed decades ago, and it seems improbable that any local people are now employed in the railway industry. However, residents remain proud of their connection with that industry, and when organisers of a community arts project searched for topics to engage local interest it’s no surprise that a steam locomotive was amongst those chosen.
The mural was painted by two artists from Leicester-based spray art collective Graffwerk. It took them five days of spraying to finish the job, and local train enthusiasts – many of whom had family connections with the Stanier 8F steam locomotive that is pictured – were on hand to make sure they got all the details absolutely right!
Trawling through social media posts dating from immediately after the project was completed in 2021, it’s clear that local residents were blown away to have such a wonderful piece of art in their village. Murals that are well chosen and brilliantly executed clearly have enormous power to bring whole communities closer together.
They are also a reminder to casual visitors such as me that seemingly ordinary places may have hidden histories that are well worth celebrating. Before seeing that mural I would never have given Westhouses a second glance, but having stumbled across it I was curious to know how and why it came to be there. So, thanks to the mural – and then the internet! – I did some research, and discovered the extent of my earlier ignorance. It’s clear there’s much more to Westhouses than I would ever have guessed, thanks to its proud railway heritage.
Now I'm 64 