Today D and I visited the National Arboretum at Westonbirt, a spectacular sight at this time of year. Perhaps we had left our visit a little late in the season however we were impressed nonetheless.
The arboretum is a part of the park of a former stately home whose last aristocratic owner died in the 1920s. The house became a school however the arboretum was eventually gifted to the nation.
Walking arond the woods I came to a broad grassy avenue through the trees. I was reminded at once of Miklos Banffy's description of the fabulous fictional Denestornya in Transylvania, an image based on the real but destroyed Banffy seat of Bonchida.
It was Banffy's description that came to life. As for the real Bonchida palace - a roofless ruin that I drove past on many occasions - the long avenues of trees and lovingly planted woods have long since been felled for firewood. I remember seeing the light-coloured walls of the remaining buildings stand abrupt against the low hills beyond, stark across a bald valley amidst bare fields. It was too sad a place to linger around. Beautiful things wantonly destroyed breed melancholy.
But here on English soil stands a fabulous avenue, one which took my breath away in the soft low light of late afternoon.
I could imagine carriages driving out carrying the noble landowner and his guests, for he was an enthusiastic gardener and planter of trees with ample resources to indulge his passion. That's the straightforward image, the view from a costume drama. I could do better.
Meanwhile looking into the distance I saw the former stately home, like Banffy's Bonchida in its heyday one of the most lavish in its land, standing pristine.
I imagined myself there on an evening long ago. I'd ridden out from the house in the company of an enthusiastic horticulturalist keen to show me his wild wonderful yet mellow woodland at the height of its beauty. After a slow circuit of the awesome woods we stopped and dismounted. He smoked a pipe as our horses grazed, and we talked about his plans. A flask passed between us, the strong liquor yileding inner warmth against the evening chill.
Then my host looked at his watch and frowned. "We'll be late for dinner! Quck, into the saddle!" I placed a foot in a stitrrup and a hand on the mane then sprang up, for in a dream I am allowed to imagine myself more agile than in reality. Our horses were keen and leapt forward upon request. Tall trees flashed past, colourful leaves a blur as we fled deepening shadows for the warm welcome of a gas-lit dining room.
But my imagination sought more.
I rode out in a foreign land, neither Westonbirt nor exactly Bonchida. The countess rode a bay mare and my mount was skewbald for in dream and reality I allow myself eccentricity. We'd circumnavigated the estate, in turns walking our horses to admire the most impressive trees then trotting and cantering across the springy turf of broad glades. Laughing we cantered, her fair hair bobbing in a plait behind a finely shaped head bearing the high cheekbones of a Magyar. At the far end of that final avenue we stopped, hidden from the great house by a faint mist, dismounting to talk, and that freed speech yet further. A silver flask passed between us, the liquor within made from plums grown on that very estate. Our conversation was lively, for I was the exotic traveller: an Englishman far from home, wandering to escape and live and learn. Back then the world was a simpler place, or so it seemed. Our horses grazed the succulent grass as we planned a ride of many days to visit outlying properties: an adventure for ladies such as my hostess were supposed to travel by carriage. But she was a breaker of images, hence my fellow traveller both metaphorically and physically. In my mind we did travel, of course. And what happened on that journey had better remain in my mind.
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