Tyntesfield has become my happy place. It is National Trust and sits just a few miles from Bristol. The place to go and return content. Various corners of the garden have a familiarity now, but each visit is different.
We arrived to find a market, the first Sunday in the month brings traders to the court yard entrance. Buying produce from a stall is a satisfying Sunday experience.
Until early November, there is art in the garden, Paradise, unfamiliar objects in familiar places.
The glass houses are my favourite, currently they house, amongst the flowers, chilli and aubergine. In another life I would have sun filled glass houses, I would potter amongst flowers and exotic vegetables, secateurs in hand, radio 4 echoing from an old transistor. A flask of tea and homemade victoria sponge for the lull in proceedings… in another life.
Late summer mega blooms and vegetables ready for the picking fill the walled garden. The dahlias remind me of teenage girls at a prom. All lined up and waiting for the stretch limo, excitable, each wanting to be seen to be the best. Heads tipped to the light. It’s all little bit too much, a bit too big and bright, a little bit gaudy. But you can’t help but like them. If any flower could take a selfie it would be a dahlia.
What I love most about Tyntesfield, is that it came from poo. The fortune of the family that remodelled the house and developed the estate was build on the import of guano for fertilizer. There is a flag in the garden which reads: “William Gibbs made his dibs, Selling the turds of foreign birds”. It makes me smile.
Tyntesfield is my happy place. Where is yours?