Here, There and Everywhere





 

Like most of the more startling events in life, I stumbled into it quite by chance. It is not the kind of place that I would normally go to visit after work. But I was in a moment when one was stifled by the heat after walking around the city and my body was tipped forward, as if I was pushed by a surging throng of men and women, blinded by the sun, jostling one another, in a chaotic riot of enthusiasm, after their local football match. The strain of intoxicating something in the air and full exposure to massive crowd, that seemed to be experiencing what one might call the heights of life, where one gives oneself up, without inhibitions or restrains, to the beguiling activities of verdant and primitive natures, brought me extreme sense of discomfort and aggravated my state of mind. I flung myself into the nearest bookshop in order to take refuge in a more reassuring surrounding.  

At the bookshop, I felt calm in the presence of old, second hand books. I picked up an old book on the shelf which was a withdrawn copy from a private school for girls in England. It was written by Margaret Plues in 1863 and titled Rambles in search of wild flowers. After reading a few pages in the introduction of the book, I was enraptured by the characters from the book. In many ways, the characters in Miss Plues’ book reminded me of Barbara Pym’s novels. Rambles in search of wild flowers is not a scientific book written for the botanists. It was written in a style of a novel, both old-fashioned and educational, where the main story involves with three delightful characters who form a botanical club together.

Rambles in search of wild flowers by Margaret Plues (first published in 1863). Miss Plues' passion for wild flowers, the lushness of her language and her eccentric characters from this book are such a delight and inspiration to me that it merits reading and re-reading.   

The main character is Fanny who spent “Two seasons in London, followed by gay autumns at watering places, had made sad havoc with the health of Fanny Dring, her pale face and attenuated figure, as she stood in the large bay window gazing wistfully on the lovely landscape, attracted her Mother’s anxious observation…” Fanny, who failed to find love, after ‘two seasons in London’, declared with a hint of resignation: “I am weary for want of an object for exertion.”

The second character is Cousin Esther, a bit of a blue-stocking who had probably read Harriet Martineau and George Eliot in the privacy of her boudoir.

Finally, the third character, who is my favourite, Cousin Edward, aged seventeen (“a brilliant scholar in a large public school in one of the midland counties”) and he was spending his holiday with his aunt.  He had very little patience for ordinary things. He complained his annoyance: “My mother is always exhorting me to take exercise and I have no objection to a good game at cricket; but for a constitution walk! – it is the greatest bore that ever was invented.” Cousin Edward’s lack of knowledge in flowers struck a chord with me when he confessed: “I scarcely knew a Dandelion from a Buttercup…” Nevertheless, his character contains an indefinable element of zeal and childlike courage in the way he is devoted to study his flowers as he attempts to botanize at his public school where the boys, tongue-in-cheek, called him a Nancy-boy.

Miss Plues wrote, “Matters did not go quite as smoothly with Edward Leigh; but the boy was largely endowed with firmness and held steadily to his purpose. When first the other day-pupils found that he was addicting himself to collecting flowers, they named him, “Miss Flora”. He declined ever replying to this cognomen…”    

  


The Gentle Art of Walking by Geoffrey Murray (with illustrations by Clifford Webb)

  

Illustration by Clifford Webb

The other week I talked to my friend, Gordon about my latest discovery of Miss Plues’ book and how I yearned to see the flowers, the birds and the bees in the countryside. There were many days when I slinked away into a corner of my garden with a book in my hand to dream of the three characters from Miss Plues’ book with a hope that they would give me instructions on acquiring the kind of flowers they recommend in the book. A few days later, Gordon came round to my house in his motor car to make a daring proposal; an escapade from my constant privations which were my natural comfort zone in the ordered solitude of country life. He seemed to have a hundred questions for me if I was going to decline his proposal but he withheld them all, for the time being, while he was thinking of other vague schemes of reformation, which he had in mind, to draw me out from my timorous shell.

 

In the end, I went along with his idea which made him say, “Jolly good! That’s very chivalrous of you!” Gordon’s idea was to walk all the way from Arbroath to Friockheim and then, he promised me that he would take me to a place he knew I would love.  I packed essential things for our walk such as a map, a pair of binoculars and a book (for inspiration) titled The Gentle Art of Walking by Geoffrey Murray in my haversack. Gordon brought a mat made of cambric trimmed with floral decoration and packed sandwiches for our picnic. Both my friend and my heart had not misled me. How beautiful the countryside was on that day! It was filled with the perfume from thistles and pine trees adorning with the spider’s webs, freshly woven in that morning as they quivered like lace in the breeze. The long ribbon of river streaming in the sunlight in ever varying curves while our lungs breathed a beneficent freshness in the unpolluted air. I was seized with voluptuous astonishment, despite the fatigue of the journey, after we walked for three hours on the streets that wind snake-like on their ways, when we reached our final destination – a secret paradise, as Gordon called it.

 

Indeed, it was an earthly paradise. I loved it! It’s definitely worth every effort to make the trip to this place. Especially, on a fine day when the sky is cloudless, the willow warblers with their yellow-tinged chest singing their golden melodic notes, the crickets croak, the dragonflies and the bees buzz and all is blend into a harmony to soothe the heart’s aching wounds. Pitmuies Garden is a private garden. Unlike the public gardens and the National Trust gardens at this time of the year, it is not populated and crowded with the visitors and the tourists. It opens daily during the summer months.

Mr and Mrs Ruaraidh Ogilvie are the current owner of both the house and the garden. The property was first bought by Major and Mrs Douglas Ogilvie in 1945. The garden was originally developed by the current owner’s mother, Margaret Ogilvie, the same name as the mother of the famous Scottish writer, J. M. Barrie who also came from this area (Kirriemuir, one of the most picturesque places in Scotland). The garden reveals the taste and personality of the owner. It is full of characters, whimsical and eccentric visions and theatrical ornaments - all of infinite variety; all full of originality, of life, of texture, and of vision; all of exquisite beauty both of design and craftsmanship. Above all, it is a place where one breathes an air laden with happiness and solitude. As we strolled along the garden, I thanked my friend Gordon for taking me to this place. From now on, it has to become our secret garden, I said to him while we walked on the lawn ornamented by several urns of flowers.

There is a nameless bronze bust statue which looks so dandy in the garden, and it reminds me a picture of my favourite Italian tenor, Fernando De Lucia. We decided to name after him.  

 

 

We had our sandwiches inside the wall garden as we gazed with admiration at its well- proportioned features, climbing different colourful and fragrant roses, clematis flowers that sprawl around the garden with rich and libertine fancy, foliage and clumps of trees, whose green hues Nature has tinted. On that day, except from Gordon and I, there were only two other visitors, an elderly couple, who came a little later than us. At the entrance to the wall garden, we could not help overhearing their conversation as we had our lunch by the garden pond. They were walking arm and arm. The lady asked the gentleman: “Edward, why do you always have to walk on the right side?” The gentleman replied in his elegant English voice, “My dear, I am keeping my fencing arm free!” And they disappeared out of our sight as they walked slowly into ‘Kissing Gate’.

Before leaving the garden, I thought about Miss Plues, the authoress of Rambles in Search of Wild flowers, and the characters from that book that I referred to earlier: the romantic Fanny with a pale face and 'attenuated' figure, the blue-stocking Cousin Esther and Cousin Edward alias ‘Miss Flora’ and how much they would love this garden.   

'Kissing Gate'

 

There are flowers here, there and everywhere you look to charm the eyes with lavish imagination and to delight and ravish the senses with their abounding wealth of beauty.