If money is no object, there is a great variety of high-performance cars available to the discerning enthusiast. But while the numbers of Aston Martins and Ferraris sold in Britain may be very small, there is a healthy market for the sub-£20,000 sports car. Here Porsche is the market-leader with the 944 (£18,234), but it has to face stern opposition from the Jaguar XJS 3.6 (£19,495) and Lotus Esprit (£17,630).

Unlike its two rivals, the Jaguar has a higher standard of equipment as standard, with leather-faced seats, air conditioning and central locking, even though the latter operates only the two doors and not the boot. Thus, by the time you have paid to raise the level of equipment of the Porsche and Lotus to that of the Jaguar, the latter proves to be the least expensive car.

Alas, where the big cat fails to score so highly is with its looks. Long, sleek and elegant it may be, but it lacks the grace of line of its feline namesake. Awkwardly shaped headlights, a cumbersome rear roof pillar and a curiously modelled rear end give the Jaguar low marks in the beauty-contest stakes. The same design has been around now for the best part of 10 years, and over-familiarity means it no longer receives a second glance.

The same can scarcely be said of the Lotus Esprit. It, too, first appeared 10 years ago, but its striking Giugiaro-styled body is an attention-grabber, attracting small boys as readily as wasps to strawberry jam. The Porsche also has a great deal more presence than the Jaguar, with its wide, flared arches and deep front spoiler giving it the appearance of a car that really means business. It is an astonishingly successful adaptation of the rather more ordinary-looking 924. But if it is admiring or envious looks you are after, the Lotus is the clear winner.

Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but the real attraction of these three cars is not what they look like, but how they go. With a 3.6-litre six-cylinder, twin-cam engine, fuel-injected and developing 225bhp, the Jaguar is by far the most powerful. The Lotus has to make do with 160bhp from its mid-mounted, 2.2-litre, four-cylinder unit, while the Porsche's 2.5-litre, four-cylinder engine gives a very similar 163bhp. The heavyweight Jaguar needs all those extra horses to give it comparable acceleration and top speed to the Lotus and Porsche. All three will reach just short of 140mph if shown a clear stretch of Autobahn, while the Lotus wins the 0–60mph sprint with a time of 6.7sec, closely followed by the Jaguar (7.2sec), then the Porsche (7.5sec).

Where the difference lies in how they make use of their power. With its mid-engined, racing-car-style layout, and huge rear wheels and tyres, the Lotus is able to put all its power onto the road with supreme ease. Those massive tyres bite hard into the tarmac on even the most brutal standing start, while at speed in the wet it is almost impossible to lose traction. The 16-valve engine is supremely responsive, and as smooth at 2,000rpm as it is at 6,500rpm.

As a driver's car, the Lotus is without peer. You can forgive it its outdated switchgear and instruments that reflect, and the fuel-warning light that distractingly flashes when only half-full: show it a winding country road and it will respond in the way only a race-bred sports car can. Beautifully weighted (unassisted) steering lets you place the car with total precision, the poise and balance of the chassis shrugs off with disdain the severest of bends, and you can play tunes with the engine through the short-throw gearbox. Under the right conditions, there can be few more satisfying cars to drive than an Esprit, and certainly none under £20,000.

Not that the Esprit is perfect. It is 73in wide, making it much too broad for narrow lanes. From the driver's seat you can see nothing of the bonnet, and such a low seating position means a certain loss of confidence when approaching the brow of a hill. The pedals are too close together, and it is easy to hit the brake instead of the clutch, but there is at least a brace to rest your clutch foot on. Ventilation is abysmal, which can make motorway driving on a warm day a chore, and remind you that the extra £835 for air conditioning is money well spent. But despite all this, it remains a magnificent machine.

Climb straight from the Lotus into the Porsche and you are instantly aware why this German machine has been so successful. It is much easier to get in and out of, while simple Teutonic attention to detail means that you need only a single key for everything — the Lotus has one for the door, ignition and petrol cap(s), while the Jaguar has no fewer than four keys. The Porsche's clutch is perfectly weighted, there is a foot rest for the left foot, and the gearbox moves smoothly and easily.

Furthermore, the redesigned interior of the latest 944 has an impressive new dashboard that owes more than a little in its design to the 928, and extremely comfortable seats. It exudes a feeling of precision and quality. Once on the move, the 944 has the handling and cornering ability that gives instant confidence in its ability. That big four-cylinder engine has plenty of low-down pulling power and is every bit as responsive as that of the Lotus, if not quite as smooth. It is only when you follow the Lotus along a winding Welsh mountain road that you discover that it has not quite the English car's ability to cope with the bends, and it will slide, albeit in a predictable and undramatic way.

However, the Porsche is an easy car to drive, less demanding than the Lotus and so ultimately less rewarding, but far more practical in everyday use. The back seats may be scorned by anyone more than eight years old, but they are there in case of emergencies, while there is far more carrying space in the 944 than in the Esprit.

In such overtly sporting company, it is easy to dismiss the Jaguar as a two-seater saloon car. It is a very long car for such a small passenger compartment, and its back seats are as impractical as those in the Porsche. The interior is traditionally English, if of another era, with polished elm veneer dash and door cappings, dated switchgear and too much reflective chrome, but it is all beautifully put together. Unlike the automatic-only XJS HE, the gearbox is a five-speed manual with a somewhat clumsy change. Nor is the engine as refined as one would expect — and to get the best from it you have to make free use of the gearbox.

Compared with the perfectly weighted power steering of the Porsche, that of the Jaguar is too light and lacks feel; the suspension gives a much better ride than the other two cars, but it is at the expense of handling. Despite its sporting aspirations, the XJS is not so much a driver's machine, more a car to travel in and arrive as relaxed and fresh as when you set off. The air conditioning is admirable, ensuring a perfect climate whatever the weather, while the vehicle's quietness and overall level of refinement are of the highest order. It would be difficult to find a better car for long-distance, high-speed motorway cruising.

Economy is not the Jaguar's strongest point, and although 22mpg may be much better than that of the V12, it cannot compete with the Lotus, which returned more than 26mpg during the test, or the very frugal Porsche, which gave nearly 28mpg.

Thus there is no clear winner here, for all three cars have their own attractions. If your driving includes a great deal of motorway work, then the Jaguar is far and away the best choice. If you want a car that your wife can happily take shopping, or you can use daily for a hard cross-country commuting route, then the Porsche is the winner. But for an uncompromising sporting car, the Lotus is in a class of its own. It may have more faults than the other two cars put together — but it remains a classic car at a not unreasonable price.

1 Pick up after your dog in public places and on farmland. No exceptions, no theatrics.

2 Carry extra bags; being prepared is the backbone of dignity, but never, ever, leave full ones hanging on trees.

3 ‘He’s never done that before’ is no excuse: train your dog.

4 Leads exist for a reason. Most dogs need them...

5 …but retractable leads should be banned in tight spaces.

7 Accordingly, training your dog to respond to the whistle is more refined than screaming like a fishwife.

8 Recall should be instant, not interpretive.

9 Jumping up is not being ‘friendly’, it’s rude.

10 Similarly, muddy paws belong on the ground, not on strangers’ clothing.

11 Children are not chew toys.

12 ‘No dogs’ signs are not a suggestion. Observe them.

13 Barking at all hours is not ‘character’.

14 Doggy clothing is tragic.

15 Other people’s front gardens are not canine lavatories.

16 Some dogs are nervous; respect their space.

17 If a venue is clearly unsuitable, don’t insist on bringing the dog anyway.

19 There’s nothing funny about your pooch’s bad breath. Sort it out.

20 A collar with ID is the law.

21 If you happen to fart, blame it on the dog. Even if there isn’t one.

22 Begging at tables is ghastly. Bad in children, worse in dogs.

23 If cattle show an unnerving interest, let your dog go; they will chase it, not you.

24 When in the park, your dog requires your full attention, not your social-media feed.

25 Rough play is charming, until it isn’t. Intervene.

26 If your dog misbehaves, apologise properly and immediately.

27 And yes, pay for any damage without fuss.

29 On public transport, keep your dog close and unobtrusive. Carry them on escalators, even if yours is a Great Dane.

30 Groom your dog properly — overt scruffiness is not a lifestyle choice.

31 They say dogs look like their owners, so make sure yours is a hottie.

32 You may allow your dog on the sofa, but others may not. Respect their house rules.

33 A hot car is not a kennel, not even for 10 minutes.

34 Dogs don’t sign Christmas cards...

35 …but you can get away with buying them a Christmas present.

36 Dogs are designed to walk, not be carried in a handbag.

38 Your dog is a reflection of you. Try not to disappoint.

39 Not everyone finds your dog as enchanting as you do: try to cope.

Hertfordshire — £7,500,000

On an estate that was once owned by Westminster Abbey, this house was built and has evolved over the centuries, not least the 21st, to become a superb modern home, full of light and modern comforts while retaining its character.

An example? The ancient wine cellar looks like something from the Napleonic era, yet it sits below a swish Neptune kitchen.

The 18 acres of grounds, which Humphry Repton worked on in the late 18th century, are a highlight, and include a wonderful walled garden.

For sale via Strutt & Parker — see more details and pictures.

Kent — £5,000,000

Having a helicopter is one thing; having a helipad and hangar to land it on and keep it in is quite another, but Postling Lodge has both.

This spectacular home in the Kent Downs National Landscape, built in 2009 but since extended further, is slick and modern — with a pool that would grace a boutique country house hotel.

For sale via Savills — see more details and pictures.

Wiltshire — £1,600,000

On the market for the first time since it was built three decades ago, this lovely family home amid open countryside five miles from Chippenham is an amazing opportunity to create a life in the country — and the huge barns and 14 acres of land offer all sorts of options.

One thing to note though: there's an agricultural tie on the property, so you'll need to do your homework — our guide to buying property with an agricultural tie can point you in the right direction.

For sale via Webbpaton — see more details and pictures.

East Sussex — £5,950,000

With six bedrooms, over 8,000 sq ft and 55 acres, Socknersh Manor sits in a parcel of land near the village of Burwash. Beyond the main house — 16th century, fully refurbished and Grade II-listed — you'll find a series of barns, games rooms, lake, tennis court, and a coach house set up with a gym, cinema and much more.

For sale via Knight Frank — see more details and pictures.

Bedfordshire — £1,500,000

Tucked away down a discreet private driveway, this six-bedroom home sits in just over two acres of gardens, orchard and woodland, all backing on to open countryside.

For sale via Michael Graham — see more details and pictures.

Even at 3am in high summer, it is not dark and, in the stillness out over the saltings, I can see gulls flying. They drift inland in threes and fours and the tide runs in beneath them. When daylight seeps into the sky at 4am, I find myself standing among thousands of empty crab shells. Somewhere down on the sea bed, out beyond the estuary, the ragged-clawed creatures have shed their exoskeletons to grow. Their old shells are ghosts among the spartina grass.

Cley next the Sea in north Norfolk, at the mouth of the River Glaven — named for the village of Glandford, once Gleamford, or ‘merry ford’ in Old English — looks to the North Sea. If you rain a straight line north from Cley, there would be nothing but ocean. That line would run clean between Svalbard and Greenland. Two thousand miles further, it hits the pack ice of the North Pole.

Between the 13th and 15th centuries, Cley was one of the busiest ports in Europe. The Glaven estuary ran deep then and could accommodate large merchant ships; Cley thrived on sending East Anglian wool to Europe. Now, the river is a narrow winding channel and its medieval might is difficult to imagine. From 1522, the estuary was drained to create grazing for cattle, a process that gradually led to the river silting up; it would be unrecognisable now to the merchants and Cley pirates who made their fortunes here.

Morning, as early birds catch worms

Shortly after 6am, three figures are sitting on upturned buckets on the sweeping shingle beach. As I draw closer, I see they are fishing. Each has a couple of rods set up with lines running into the waves. Roy, who tells me he has lived next to the sea all his life, has already caught three bass: ‘I’ve always liked fishing, it’s the air and looking to sea.’ He reels in his line, attaches a new worm onto the hook and casts again. The fishing has changed, he says: ‘We used to get codling all the time, but never bass. Now we do get bass, you see, and flounders if we’re lucky, perhaps a sole.’

Two shelduck fly past, low over the water. Now that Roy is getting older and his back starting to go, he relies on his brother to dig bait. ‘Where does he do that?’ I ask. Roy laughs. ‘You can’t be asking people where they dig their bait. We keep that a secret. It’s dug somewhere out on the mud.’ He nods in the direction of Blakeney and goes back to fishing.

Some 600 years ago, Blakeney and Cley were the same estuary with different channels, but whereas Cley was drained, Blakeney, to the west, has largely endured.

At 10.30am, four little children stand shrieking on the harbour wall there. They hold orange crabbing lines and croissants from the nearby bakery. One boy drops his croissant into the water and a herring gull swoops for it from a pile mooring.

Down on the mud, where water meets land, Trevor, a man in shorts and Wellington boots, is tending to his boat. He has a tub of white paint and is standing back to assess his work. Rosie, his little wooden dingy, ‘got a crack in it. I just put some white on there you see, after a bit of wood skin varnish, and then I’ll properly see to it this winter’. He usually only sails out to Blakeney Point. ‘I used to go to see the seals, but they’ve moved further on now.’ The seals, Trevor explains, were ‘on that gravel spit’ — he points to the horizon with his paint brush — ‘but then there was a big storm in the winter and it cut right through’. The whole estuary has changed and is always changing: ‘Up at the churchyard, there’s a wall that looks down over the Glaven and you can see big metal rings where the boats used to tie up. It’s nowhere near the sea now.’

Further out on the mud, an egret probes for crabs and, some 40 yards away, Will, a bait digger, is working away with his fork. The sand comes up black where he turns it over. He identifies the worm casts: ‘That tells you where the lugworms are.’ It isn’t a game of chance — he works the sand methodically, looking fixedly at the mud. When the worm comes up, he catches it between forefinger and thumb before it can disappear. Nodding into the distance in no particular direction, he points out that his work isn’t simply a means to an end: ‘When you’re out there digging, it’s just you.’

Midday, in the heat of the sun

At 1pm, I have lunch with David Diggens, who formerly ran the Norfolk Rivers Trust. We sit by a rusted house boat to eat crab and drink local wine. A wildfowler, fisherman and river conservationist, he knows the estuary as well as anybody: ‘The only reliable thing in life is constant change, and that is exactly what’s happening at Blakeney all the time.’

There is no wind and the temperature is approaching 30ºC. Small children in bad moods trudge by and passing dogs pant in the heat. ‘In terms of nature, the biggest changes here are the terns declining and the seals arriving,’ David observes. ‘The bass are now coming earlier and in greater numbers because of the change in sea temperature.’ The first grey seal pup birth was seen at Blakeney in 1988 and the population has been expanding ever since.

One of the great challenges, he explains, is the influx of tourists in the summer. Blakeney village runs largely on septic tanks — more people means more sewage. According to Bernard Bishop, wildlife warden at Cley for 40 years and still living in the house where he was born, there was once a famous mussel fishery here, but there are no edible mussels now.

After lunch, we walk out onto the mud and David picks samphire, which is just coming into season. He is an optimist and hopeful for wildlife in Norfolk. All it takes is for more people to care, but quite how you persuade them of the importance of biodiversity in all its forms is tricky, we agree. He hands me a small bunch of what is also known as St Peter’s herb, Peter being the patron saint of fishermen. ‘Only ever take as much samphire as you plan to eat that night for supper,’ he advises, a sentiment that goes for many things in life.

Late afternoon, in the cool of the church

The large wooden door of the Church of St Margaret’s, Cley, is open at 4pm, so I slip in and wander up the red pamment aisle. All around on the walls, but grown faint down the centuries, are medieval carvings of boats. It is thought they were etched by sailors as offerings before they set out on potentially dangerous voyages.

I sit in the back pew for a while listening to the wood pigeons cooing among the roof timbers — probably ships’ timbers originally — and then for an hour or so I sleep. When I wake, it is 5pm and I head out into the graveyard. The heat has passed and I wander among the headstones. There are local names, some I recognise, and at least three or four inscribed memorials for men lost at sea. Probably many more exist, but rain and time have eaten away at the stones.

I clamber sleepily over the back wall of the churchyard. The drop on the other side is lower than I anticipated and, when I pick myself up, I find I’m looking down over the Glaven, where the surrounding meadows are full of freshly cut hay. In spite of feeling that I’ve explored every inch of the church wall, I still can’t find Trevor’s ‘big metal rings where boats used to tie up’.

Eventide, as the long day closes

In the George & Dragon on the High Street in Cley, I order a pint, and then I order another, studying the black-and-white photographs of Cley past that hang on the pub walls. One, which must have been taken from a small plane in the early 20th century, shows the vast mud flats then in front of the village. In another, older still, there is a shooting party in a small boat, heading out from the famous Cley Windmill. It is 1886, the river is wide and the ladies are wearing hats.

At the bar, a semi-inebriated argument about how to pronounce Cley is taking place. ‘It is “clay”,’ says one of the old boys. ‘The tourists are right. You ought to say it like clay. That’s how they used to say it.’ Everyone laughs and I have no idea if he’s serious or otherwise (nowadays, it’s generally ‘cly’, to rhyme with ‘rye’).

By 10pm, it is getting dark and the town seems deserted when I wander down to the windmill. Bernard told me that the sails on the fantail used to clang in the breeze, keeping the whole village awake at night; now, they are chained up and there is silence. The Glaven, which runs beneath the windmill so slowly that you can hardly discern it is flowing at all, is little more than a trickle; it is possible almost to jump across it to the mud where the Randall family still cuts reed for local thatchers.

A warm wind rises and I listen to see if I can hear a bittern boom. The sky to the west is electric pink and a barn owl passes, hunting low in the half light.

This feature originally appeared in the July 15 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe

When T. E. Lawrence first set eyes on Clouds Hill, Dorset, in 1923, he realised that it would make a good place to hide. Although its name suggests that it sits high up, open to the sky, this humble whitewashed brick cottage is concealed from casual sight. Set in a hollow in the south Dorset heathland and enclosed by pine trees and rhododendron bushes, it possesses a powerful atmosphere of secrecy (Fig 1). Then about to turn 35, Lawrence was living under the assumed name of T. E. Shaw as a private in the Tank Corps, based at Bovington Camp, a mile to the south.

He had sought this obscure anonymity to escape his international celebrity as ‘Lawrence of Arabia’ (Fig 3), the result of his starring role in the Arab revolt of 1916–18 that had helped the Allied Powers defeat the Ottoman Empire. He hoped also to find peace to complete Seven Pillars of Wisdom, the epic account of his desert campaigns that was to secure his lasting fame.

Lawrence had made his first bid for anonymity in July 1922 by enlisting in the Royal Air Force as an airman under the name John Ross, only to be discharged a year later when his identity was leaked to the press. Arriving at Bovington in March of 1923, he found his initial feelings of pessimism were ‘very much like the wintry heath, of bog and withered plants and stripped trees’ that surrounded the camp.

Yet, as he recognised, this was also the Egdon Heath of Thomas Hardy’s novels. As soon as he arrived, he sought an introduction to Hardy, who lived in Dorchester, 15 miles away, an easy ride on Lawrence’s motorcycle.

Shortly after this, he was shown Clouds Hill, which was being restored from almost total ruin by one of his fellow soldiers. Seeking a refuge from what he called the ‘cat-calling carnality’ of life in barracks — he returned to the RAF in 1925 — Lawrence offered to complete the work at his own expense and rent the cottage. Built in 1808 on the Frampton family’s Moreton estate, perhaps for a forester, the house has only four rooms, two on each floor.

Initially, Lawrence fitted out only the upper floor, for use primarily as a writing room. It was only a daytime retreat as, when not on leave, he had to sleep in camp, where he also ate, and he installed neither running water nor electricity. Lawrence was content with this make-do life because he assumed that he would not need the cottage for long, but, in 1929, he decided to buy it, to form a permanent base in his peripatetic service career.

After Lawrence’s death in a motorcycle accident on the road from Bovington in 1935, the novelist E. M. Forster, who knew the cottage well, wrote that to think of Clouds Hill ‘as T. E.’s home is to get the wrong idea of it. It was rather his pied-à terre, the place where his feet touched the earth for a moment and found rest’. Nonetheless, in his later years there, Lawrence dedicated considerable effort and money to making the cottage suitable for the more settled life he envisaged after retirement from the RAF.

This was not such a departure as Forster’s comment may imply: throughout his life, Lawrence took a great deal of care about his domestic settings. Clouds Hill was the last of four small houses Lawrence helped create in the course of his life and it drew on memories of its predecessors.

Lawrence was the second of five brothers brought up in a large house in Polstead Road, north Oxford. Recognising that their clever, unusual second son needed independence and a place to study, in 1908 his parents had a two-room bungalow built for him in the garden. He draped the walls with blue cloth to block out external noise: ‘it was the most silent place I have ever been in,’ remembered a friend. Lawrence lived there when an undergraduate at Jesus College, Oxford, where he formed a close friendship with a young Welshman, Vyvyan Richards, who shared his enthusiasm for fine books and printing.

In 1910, Richards became a master at Bancroft’s School in Woodford, Essex, near the southern edge of Epping Forest, where he had the use of a wooden hut on Pole Hill, a steep slope set in the forest with a fine view of the London skyline. Intending to install a printing press there, he and Lawrence made plans for replacing it with a house of medieval type that would incorporate beams Lawrence had rescued from a demolished 14th-century hall in Oxford.

These romantic intentions foundered when Lawrence joined a team of British Museum archaeologists excavating at Carchemish, the Hittite citadel on what is now Turkey’s border with Syria. There, he was charged with overseeing the erection of a permanent house on site. Its scale was revealed when the foundations were excavated and conserved in 2013–14: the one-storey building comprised 18 rooms built around a courtyard, with living accommodation, spaces to display findings and a photographic darkroom. The director of the dig, Leonard Woolley, later famous as the excavator of Ur, recalled how the sitting room (Fig 5) was furnished with ‘some good rugs, the best of which Lawrence had bought. He had had made in Aleppo two armchairs of black wood and white leather of whose design he was very proud; he had brought out from home a piece of Morris tapestry to hang on the wall, he had some nice Kutachia pots, and of course books’.

This comfortable life was swept away by the First World War. Although it brought him international celebrity, the Arabian campaign left Lawrence desolate and exhausted and he was greatly cheered when Richards called him back to their former plans. Having gone back to London, Lawrence worked intensively on Seven Pillars of Wisdom, as Richards prepared his hut to be the home of the press that would print it. In 1919, with money inherited from his father, Lawrence bought land at Pole Hill, intending to settle there. The original hut, described by him as ‘my house’, was destroyed by fire in 1921, but, with the help of his pupils, Richards rebuilt it with an open veranda, which he called ‘the cloister’, and an outdoor plunge pool.

In another hut on the land, Lawrence stored a pair of elaborately carved teak doors he had bought in Jeddah (Fig 6), perhaps with the intention of incorporating them in the larger house and garden on Pole Hill that he and Richards planned, for which they consulted the architect Herbert Baker. However, these dreams were undermined by Lawrence’s decision that he would take no profits from Seven Pillars of Wisdom and then his enlistment in the RAF.

In 1929, Lawrence sold his land at Pole Hill to the Epping Forest authorities to ensure that it would not be built over, but also to raise funds for improvements to Clouds Hill, which by then he intended would be his permanent home. The Forest authorities moved the hut to their headquarters in Loughton, where — remarkably — it survives.

When Forster paid the first of several visits to Clouds Hill, in June 1924, he was enchanted by its informality and the hospitality that Lawrence gave to favoured soldiers from Bovington camp. The artist Gilbert Spencer, who that year was invited by Lawrence to make a painting of the heathland landscape that is still in the cottage (Fig 7), remembered him in the main upstairs room (Fig 2) correcting proofs of Seven Pillars of Wisdom and listening to a gramophone record of Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony, as ‘a Company Sergeant Major sat with the poems of Laurence Binyon on his lap’. Lawrence had fitted out the room in his characteristic taste — bare wood and brick, with undyed leather curtains in place of doors, recalling the medieval inspiration of the proposed house at Pole Hill. Forster thought it very ‘brownish’.

Lawrence liked to exaggerate the cottage’s discomfort, writing in 1934 that it ‘is as ugly as my sins, bleak, angular, small, unstable: very like its creator’. In fact, fellow soldiers were impressed by his expensive motorcycle and gramophone and even the food on offer — in the absence of a kitchen, eaten directly out of tins, which made Forster ill — was ameliorated by Fortnum & Mason hampers.

Lawrence loved long, hot baths and, in 1933, he finally arranged for the house to have running water and a boiler. He installed a bathroom in one of the two ground-floor rooms, which was lined with sheet cork of high quality. The other room was fitted out with a fireplace, bookshelves, a large daybed on which he reclined to read (Fig 8) and an armchair of his own design. Its broad arms, designed to support books, give it an Art Deco look.

Lawrence fitted out the two upper rooms like a ship’s cabin, with a bunk bed and porthole window, taken from an old, broken-up battleship. Strikingly, he lined the walls with aluminium foil (Fig 4). Although this had a practical purpose — the room was used for storing food, so needed to be dry and cool — it also evokes the world of interwar glamour associated with an unexpected acquaintance of Lawrence, Stephen Tennant, the epitome of the 1920s ‘bright young things’. In 1927, this fey young aesthete was photographed by Cecil Beaton in his bedroom in London, which he had lined with silver foil. Tennant visited Clouds Hill in the 1930s and it seems likely that Lawrence knew the image, which might, therefore, have inspired his own silver room.

On the far side of the road from the cottage, Lawrence constructed a pool, partly to provide water to douse the heathland fires that occasionally threatened the cottage and partly for use as a plunge bath (as at Pole Hill). To keep fallen leaves out, he constructed a glass canopy over it, large enough to incorporate the two doors from Jeddah that had been in storage in Essex.

A few weeks before Lawrence’s death, Richards stayed at Clouds Hill. Lawrence intended to install a small hand-press in the building over the pool, taking advantage of the fact that its ‘atmosphere would always be damp and good for printing’. He hoped to start in the autumn of 1935 by printing his frank account of life in the RAF ranks, The Mint, and ‘some good but obscure poet’.

Lawrence’s plans for the cottage at the time of his death looked back, therefore, to the life he and Richards had first planned before the war. According to Richards, the intentions for their house in Epping Forest had included a pair of box beds inscribed ‘Meum’ and ‘Tuum’. These sleeping arrangements were replicated at Clouds Hill, in the form described by Lawrence, with ‘two sleeping bags, zip-fastened and labelled in embroidery MEUM and TUUM. When night falls the cottager takes up his bag, unfolds it on the piece of floor he momently prefers, and sleeps’.

Clouds Hill was inherited by Lawrence’s youngest brother, the archaeologist Arnold Lawrence, who in 1937, having removed the books and many of the works of art, donated the cottage to the National Trust. When James Lees-Milne visited in 1945, he was repelled by its setting ‘in the middle of Bovington Heath, which is a blasted waste of desolation, churned feet-deep in mud by a thousand army tanks’ and thought the cottage ‘a pathetic little shoddy place. The visitors have stolen all they could lay their hands on’.

It is a tribute to the careful restoration of the interiors embarked on by the National Trust at the beginning of this century, helped by a photographic survey made after Lawrence’s death, that Clouds Hill is now unrecognisable from that description. Instead, it evokes with almost unnerving immediacy the way its creator’s complex personality was embodied in his places of refuge.

Michael Hall is the author of ‘A Queer Inheritance: Alternative Histories in the National Trust’ (Bloomsbury, £25)

Visit the National Trust website to find out more about Clouds Hill.

This feature originally appeared in the July 1, 2026, print edition of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

A few weeks before Christmas 1938, some nine months before the outbreak of the Second World War, a young stockbroker called Nicholas Winton was all packed and ready to go on a skiing holiday to Switzerland. A phone call from a friend, Martin Blake, changed his plans — and saved the life of hundreds of children.

Winton had long been aware of the threat of Nazism. His parents were German-Jews who'd left for England before the First World War, and though he lived a good life as a stockbroker he moved in Socialist circles, and was only too aware of the growing threat of Nazism. The Swiss holiday was cancelled, and he instead went to Prague to see what he could do to help.

What he found shocked him. Desperate families living in fear, appalling conditions in the camps where many Jews were already being held, and impossible red tape blocking any of them from leaving Czechoslovakia. He had no legal training and no experience in relocating people, but he set about seeing what he could do.

He took a hotel room in Prague and set it up as an office, working around the clock. Two weeks later, he had a huge list of children, their families, addresses and passport-style photographs, and headed back to London to try and find a way to get them out.

What followed was months of battling authorities, finding sponsor families happy to take the children in (a condition of the British government allowing them to stay) and putting in place financial guarantees intended to pay for the eventual return of the children to their families. He linked up with others trying to help refugees, notably the heroic Doreen Warriner, and set up his own office in London, run by his mother and staffed by volunteers. They begged and cajoled, negotiated and lobbied, even — by Winton's own admission — resorting to forging documents for some of the children when official channels were proving too slow.

Amazingly, it worked and train journeys across Europe began, eventually allowing 669 children, the vast majority of them Jewish, to traverse the continent and get on a ship to London.

For years, Winton barely told a soul about what he'd done. He'd never expected nor sought praise, and indeed remained heartbroken that more couldn't have been saved — the USA, among other countries, refused to allow any Czech refugee children in to the country. What was even more heartbreaking, was that a further trainload of 250 children were at the station, and indeed thought to have been sitting on the train ready to depart Prague for London on September 1, 1939. The start of the war meant that the train never left the station; only two of those children are thought to have made it through the war.

Recognition eventually came by chance when Winton's wife, Grete, found an old scrapbook in storage which had all the details of the work her husband had done. She contact the BBC, who told the story on an unforgettable episode of That's Life, in which Winton met many of the refugees he'd saved — most of whom had no idea how they'd escaped the country.

Those 669 children went on to have lives, careers, children and grandchildren of their own; a 60 Minutes programme about Winton which aired shortly before his death in 2015 estimated that some 15,000 people owe their lives to the north London stockbroker. If you do nothing else today, theThat's Life programme from 1989 and the 60 Minutes episode from 2014 are more than worth half an hour of your time. There's also a film of his life: One Life, starring Anthony Hopkins and Helena Bonham Carter — and if you happen to be in Prague, you'll find a statue of Winton at the railway station.

Fascinating though Winton's story is, you may be wondering what it has to do with the property section of Country Life. Well, the house built for Winton in the 1950s on the outskirts of Maidenhead has now hit the market with Hamptons for £3,850,000.

The current owners bought it in 2017, two years after Winton died at the age of 106. How wonderful that a man who did so much good lived a long and happy life.

Since then, it has been, in Hamptons’ words, ‘masterfully rebuilt from scratch, and reimagined into a distinguished state-of-the-art residence, combining architectural elegance with refined modern living’.

This striking contemporary home is largely wrapped in vertical timber cladding and features extensive Crittall-style glazing. If the Scandi aesthetic is your bag, then you’ll love this house.

Owner Hugh Chambers explains: ‘When we first saw New Ditton and heard the incredible story of Sir Nicholas Winton, we were inspired to build on his original architectural style, influenced by his Danish wife, and extend this into a light and contemporary Scandinavian look and feel.

‘The house we built is designed as both a warm family home as well as a spectacular entertaining space. We like to think that Sir Nicholas would have approved of the happiness and laughter that now fills his wonderful house.’

There are huge, bright living spaces throughout the home, thanks to floor-to-ceiling Crittall-style glazing both inside and out. The enormous kitchen and dining room deserves a particular shout-out. It’s split across two levels, with a white-panelled, vaulted ceiling and double-height glazed walls providing sweeping views across the garden.

Beyond it is a pantry and a laundry room as well as a bedroom with an ensuite.

Also on the ground floor are three reception rooms - drawing room, sitting room and study — all impeccably styled with a neutral colour palette that complements the contemporary design.

Upstairs, there are four bedrooms, each with an ensuite bathroom. The main bedroom even comes with two dressing areas.

According to Hamptons, modern finishes in the house include underfloor heating, B&W and Sonos sound systems, and full LAN data network. It seems no stone has been left unturned.

This extends to the grounds too, which are enclosed by old brick walls. There’s a large terrace, with a seating area anchored by beautiful olive trees, and carefully-maintained lawns and flower beds. A large football pitch is a reminder that despite its immaculate style, New Ditton is still very much a family home.

The grounds also include an annexe and an adjoining gym. There is planning permission in place to combine the two to create one large space. A separate garage, also timber clad, provides further storage.

Hamptons Prime agent Charles Wellbelove describes New Ditton as ‘a seamless architectural masterpiece’ with ‘beautiful landscape gardens offering immense seclusion and privacy’.

He adds: ‘This delightful and very comfortable home benefits with fantastic access to London especially by the Elizabeth Line located only a few miles away.’

New Ditton is for sale via Hamptons — see more details.

Across the marshes of the Suffolk coast, surrounded by children’s ponies, chickens and ornamental turkeys, a perfectly fired brioche bun surveys her land.

It’s been a good morning for Peggy — waking at 6am was swiftly followed by a rhinoceros charge around the house and garden, during which the devilish robot lawn mower received a thorough ticking off. Breakfast was supplemented by a lick around a couple of jam jars, a snaffle of honey (again, straight from the pot) and half a packet of Dorset Cereals Nutty Granola as somebody had carelessly left the dining-room door open and miniature bull terriers are athletic enough to scramble up onto the table.

Deciding which cheeky canine would take home the accolade of Britain’s Naughtiest Dog in association with Honey’s Real Dog Food was not easy. There were so many titillating tales of counter-surfers, coffee-table chewers, puddle-makers and displays of sheer greed that, despite extensive conversations deep into the night between our esteemed judges, there is always that niggling thought—‘did we pick the naughtiest one?’

On the announcement of our Chosen One, a swift response from Peggy’s owners Sir Edward and Lady Greenwell followed: ‘She is — surprise, surprise — being sedated as we speak for eating something disgusting… the vet says, despite all this, she is very jolly and keeping everyone at Aldeburgh Vets entertained. I will buy her a new bed in celebration as she’s eaten her latest one. I had told her that was it (she’s already destroyed six).’ It was in that moment that I knew we’d made the right choice.

‘She is very naughty,’ Clare beams in confirmation, ‘but there’s nothing malicious about it, she’s just full of fun, mischief and curiosity.’ Two-and-a-half-year-old Peggy was sourced from a litter bred by Mary Riall in Dorset. ‘We weren’t really looking, but a friend spotted an advertisement on Radio H-P,’ Clare remembers. ‘I said I’d had two standard bull terriers in the past — Phoebe and Plum — so I passed the test and we drove all the way down to Dorset. It was a sweet set up, a farm with lots of horses and dogs, and there was Bojo [Peggy’s mother] and Beetle, a miniature wire-haired dachshund who thought she was a maternity nurse in charge of bossing the puppies around.’

The Greenwells remain in touch with Peggy’s extended family, too — her almost identical brother, Simba, belongs to event rider Bubby Upton and her grandmother, aunt and cousin to Bubby’s mother, Rachel Upton.

Since arriving in Suffolk, Peggy’s bow-wow bad behaviour has garnered quite an audience. ‘We took her to the Hadleigh Show and we may as well have had our own stall there. All we needed was a couple of chairs and an umbrella and we could have charged £5 to pet her,’ Clare laughs. As well as eating three pairs of Edward’s Crocs, breaking numerous valuable vases (with and without flowers), nibbling antique furniture and far too many books to list, Peggy also enjoys turning her paw to a spot of light interior design, both structural (chewing skirting boards and ripping up flooring) and decorative (plumping soft furnishings and ‘editing’ prized family photographs). ‘She knows upstairs is off limits, so when she sneaks up there she goes mad,’ Clare reveals. ‘Nothing is safe up there — handbags, shoes, pictures — and she thunders through the bedrooms tossing all the cushions and pillows around. It’s like being in a sweetie shop for her.’

She also enjoys ‘helping’ around the house and garden, alerting the Greenwells to the presence of hedgehogs on her daily patrol and breaking into the larder a little too frequently to give it a ‘spring’ clean. In the kitchen, she is a dab paw at opening jars and once ate an entire bowl of fermenting grapes, which left her a ‘little bit tipsy’, but thankfully had no further ill effect.

Her worst misdemeanor? Attempting to ‘manage’ the poultry. ‘I came home, opened the kitchen door, and there was Harold, our rare-breed cröllwitzer turkey sitting on top of the Aga, bald and surrounded by a sea of white feathers, staring down at Peggy who was barking and bouncing around,’ remembers Clare. ‘I wrapped Harold in a couple of tea towels and rang Edward. It took us an hour and two big bin liners to clean up all of his feathers. Luckily, Harold recovered after being smothered in Sudocrem and all of his beautiful feathers have grown back.’

Country Life is delighted to report that Peggy, Harold and his cröllwitzer wife, Maud, are all still friends. Despite this minor lapse in terrier judgement, the Greenwells still love Peggy dearly, as do their children and 17 grandchildren. Little Alma, aged five, dotes on her and enjoys dressing Peggy up and popping her in a pram. Baby Archie, only 19 months, will crawl into her basket and sit in there hugging her and kissing her. ‘Peggy adores children,’ affirms her owner. ‘One of her favourite things to do when we’ve got grandchildren staying is to escape upstairs and join us for tea and toast as we read stories in bed or, if they’re all watching television, she’ll go and snuggle in between them all on the sofa. She’s very loving.’

Although Peggy doesn’t quite have the innate elegance of Edward’s black labradors, sensible Gus and seven-month-old Maud, Clare describes Peggy as jolie laide, an endearing expression used to define unconventional beauty. ‘She may be boisterous, but she’s unbelievably affectionate,’ she smiles. ‘Edward pretends he doesn’t love her, but he does, deeply. He’s amused by her and every so often I see a little glint of pride in his eye. It’s always, “Where’s Peggy?”’

This feature originally appeared in the July 22, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

Zoë de Givenchy is having a ‘crazy’ summer. From Nantucket and the Hamptons, to London and Paris, there is nowhere she won’t be this season. Her lifestyle brand, ZdG, which she founded at the beginning of the Pandemic, takes her all over the world. Recently it has taken her to Versailles (ZdG has collaborated with luxury retailer Moda Operandi on their new ‘Le Potager du Roi’ collection).

Zoë’s instantly recognisable surname is courtesy of her husband. ‘It was definitely an “at first sight” thing,’ she says of their relationship. She met Olivier de Givenchy in London at a friend’s wedding. ‘He cut in on a dance, actually, grabbed my free hand and twirled me off,’ she recalls. ‘Afterwards, he followed me to Annabel’s.'

Olivier is a J.P. Morgan banker and the nephew of designer Hubert de Givenchy (1927-2018), who founded the famous fashion house. ‘With a surname like that comes certain expectations and preconceived notions… it can be an asset but it can also be a frustration, so I’m mindful of that with my children.’ Zoë has two children, a 10 year old and a 13 year old with Olivier, and two step children, both in their late twenties, from his previous relationship. It must make for a full house at home in Los Angeles, California, and on visits to their country house in France.

Born in Australia to her mother, an academic, and her father, who worked in real estate, Zoë was the middle child of three and the only girl. The designer has always been creative, but initially sought out a very different kind of career. ‘I always had my own gardens, I was drawing, arranging flowers with my mum,’ she says. ‘I was good at school and I loved debating. If you were bright you were encouraged to do something academic, so I sort of ignored my creative aspect and went to study law before ending up, in a roundabout way, being where I should be.’

‘I always thought that I was the clever one, but never the creative one,’ she says. It was through working in communications and brand development in the legal world, and then London’s banking district, that she came to have her own consulting firm. She sold it when she became pregnant with her first son.

‘I knew I needed to really focus on being a mummy, so that was great timing. Then I had the chance to be creative thereafter, and it’s been a wonderful journey of discovery.’ She says that she now takes this knowledge with her into parenting: ‘I’m careful not to label, because I think we take on what we are told.’

Your aesthetic hero

It has to be Hubert. He was just the best. If you look at his homes and the way that he created such grandeur, he had exceptional taste. One of my favourite things that he’s left for our family is his library. It’s extraordinary. He was a real student of history, art and culture. I remember once he gave me a rock wrapped in twine which was beautiful. He found it in Japan, and I remember thinking about the beauty of small and simple objects.

A possession you’d never sell

The portraits of my children by Julia Condon, who is a painter in London.

An exhibition that has really impressed you

Brâncuși, which was probably in 2024 at the Pompidou in Paris, because it was about creating a world. You got to step into his atelier and it was exceptional.

The last thing of note that you bought for yourself

A new Dior handbag. I’m obsessed with it. It’s wicker and I wear it every day. It’s so beautiful.

Your favourite painting

Those huge canvases by Rothko — in person they are so emotional. I think there was one with magenta and black, which is not a pairing I normally love, and a red and yellow one. It was actually something that surprised me, because I always thought they seemed a bit overrated, but they're extraordinary.

A book you’ve found inspiring

Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I still reference it a lot. I feel like it’s very relevant now. It’s sort of a love story.

The music you work to

This might sound a bit strange, but I change music depending on the weather. On a rainy day I will put on jazz, so it feels like a coffee bar type vibe. On a sunny day I love 1960s and 1970s Californian music. Foggy day: classical.

The last podcast you listened to

A surfing podcast last night. My son made me listen to it, it’s so funny. Pinch My Salt, it’s called. They say ‘bro’ a lot and it’s really Californian. In general, I listen to a whole range. I love podcasts. I like Business of Home, Acquired, The World’s First Podcast, Lipstick on the Rim. I don’t mind a self-help podcast either, like Jay Shetty’s podcast. Also Ruthie’s Table, Mel Robbins's podcast and Wiser Than Me with Julia Louis Dreyfus.

Who would play you in a film of your life

Oh my god, how boring would that be? Um… probably Rose Byrne, because everyone says I look a bit like her and she was also raised in Australia, and she’s funny.

What you’d take with you to a desert island

A coffee machine.

The thing that gets you up in the morning

The school run.

The items you collect

Plants. My latest thing is a Japanese quince. Also, I just love Monty Don. I want to meet him. Whenever I have Gardeners' World on the telly my husband says: ‘Oh my God, you’re going to run away with Monty Don.’

A hotel you could go back and back to

Anything by Les Airelles. Lately we went to their one in Saint Tropez. That hotel group really knows how to do incredible service.

The most memorable meal you’ve ever eaten

The Noma pop up, here in LA. It was nearly emotional, it was so extraordinary. It almost rendered me speechless.

The best present you’ve ever received

My husband bought me a quite rare Cartier pendant from the 70s. It’s called the Golden Fleece and looks like a ram (I’m an Aries). He attached it to a black silk cord and it’s just the coolest thing. He has an exceptional eye.

Visit the ZdG website for more information and to shop.

Sound the alphorn: the alpine summer is officially back. 2025 marked the third consecutive year that Switzerland broke tourism records between May and October, with the number of overnight stays topping 25 million for the first time according to figures released in December by the Swiss Federal Statistical Office. Now, with the winter’s snow a distant memory, all signs point to the sunshine months of 2026 being yet another record-breaker.

The boom has been attributed to a number of factors: the mountains offering clear-aired respite from the scorching heatwaves and wildfires that are ever more present at sea level; the appeal to both those seeking real rest and relaxation, and adventurous active types; and the simple fact that more and more hotels now open for a full summer season.

One such hotel is Grand Hotel Belvedere, a towering turn-of-the-century grande dame in two parts — revitalised in 2024 by French hotel group Beaumier — that straddles a prime panoramic slope in the town of Wengen, high in the Bernese Alps. And it might just offer the platonic ideal of the alpine summer.

First off, that thing they say about the journey being just as important as the destination? In Wengen it’s never been truer. The car-free town is only accessible via a cog-wheel train that cranks skywards from Lauterbrunnen, itself best reached by a spectacularly scenic lake-skirting train ride from Zurich. When you exit, you’re welcome to take the leisurely stroll ever higher through the postcard-pretty town centre on foot, but the awaiting Beaumier-branded Jumbolino (a sort of chic, electric milk float) makes the ascent with suitcases that much easier.

Inside, the lobby is rich in restored wooden detailing, its soft seating areas inviting you to sit and marvel at the valley views beyond. The bedrooms are spacious, stylish and, in my case, particularly panoramic. Lorenz Maurer, the tall, stylish and affable general manager shows me what keeps things ticking behind-the-scenes, including a series of high-tech wood-chip heaters to provide hotel-wide warmth. Outside, though, the sun is providing plenty of that, the Sonnenbad terrace’s yellow umbrellas standing tall like buttercups among the sweeping green expanse. ‘We’re lovers of the mountain all year round,’ Maurer says. ‘But summer is definitely becoming our biggest season.’

This is the first full one since the installation of Belvedere’s concrete spa and pool which juts out from the base of the higher building and blends into the surroundings ‘like a brutalist relic that nature has gradually reclaimed,’ to quote architect Valéry Clavien. After a sublime full-body massage with alpine-fresh Suzanne Kaufmann products, I take to the indoor-outdoor pool as the sun beats down and the roar of an unsighted jet plane echoes around the valley. I conclude there can be few better spots to gaze up at the iconic Jungfrau peak.

It’s said J. R. R. Tolkien based idyllic scenes of Middle Earth on hikes he took in these valleys, and about 100 years before that, German composer Felix Mendelssohn was moved enough to write symphonies inspired by them (‘Of all the countries I know, this is the most beautiful,’ he said). Today the most picturesque trail bears his name, but if you choose to head in any direction you’re unlikely to be disappointed, with routes that take you through forests, past grazing livestock and picturesque farms, around the town’s outskirts and into the valley’s basin. Hop back on the train and you can make your way back down to the invitingly turquoise lakes you passed on arrival. Part of what makes Wengen such a good base is that it can satisfy both the casual stroller and the hardened hiker (and, indeed, those who prefer such things were done on two wheels) — plus you don’t have to watch out for cars. The buzzy terrace at the rustic Da Sina steakhouse and the lowkey local pub vibes of the garishly signed Crystal Bar make for nice pit stops on your return leg, but an aperitivo at one of Belvedere’s bars or out on the terrace takes some beating, particularly at golden hour as the surrounding peaks are painted bright orange and pastel pink before the starry night sky takes over.

Dining here also takes its cues from what you can see around you. English chef Will Gordon relies on seasonal produce sourced within a 100-kilometre radius with plenty picked on the doorstep. Where in winter that might lean towards heavy, hearty, warming dishes to soothe weary skiers, the spring/summer menus are light, fresh and flavourful — alpine salmon, cured beetroot, charcuterie and house-made chutneys. The locally made Riesling is worth special mention too.

A steam, a sauna, a bask in the sun, another stroll, another Riesling — summer up here is just as uncomplicated as summer at sea level yet it feels so much more…cleansing. Imagining Wengen deep in snow, thronged by the crowds for its annual Lauberhorn downhill ski races, seems almost impossible. Besides, you’d miss too much going at those speeds… this is a place to slow down.

Rooms at Grand Hotel Belvedere start from £475 per night.

The writer’s transport was provided by Travel Switzerland who guarantee seamless connections by train, bus, boat or mountain railway. Click here to buy your Swiss Travel Pass, point-to-point tickets or plan the Grand Train Tour of Switzerland.

The deep, wooded valley of Lamorna runs down to the bluest of rocky coves, secreted between Mousehole and Porthcurno, towards the furthest westerly reaches of the Cornish peninsula. A ribbon of granite cottages, ferny gardens watered by a bubbling stream and The Wink, an endearingly named former smugglers’ pub, complete the picture of this sequestered — and formidably artistic — community.

The casual visitor, intent on reaching the pebbly beach at the end of the little road, would never guess that one of Cornwall’s most exciting and colourful gardens clings to the cliffs overhead, high above the treetops and chimneypots in the valley below.

‘When we first came here, you couldn’t see the sea,’ says Robert Moule, who, with his wife, Carol, moved to the house and its three largely precipitous acres in 1997.

‘The house had been empty and the garden abandoned for 20 years — the view was blocked by fallen trees, Monterey pines and a big yew, and the banks were a solid mass of hydrangeas, bracken and brambles.’

The challenge the couple faced proved even greater than they had at first imagined, as the land faced north-east and lay exposed to the worst and coldest of winds. Local cliffside gardens occupying the same stretch of coast — on St Michael’s Mount and at the Minack Theatre, for example — indicate that even sub-tropical planting is perfectly possible, but those gardens face south and enjoy the warmth and protection of their wooded or rocky surroundings.

The Moules were leaving Cheshire — where they had opened their garden, largely dedicated to camellias and rhododendrons, through the National Garden Scheme — and planned to make a new garden where they could continue growing and propagating these acid-loving plants. They followed the ‘soil map’ south to Devon, looking at potential properties, and were almost ready to put down roots, until they fell under the spell of the house on the cliff. They were intrigued, too, by its history: built in 1908 for a pair of Suffragettes, it had been a refuge for fellow hunger-strikers recovering from their ordeals.

With help from family and local contractors, the garden was cleared and the view at last revealed, framed by a magnificent Monterey pine. A long, level walk, bisected by a steep granite path with steps emerged from the undergrowth, to which the Moules added a network of narrow, sinuous paths that zig-zag down the slope, skirting giant outcrops of granite and trickling spring water. The design evolved organically, not on paper, as the Moules quickly learned to accept what could and couldn’t be done, given the physical constraints of the site.

However, it soon became clear that there was nowhere the couple could comfortably sit out of the wind, to admire both the view and the fruits of their labours at the end of the day. A conservatory and decking terrace were both deemed essential, even if in strong winds the view was alarming: large and treasured shrubs could be seen flying out of their planting holes before they could properly take root. The soil was (and remains) thin and stony. Taking out all the garden rubbish ‘Himalayan style’ in builders’ bags to the top of the cliff was hard enough; the very thought of trying to return it as compost or the luxury of a garden tractor and trailer is out of the question. (No wonder they look so fit.)

Inevitably then, the pair’s early years at Chygurno were a learning curve as steep as the slopes they were attempting to cultivate. Many of the more tender or exotic plants the Moules had cherished were seriously damaged or killed — or simply blown away. Saddened but undeterred, they replaced proteas and leucadendrons, Metrosideros (a native of seaside locations in New Zealand) and Geranium maderense with phormiums, grasses, grevilleas, tough fan palms and tree ferns, underplanted with hemerocallis, iris, kniphofias, crocosmias, schizostylis, osteospermums and agapanthus — all of which, planted when still small, stayed snug in their holes and proved to be tolerant of strong, cold winds.

Wherever possible, the couple take out the tops of trees and shrubs, ‘otherwise the wind will’, and, where plants have been blown over, staking and regular hard pruning have become essential. The wonderful display of pot-grown succulents and dinner-plate-sized aeoniums that greets the visitor on arrival are wrapped in fleece and overwintered in an unheated greenhouse.

Nevertheless, their important collection of rhododendrons and camellias, lovingly transported in pots from Cheshire, has for the most part flourished. As we wander through the garden, the Moules appraise them with affection, pointing out an unusually scented pink azalea ‘Soir de Paris’, the furry-leafed Rhododendron ‘Teddy Bear’ and peachy-flowered R. ‘Unique’. Camellia ‘Lamorna’, raised from a self-sown seedling found in the garden, deserves a special mention. It’s a ‘self-grooming’, pink williamsii type that flowers from December to Easter — a much-appreciated contribution to the camellia world.

The steeply sloping site invites consideration both from above and below. There are ‘classic’ Cornish plants in abundance, but all demand a second glance. The fuchsia, for example, is no ordinary fuchsia, but F. boliviana, with extraordinary long flowers and compact and colourful. Hypericum cultivars in the Magical Series, such as ‘Red Flame’, make a splash. Crocosmia, practically a weed in Cornwall, is represented by the best of them all, ‘Lucifer’.

Squeezing past a shoulder of granite, a sheltered dip in the slope reveals a nest of tree ferns. The Moules exchange glances. ‘It was a skiing holiday or the tree ferns!’ they laugh, although they now have dozens more self-sown tree ferns to dispose of in a garden already brimful of plants.

The past year has seen an increase in pollinators in the garden, especially solitary, ground-nesting bees and wasps. Dr Moule attributes this to a deliberate policy of leaving the ground as undisturbed as possible by weeding as little as possible. In such a physically demanding garden, it is good to see a little less labour rewarded.

The gardens of Chygurno, Lamorna, Penzance, Cornwall, open on Wednesdays and Thursdays, 2pm–5pm, April–September, and on selected days for the National Garden Scheme.

This feature originally appeared in the July 8, 2026, print edition of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

It's easy to live in rural Britain without ever really feeling immersed in the countryside. A small town or large village might can be in the middle of a National Park or National Landscape, yet a road full of houses is still a road full of houses.

And then there are other places, where the entire home feels like it's been lifted from a Constable painting, or the pages of Cider with Rosie, or an episode of The Darling Buds of May... You get the idea — not least because you've already seen the picture at the top of this page. Haventree Cottage is the sort of place that you dream of when you think of moving to the country.

Located within the Malvern Hills National Landscape in Worcestershie, Haventree Cottage — which is for sale at £1.35 million with Morgan Aps — is framed by a wildlife. The trees, the gardens and the pond — regularly frequented by ducks and other visiting wildlife — creates a picturesque backdrop point that you'll enjoy not just as you approach the house, but also from the windows of every principal room of this traditional timber-frame property on the edge of the village of Suckley.

The windows in question are a mix of original timber framed in the oldest parts of hte house — which as you'll see from the architecture, has evolved and been expanded several times over the centuries.

The newest part is the kitchen, with floor-to-ceiling windows and bifold doors and a vaulted roof, leading out to a terrace area with view not just of the property’s two acres, but across the entire Teme valley unfolding in the distance. Such an expanse of open countryside can mean only one thing: mile after mile of walks on the doorstep.

Inside, as the agent states, Haventree Cottage is ‘absolutely perfect for a busy family… [with] plenty of spaces for relaxing, entertaining and working.'

Open fires and ancient timber beams are found throughout a home that is bursting with character and period charm.

It's cosy, comfortable, beautiful and fun — not least for the sixth bedroom, on the second floor, which seems to be used pretty much as a dedicated Lego room at the moment. The countryside literally on the doorstep, and a Lego room for rainy days: what could be finer?

Haventree is for sale through Morgan Aps — see more details.

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Since the dawn of time, pearls have won human hearts, from queens to brides and philosophers — and it’s not hard to see why.

1. Pearls ought to be the eighth wonder of the world. They are created by bivalves — highly sensitive marine animals with shells in two halves — of which there are 9,000 species, including oysters and mussels. If anything squeezes its way into these shells, such as a tiny parasite or a grain of sand, the bivalve will very occasionally respond to the irritant by slowly coating it in something soft. In the case of oysters, the substance is called ‘nacre’ and the resulting object is, of course, a pearl

2. Unlike any other valuable and coveted gem, pearls emerge fully formed. They don’t require cutting or polishing (or even, for that matter, setting) to reveal their loveliness

3. There was a period during the 1980s when the ‘twin set and pearls’ was nigh ubiquitous, to the extent that they subsequently fell out of fashion and were briefly considered passé. It is probably the only time in human history when this was the case and it was swiftly over — there’s a reason Country Life’s Frontispiece, the most famous page in publishing, is known affectionately as ‘Girls in Pearls’

4. Real pearls (that is to say both natural and cultured) come in a wide variety of colours, from pale white to a metallic black. The colour is determined by the variety of oyster in which they have been grown. Different countries specialise in different colours. For example, Australia has always been known for its large, white pearls, whereas Fiji grows a range of distinctive hues, from pastel shades of yellow to intense shades of aubergine

5. Julius Caesar’s primary motive for invading Britain in 55BC was that the country was a major source of saltwater pearls. Wealthy ancient Egyptian women were buried with theirs. In ancient Greece, they were given to brides on their wedding day to stop them crying. Elizabeth I had 3,000 gowns and 80 wigs decorated with pearls. During the 19th century, they accounted for three-quarters of the jewellery sold in America

Country Life's top pearl picks

Our collective tastebuds have never been more a-tingle. The traditional world of British condiments has become decidedly heated in recent times, with hot sauces blazing their way into the mainstream like never before. Adding a fiery pep to our food has turned into something of an obsession — be it soups, sandwiches, steaks, salads or scrambled eggs — and our kitchens now regularly see chilli-laced bottles standing shoulder to shoulder with old stalwarts such as ketchup and brown sauce.

This rise in popularity is more than anecdotal. Waitrose reported a 55% jump in hot-sauce sales earlier this decade; Tesco revealed in mid 2025 that its customers had purchased an additional 2.5 million bottles of the stuff over the past 12 months; and almost every farmer’s market worth its salt (or should that be spice?) now features artisan hot-sauce producers.

Where has this enthusiasm come from? Those in the know point to everything from the effects of the pandemic lockdowns — basic sauces being relatively easy to make at home — to an ever-growing interest in different global flavours. Another factor is the simple, colourful pleasure of growing your own chillis, a joy requiring little more than a gardener’s eye and a south-facing windowsill.

The sauces themselves can be addictive, too: scientific studies suggest that consuming chillis tricks our brains into releasing endorphins to counteract the ‘burn’ of the heat. None of this would hold as much weight, of course, if it wasn’t for the fact that hot sauces can elevate a dish like little else. They now come in such a dizzying array of different strengths and varieties that the best of them have heat and flavour profiles that please the palate to delicious, and well-balanced, effect.

Craft chilli growers and hot-sauce producers are now dotted all over the UK. We speak to five British makers of hot sauce to hear how and why they got started, as well as what makes their piquant products very much worth a dollop or two on your plate.

Sheldrake & Sheldrake, Aberdeenshire

When chef and fermentation aficionado Jonathan Hope met brothers Cosmo and Merlin Sheldrake — a multi-instrumentalist musician and a microbiologist, respectively— in 2018 with a view to collaborating on a condiment, the results were always going to be out of the ordinary. The process of finalising a recipe at Sheldrake & Sheldrake, however, was not quick.

‘The Sheldrakes had always made one at Christmas to give to family and friends and they wondered if it was possible to turn that into a business,’ recalls Hope. ‘This conversation went on for about 18 months. They’re very detailed, so it developed at a glacial pace, but then we got it right.’

The end result takes the Sheldrake family recipe and combines it with koji — an ancient fermented food made by introducing a specific fungus to cooked rice — to produce a thick, umami-rich sauce. The brothers are renowned mycologists (‘they’re presently on field work digging for mushrooms in Nepal,’ explains Hope, so the approach seems fitting. ‘It’s essentially like a textured, hot, soy sauce,’ he continues. ‘I don’t think there’s anyone else doing it this way.’

Hope makes the sauce from his base in Aberdeenshire, using largely organic ingredients from places as diverse as Scotland, Galicia, Japan and Mexico.

How should the sauce be enjoyed? ‘The thing I do most often is put it on eggs, whether they’re poached, scrambled or fried,’ reveals Hope. ‘Second to that is making chipotle mayonnaise. I take a tablespoon of our hot sauce, whip it through with a dollop of mayonnaise and put it on roast potatoes.’

Great Scott Hot Sauce, Cornwall

‘To be honest with you, I put it on absolutely everything apart from a roast dinner,’ laughs Freya Scott. When she and partner Joseph Love went travelling to Mexico and Central America in 2016, they weren’t expecting to come back with a business idea. Then serendipity stepped in.

‘In Mexico, we noticed that everywhere made their own amazing hot sauces,’ recalls Scott. ‘We started keeping a diary of the ones we’d tried at different restaurants, then we visited a small hot-sauce factory in Belize, which was a very cool set-up.’ Back home in London, they started experimenting with making their own.

A move to Falmouth in Cornwall followed and, after striking up a relationship with a local chilli farm, they began selling hot sauces at markets and food festivals around the region. Scott and Love now produce 10 different hot sauces as Great Scott Hot Sauce using Cornish chillis, ranging from milder choices such as Apple or Gooseberry & Serrano to ‘not for the faint-hearted’ options, such as the Black Garlic & Balsamic Reaper.

Pairing a chilli with ingredients that complement it needs careful thought. ‘It really helps if you try the chillis raw,’ explains Love. ‘It’s like wine tasting, there are background notes: some chillis have more of a stone-fruit flavour, others are more citrussy or have an immediate peppery harshness to them. Balance is key.’

Legendary Sauce Co, Cumbria

When the pandemic forced Richard and Sarah Gore to close permanently their café in the Yorkshire Dales, they needed a fresh outlet for their culinary skills. ‘I’d always been really interested in chilli sauce and tinkered with it,’ says Richard. ‘I did a couple of flavours and they went down very well, so we took it from there.’

A few years — and a move to Cumbria — later, the small-batch sauces they produce have already garnered two Great Taste awards and eight prizes at the National Chilli Awards, with flavours ranging from Pineapple Scotch Bonnet to Blueberry Armageddon.

The name they gave to their start-up business, Legendary Sauce Co, is fast becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy. Impressively, Gore still makes all these sauces from scratch in his kitchen at home in Carlisle. ‘A batch of 200 bottles will generally take a full day,’ he explains. ‘That’s an hour or so of prep work, three to four hours of cooking, then the same again to bottle and label it all. Then I have to give the air some time to settle for a few days.’

The key to finding the right flavour profile? ‘You’ve got to be able to taste the chilli. That’s the important part. You’re not just trying to blow people’s heads off,’ he smiles, ‘although that’s a good byproduct.’

South Devon Chilli Farm, Devon

‘Most people aren’t looking for really, really hot sauces,’ believes Amrit Madhoo. ‘The average person wants something to add some zing to their tacos or chili con carne. If you reach for a generic supermarket chilli sauce, it’ll just taste very vinegary, but a good one allows you to add that spike of heat without altering the dish’s core flavour.’

He and his wife, Jenny, took over the long-standing South Devon Chilli Farm, a few miles inland from Salcombe, in 2022. Since then, they’ve overseen a roll-out of renewable energy across the farm and Madhoo has appeared on Gardeners’ World and James Martin’s Saturday Morning. The farm is a large-scale operation. ‘We’ve got eight crop tunnels, each of which is about 50 yards long,’ notes Madhoo.

‘We’re growing about 3,500 chilli plants overall — they grow directly in the ground and we’re harvesting about 40 varieties each year. They differ in their spiciness, their style and their heat. We’re on a nice south-facing slope, but the main challenge is getting the seedlings ready to be planted at the start of the season — about May time.’ The chillis go into a range of fiery jams, chocolates and some 17 different sauces, including the ‘truly evil’ Green Demon sauce, featuring unripened ghost, reaper and scorpion chilli varieties.

Big Ginger Sauce Co, Surrey

Peter Bennison can trace his obsession with spicy food back to his schooldays. ‘My best friend was Pakistani. Whenever I was at his house, his mum always brought out these incredible foods — I was instantly hooked.’ Fast forward a few decades to the pan-demic and Bennison, by now a fan of making his own heat-laden dishes, occupied his time by chilli-growing.

It bore fruit, in more ways than one. ‘I ended up with about 30kg of chillis in my freezer, thinking, "What on earth am I going to do with them?"’ The answer was experimenting with small-batch hot sauces. Feedback was not only effusive, but sustained. Therefore, after leaving a finance job in 2023, he founded Big Ginger Sauce Co.

His five sauces already have seven Great Taste stars and several National Chilli awards between them. Based in Pirbright, Surrey, Bennison now sources all his chillis from his local green-grocer, who has ready access to the London fruit and vegetable markets.

‘You’d be surprised what you can get,’ he says. ‘Even some of the more exotic varieties are readily available.’ Although he produced more than 20,000 bottles in 2025, the cooking remains his own work. ‘It’s only me,’ he admits. ‘Me, a big pot and a big stove. I love the creativity of it.’

This feature originally appeared in the print edition of Country Life on July 8, 2026. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

Good news! One of the houses from the Disney+ adaptation of Rivals is for sale.

The less good news is that it isn't one of the beautiful old Cotswolds piles that you've been yearning for. The home of Declan O'Hara and his family, as played by Aidan Turner, is a beautiful country pile near Tetbury called Chavenage House. And the ancestral home of Rupert Campbell-Black, portrayed by Alex Hassell, is a Grade-I listed home in Somerset called Ammerdown House.

Naturally, both have been featured in the pages of Country Life before now; just a couple of months ago, we even republished a piece from the archive about the history of Chavenage House:

Ammerdown was featured in 1929, in a three-part series across several issues of the magazine. Life Chavenage, it's still instantly recognisable over a century later — despite the fact that there was, sadly, no naked tennis going on the day that Country Life's photographer visited.

The Rivals house that's on the market at the moment is centuries newer than those two homes — and it's actually even younger than the book itself. Foxfield, known as Bella Vista in the show and home to Danny Dyer's character Freddie Jones, was only built in 1999.

Touse was a labour of love for a real-life 1980s entrepreneur: Peter Thomas, the former chairman of Cardiff Rugby Club who made his fortune running Peter's Pies with his brother, Stanley. The Thomases sold the pie business in 1988 and moved in to commercial aviation, where the family fortune grew still further.

Peter died in 2023, and despite the fact that pies were just a small part of his long and successful career, the irresistible lure of alliteration saw his home dubbed 'Peter's Pie Palace' when it first came on to the market at the start of 2025, and the name has stuck.

Something else that has stuck is the asking price: Fine & Country quoting 'offers over £8 million' for this house in 24 acres just outside Cardiff, making it the most expensive home in Wales.

It's a little surprising, given the fact that many similarly large homes have had price cuts in the last year or so: Ripley Castle, for example, has its £15 million asking price halved to £7.5 million. That includes the 14th century, Grade I-listed castle and 166 acres of land.

We can see why Ripley will need time to find the right buyer — Grade I-listed castles tend to come with a long list of caveats — but those looking for a country home in the £8 million bracket have some wonderful options out there right now:

Comparisons such as these are never like-for-like, of course, and Foxfield is a grand, slick, modern home with all sorts of features that a 250-year-old place could never match.

The most obvious of these things is the magnificent spiral staircase at the centre of the house. Made from American white oak, it was created by hand by local craftspeople, and its oval shape is a reference to the game of rugby.

The staircase wasn't the only thing that had such attention lavished on it. Unusually, the family have a section of the property listing that they've written themselves, explaining how they, 'worked with a Welsh architect and prioritised using local materials and craftsmen, making the construction of Foxfield a tribute to our cultural pride.'

The orangery is also worth a special mention, bringing in huge amounts of light to the house — something that carries on throughout.

The building work took three years, creating a house with a dining room that happily seats 16, a superb cellar, a grand dining kitchen, a bar, and — for those who aren't able to use that staircase — a lift.

Outside, the 25 acres of grounds include terraces, lawns, woodland, a tennis court, and an unusual trio of lakes. Slightly surprisingly, there is no swimming pool: the scenes involving a pool at the house in Rivals had to be shot at a different location.

There's no doubt, then, that Foxfield has a lot to offer — as well as a location near some of the best schools in Cardiff. But is that enough to make it worth twice as much as this wisteria-clad country estate a few miles away near Barry? Or £3 million more than Bertholey, an 18,000sq ft house on the market in Monmouthshire?

The answer might depend on the star power that the Rivals connection brings with it, for we've seen time and again homes with film and TV connections garner far more attention than they might otherwise do.

Take Lynford Hall, for example, a country pile in Norfolk which sold after going on the market at £3.5 million last autumn. It needed a huge amount of investment, but even in what's been a slow market it has now gone — and it's hard not to think that its history as a place used in the filming of classic sitcoms Dad's Army and Allo Allo might have helped, if only in terms of getting views to the listing.

In spring last year, another multi-million pound home found a buyer: this wonderful Victorian house in Crystal Palace, which launched on the market at £5 million. Was it because the enterprising agent had nicknamed the area 'South London's answer to Notting Hill'? Or was it because the home was used in the shooting of the wildly popular Keira Knightley show Black Doves, which was riding high in the Netflix top 10 at the time.

It's not only grand houses that enjoy this halo effect. Back in South Wales, the seaside town of Barry has seen two homes sold in recent months which played starring roles in the beloved BBC sitcom Gavin & Stacey.

Both are located on Trinity Road, a street of terraced homes. Uncle Bryn's house, over the road from Stacey and her mother in the show, and the house of Stacey's next-door neighbour Doris both went for over £220,000. That's in a street where most sales in the last few years have been in the £150,000-£200,000 bracket.

Still, at least it's plausible that the characters in Gavin & Stacey lived in Trinity Road. Another classic sitcom, Outnumbered, featured a couple and their three children living in a house that was located in Chiswick, according to London estate agency Martin & Co. The couple were a history teacher and a PA, yet managed to be living in a home with an estimated value of £1.8 million...

'The more I see of men, the more I like my dog,’ declared General de Gaulle. In this increasingly turbulent world, it’s a sentiment that resonates with anyone seeking refuge from the depressing headlines and finding solace in the form of a gentle nudge from a cold wet nose and a meaningful glance from soulful eyes.

Whereas Man may be complex, untrustworthy and difficult, Canis lupus familiaris can be a hero, a friend and a source of joy. At this year’s Crufts, the Royal Kennel Club Hero Dog Award went to Asha, an eight-year-old Staffordshire bull terrier who provides round-the-clock support and companionship to her 17-year-old, wheelchair-bound owner, Logan. Earlier this month, two-year-old black labrador Millie, a search-and-rescue dog from Kent, was selected to assist in the humanitarian effort following the Venezuelan earthquakes.

Yet despite their contribution to society, assisting, policing and even alerting us to medical conditions, dogs are afforded few rights or privileges — the British legal system classifies them as chattels rather than family members. Our firmest friend, one with the capacity to enrich our lives with unwavering love and loyalty, was once said to possess ‘all the virtues of Man without his Vices’, although if Lord Byron had been on our judging panel for this year’s Britain’s Naughtiest Dog contest in association with Honey’s Real Dog Food, he may have rethought that statement. Any dog owner knows that they occasionally come with their own form of chaos, a reality perfectly illustrated by our winner — a whirling dervish of mass destruction in appealing furry form.

It seems, however, that we can easily forgive the odd mischievous misdemeanor; Britons are indulging their dogs like never before. Gone are the days when Rex would be satisfied with a musty old tennis ball, a bone to gnaw on and a trip to the vet if he knocked at death’s door. A recent survey valued the British ‘pawprint’ economy at £10 billion, with more indulgent owners lavishing their dogs with spa-grade grooming experiences, gourmet food, designer beds and even private-jet charter.

We don’t blink when dogs appear on the catwalk or in fashion campaigns (the latest Hermès effort, directed by Tom Emmerson, depicts dreamlike vignettes of pups in luxurious settings), we take them to restaurants and modify cars to keep them safe. Inside our homes, interiors are evolving to accommodate the revised roaming rights according to canine command.

Yet have we gone too far? Enlightened attitudes to animal care are commendable, but the anthropomorphism of our pets and reluctance to enforce boundaries can only result in behavioural issues — our dogs are a mirror of our own attitudes. Only time will tell, but for now, the dog days are merely beginning.

Where was it?

In the Dorset village of Iwerne Minster.

A quick description

It was a three-bedroom terrace house, but one that didn’t have the terrace house feel of being hemmed in, because at the back, beyond the cobbled courtyard, there was half an acre of garden. The countryside was also only a 150-yard walk away.

How did you find it?

I was in the military and travelled a lot, but I wanted to put down roots. These were the days before the internet when you relied on estate agents’ offices and ‘for sale’ boards, plus patience. My first wife, Brigit, and I knew the area well and Iwerne Minster is an idyllic village that a lot of people pass by. We found the house within a few months and it became our family home for a while.

What sold it to you?

Location, location, location! The setting opposite the village church was typically British and simply perfect. Through the sound of those bells, you could also tell what day it was.

Was it a smooth purchase?

I don’t remember much pain. This was also back in the day when not much gazumping went on.

Best memory of living there?

Walking to the village shop most days when my children, James and Charlotte, were young to buy them an ice cream. It was wonderfully quiet even though we were only a few hundred yards from the A350.

Biggest indulgence?

This may sound ridiculous, but it was the first time I ever bought myself a set of drainage rods, and that Victorian plumbing definitely needed such a set to make everything flow freely. I haven’t been without them since. Such things come into their own when you have property.

What happened to the house?

I moved on with my job and ended up in the Herefordshire/Worcestershire area and purchased a property in Malvern, again on the edge of a village. I moved on again eventually, to a farm in Cornwall, and, in 2014, found myself at Chateau de la Motte Husson in France. This is really my first true country home — we have neighbours that we can’t even hear or see.

Dick Strawbridge will be appearing at the Game Fair (July 24–26), hosting Q&A sessions and taking part in a cookery demonstration with his wife, Angel, and children Arthur and Dorothy.

This feature originally appeared in the July 22, 2026, print edition of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

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Who would have thought the victim of a murder could make a piece of good dining-room art? Yet, for those sitting around the table at Ston Easton Park, Somerset, it proved an ideal conversation starter. It brought out the Agatha Christie in everyone and, in its own dark way, did exactly what dining-room art is meant to do: give people something to talk about.

The story of the painting made a particular impression on author Emma Craigie, not least because the murder was meant to have taken place at Ston Easton itself, where she spent an influential part of her childhood. ‘The painting was called Four Servants of Ston Easton Estate. It was by Thomas Beach, a pupil of Reynolds,’ she explains. ‘It featured, as its name suggests, four servants (unusual in itself), one of whom, a maid, was said to have been murdered. In an attic room of the house, there was a dark stain on the floor. My dad always said it was the blood of the maid who had been killed. The painting was like having a thriller on the wall.’

Not every house can count on an artistic murder mystery to entertain guests, however, and the question of what makes good dining-room art is an issue that new country-house owners also appear to be facing: Charlie Thomas of Bonhams has noticed that, post-covid, ‘many people who had lived in major cities moved into much larger houses and suddenly found themselves with extra rooms to fill — including the dining room. They started with the table, chairs and sideboard and then realised they needed the art on the walls, too’. What, indeed, were they to put?

The answer, it seems, is that almost anything can work, as long as it fulfils certain criteria. ‘Bear in mind,’ says art dealer, writer and broadcaster Philip Mould, ‘that a dining room is a place where people are often seated in the same spot for two or three hours — without escape. Its walls, therefore, offer a unique opportunity for contemplation.’ Historically, Mould points out, the trend was for still lifes of animals, fowl, fruit, game and flowers, ‘the work of painters such as Melchior d’Hondecoeter and Jan Weenix, no doubt intended in part to aid digestion’. However, his own preference is for modern British portraits, ‘works that bring recognisable humanity to the gathering, spark conversation and offer someone else to commune with once you have exhausted those on your left and right’.

Like Mould, interior designer Jane Churchill believes that, ‘if you’ve got anything that’s going to be a talking point, into the dining room it goes’. She also stresses that, ‘when it comes to dining art, things are a lot less formal’ than in the past — the kitchen has increasingly become a favoured eating area. ‘Where once the old family portraits dominated rather dark dining rooms, we now see clients being a lot more creative and colourful. We had a client who had some wonderful Picasso prints that needed a good audience. Her solution was to display them on the far wall and create an open bookcase alongside, with pots, books and china. Her own favourite is a modern ink-on-paper piece featuring a bright pink butterfly by Sarah Graham.’

Don’t ‘put people off their food’ is the golden rule of natural-pigment paint evangelist and country-house interior designer Edward Bulmer. ‘Not long ago, I had dinner in a large Victorian dining room. Across the wide mahogany table was a full-length St Sebastian commanding the height of the wall and the centre of the room. The flesh oozing blood from the arrows of his martyrdom was hardly a conducive sight.’

Another tip is to choose pictures that appeal to the entire family, if the dining room is one that you use informally at home. In his Herefordshire home, Bulmer once hung The Flagellation of Christ at the Column by Jean Baptiste van Loo. ‘I saw it as a beautifully rendered figure. However, this is not what my daughters felt and one day they asked if we really had to have all the “old pictures” in that room.’ The new works he’s placed on the walls are now ‘a mixture of commissions and acquisitions, all from friends, and so have become a much more meaningful talking point for all generations’.

Statistically, says Thomas, reflecting on content sales handled by Bonhams, ‘if you are going to work out a percentage of what we see in country-house dining rooms, portraits win’. When it comes to what is actually bought, portraits by recognised artists are consistent successes. He calls ‘orphans’ the pictures where the identity of the sitters is unknown and suggests that one solution to the dining-room art conundrum could be to buy these orphans and cover the walls with them en masse. He has seen this done to striking effect in a French château.

The late Martin Miller, antiquarian and co-founder of the Miller’s Antiques Handbook & Price Guide, also used to do this incredibly well in his own houses, buying up quantities of similar prints or paintings to cover the walls with them. When it comes to portraits, however, interior designer Lucy Manners, who lives, with her husband, James Hervey-Bathurst, in the historic setting of Eastnor Castle, cautions that some country-house dining rooms can be very similar, ‘with walls hung exclusively with ancestors, many of whom are not particularly handsome or beautiful. It works better when there are some paintings by good artists and if those paintings are well lit, which is what we have done at Eastnor’.

In such cases, she recommends introducing variety into the hang: a strong modern work, for example, can reset the entire room. ‘I saw a Lucian Freud in one dining room recently, which worked very well because it was so strong.’ A particularly celebrated example of a dining room peppered with portraits is the State Dining Room at Knowsley Hall, Merseyside, home to the Earl and Countess of Derby. When Lady Derby, an art historian by training, arrived, she found that ‘all the portraits were jumbled up in no particular order’. She promptly took them down, unframed them for surface cleaning and frame conservation and rehung them in pairs, arranged in chronological order of succession. ‘I find them very useful for explaining the 600-year history of the Stanley family.’

Her personal favourite is a portrait with a distinctly pioneering backstory: Lady Margaret Beaufort, painted by the English School as a femme seule, a rare position that allowed her to administer her own estate rather than cede control to her husband, Thomas Stanley, 1st Earl of Derby. As Lady Derby notes, ‘Beaufort was both the first Countess of Derby and the King’s mother to Henry VII, founder of the Tudor dynasty’.

In the family’s private dining room, where storytelling remains just as important, but the mood is more relaxed, the emphasis shifts from dynastic history to personal narrative. ‘We have a charming Romney of the children of the 12th Earl of Derby, Edward, later the 13th Earl, and his sister Charlotte, both looking rather wistful and sad. Their mother ran off when they were little and their father was pursuing a famous actress in London, so the siblings became very close.’

Perhaps one of the most extraordinary dining rooms in the country is at Trafalgar Park in Wiltshire. When political adviser Michael Wade bought the house (which he has since sold) in 1995, much of it had fallen into ruin. The first thing he did was to restore the old Music Room — featuring a mural painted by Giovanni Battista Cipriani in 1766 — and turn it into a dining room. ‘It depicted romantic paintings of Aphrodite, the Three Graces and Shakespeare. The ceiling and wall areas below the dado rail were decorated so as to frame the mural. The result was to provide a sumptuous immersion when dining at night by candlelight.’

It is a reminder that a mural is not merely decorative, but one of the most powerful ways of transforming a dining room into a complete visual experience — and one that certainly provides a talking point. Whether you opt for mythological murals or Picasso prints, the best dining-room pictures perform their oldest duty: they break the ice, warm up the conversation and occasionally steal the show.

Long before the pudding arrives, someone, somewhere, will always lean forward and ask: ‘So, what’s that one about?’ — especially if it happens to depict the victim of a murder.

I am a child of the post-war years of make do and mend. We grew our own fruit and vegetables and gave away our surpluses. Some ended up in the village greengrocer. There were no deep freezes, so we bottled our soft fruit, cherries and plums, and salted away our beans. Potatoes were kept in wooden boxes in a dark shed and root vegetables, such as coarse old carrots and parsnips (which I loathed), were stored in clamps.

My grandfather was Dean of the Royal School of Mines, which had been damaged by bombing in the war. The contractors who repaired it overestimated the quantity of glass they would need and he was able to acquire the leftovers — all building materials were hard to come by — from which he made a small greenhouse. I remember calceolarias in spring (query — why does no one grow them today?), tomatoes in summer, chrysanthemums in autumn and the smell of paraffin stoves to keep out the frost.

We had two gardeners who netted the fruit, mounded up the potatoes, tied in the sweet peas and mowed the lawns with an elderly push-me mower, which (when it wasn’t in need of repair) left beautiful stripes in the grass. They also chopped wood and felled large trees with a huge two-man saw, 10ft long with formidable teeth, which my father eventually gave to a museum of garden tools in Cornwall.

Those two men (Mr Bond the head gardener and his assistant Smith, as we called them) were village men, able and intelligent, but poorly educated. When Smith chalked the names of potatoes on the wooden boxes he reversed the S in 'Majestic', which always made me wonder how he spelt his own name. Both were hard-working, dependable and always willing to talk to Master Charles about the annuals and bulbs that I grew in ‘my’ garden — all for a wage of £6 or £7 a week.

Fast forward to 2026. Today’s gardeners could not be more different. They are well educated and well qualified. They have followed courses and passed exams. They take initiatives, come with good ideas and spend their holidays visiting other people’s gardens. They know their own worth — and they are still underpaid.

Last year, I wrote a piece for Country Life about three young gardeners who were beginning to make a mark in their world. One worked for the National Trust, one for the RHS and the third was already second-in-command at Great Dixter in East Sussex. They were grateful for the privilege of working in beautiful and fascinating gardens with the freedom to help them develop. They all gave thanks for the encouragement they received when training and working within a large organisation. They were happy employees who expected their careers to develop within the structures of their current employers.

Twelve months later, two of them have already left in search of better prospects.

The internal promotion for which they hoped did not materialise soon enough. They were ready for greater responsibility and the opportunity to learn new skills, but it became clear that the only way they would achieve this would be in new jobs.

In this, they resemble the journeymen gardeners of late-Victorian and Edwardian times, who used to move on to gain experience in different gardens, pushing their way up the hierachy in the hope eventually of becoming head gardeners in charge of a large estate or, perhaps, of owning their own nursery. The fact is that the HR department of almost any organisation today cannot cope with ambitious employees who want to better themselves, but feel held back.

Six weeks ago, I attended a study day in Maurice Foster’s famous plantsman’s garden at White House Farm in Kent. There were about 30 of us, including three of the garden’s trustees, extremely knowledgeable and experienced horticulturists. Apart from a few old buffers like me, almost all the participants were young, well-educated and ambitious millennials and zoomers, including some who work for none other than the National Trust, the RHS and Great Dixter. All were happy to fork out for the experience and spend all Sunday talking to Foster, exploring his 15 acres and meeting new plants — and all went away loaded not only with new knowledge, but also with pots and cuttings of plants to propagate for themselves.

The future of horticulture is safe in the hands of these energetic and committed 20-somethings, but what about the old-style gardeners? I have lost contact with Smith, but Mr Bond’s children had an education and job opportunities that their parents lacked. Some of his grandchildren went to university. None of them will ever pursue a career in horticulture, but one of them loves his own garden and told me he remembers that his grandfather showed him how to mound up potatoes and tie in sweet peas.

This feature originally appeared in the July 8, 2026, print edition of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

In a list of the greatest watches, you will seldom find one that isn't in some way linked to one of the greatest human beings — and, particularly, to a man on whom history has bestowed greatness.

The relationship between these men and their watches is eternally curious. It’s symbiotic, but it’s not always clear which party, if either, benefits most.

The prima facie conclusion is that the watches benefit immeasurably more. Omega’s Speedmaster, for example, would be far less but for NASA’s moonwalking astronauts, just as TAG Heuer’s Monaco might have been a non-starter had Steve McQueen not picked one out as filming began on Le Mans.

That, however, is the simplistic view. Doesn’t the humble timepiece deserve some say in the matter, too? How much more presidential does John F. Kennedy seem for wearing an ultra-thin Omega on his wrist during his inauguration? How much more professional do adventurers, such as this generation’s ne plus ultra mountaineer Nims Purja, appear for wearing military-grade Bremont watches during their madcap expeditions? No, we mustn’t underplay the wristwatch’s hand. The benefits of this symbiosis are often evenly distributed.

Rolex’s part in this is particularly acute, of course. Having accompanied Chuck Yeager through the sound barrier in 1947 and Sir Edmund Hillary to the summit of Mount Everest in 1953, it later felt confident to add this footnote to its advertising campaigns: ‘Men who guide the destinies of the world wear Rolex watches.’

Seven decades later, the claim may not be exclusive, but it doesn’t seem the remotest bit fanciful. The notion that a Rolex gives a man a leg-up in life rings true.

This link between image and commodity, embodied by the great wristwatch designs of the 20th century, was a central tenet of Andy Warhol’s work. He was said to have owned more than 300 high-end watches, but regarded few more highly than his Cartier Tank. ‘I don’t wear a Tank watch to tell the time,’ he once said. ‘Actually, I never even wind it. I wear a Tank because it is the watch to wear!’

Warhol recognised that in wearing the right — if we can call it that — watch, his value as a commodity would rise. The theory of mutual benefit appears to work. Yet, as with any theory, the challenge is in establishing whether there’s a point at which it expires — in this case, to identify where the kudos exchange between a watch and its wearer is entirely one-directional.

Royalty, for example, might be beyond it. What could a quotidian accessory, even one in solid gold and created by the most skilled artisans, possibly add to a king? Well, imagine if The King were to have worn a Sekonda to his second son’s wedding, rather than a hand-finished Parmigiani Toric. Had that been his choice, one could safely assume his credibility among sartorialists would have diminished considerably. Still, there’s no question that perceptions of the elite Fleurier manufacture, established only two decades ago, were greatly enhanced by the association with the man who sits on the British throne.

Music, then? Its leading exponents enjoy god-like status, after all. Although again, rapper Stormzy may be a regular visitor to Audemars Piguet’s first-floor Bond Street hideaway, but by shopping what appears to be the length and breadth of the Royal Oak collection, he has proved that some watch designs hold far greater sway over popular opinion than others.

Sir Winston Churchill is a trickier case, even if one often visited. As I’ve written for Country Life before, our war-time leader was a hopeless timekeeper and relied routinely on his Breguet pocket watch to ensure he kept people waiting. Breguet’s unassuming excellence lends authority to all who wear it, but would Churchill’s story be as easy to romanticise had he taken a lesser brand?

Not to categorise it as such (at all), but it was only on researching this story that I discovered Churchill was gifted an IWC pocket watch on his 70th birthday, in 1944, by a group of ‘admiring Zurich physicians’, as the inscription has it. The golden ‘hunter’ pocket watch (one with a hinged cover) carried the further inscription ‘umbra fugit opera manent’, which literally means ‘the shadow flees, but the work remains’.

Perhaps, as an allied victory began to look inevitable, those physicians were alluding to the burden of responsibility that would await the world’s victorious leaders in the aftermath of the conflict. The original is rumoured still to be in the Churchill family’s possession, but IWC has a replica of it in its Schaffhausen museum in Switzerland.

IWC’s legend may grow with the tale, but then so, somehow, does Churchill’s, the watch lending additional gravitas to the moment.

Sticking with the conclusion of the Second World War, Franklin D. Roosevelt wore a Tiffany & Co gold dress watch during the Yalta Conference of February 1945, a piece that serves as a reminder that not all great associations lead to great creative longevity.

The aesthetic of the watch that kept time as F. D. R. met with Churchill and Joseph Stalin to determine how Germany and Europe would be reorganised after the war is completely timeless, yet Tiffany’s recent return to the form has done little to revive its fortunes as a watchmaker.

Further back in time, Jaeger-LeCoultre’s flip-case Reverso was little more than an outlandish concept when Edward VIII abdicated. Because of his decision, the Reverso engraved for his inauguration never reached its intended owner, instead ending up in the Le Sentier company’s archives. Despite the painful ignominy of his path, the upward trajectory of the Reverso continued. Today, it’s seen as a staple of a watch wardrobe of any merit.

There is, of course, a glaring omission in the brands and watches subjected to the theory to this point. Unlike Rolex or even more stoic dial names such as Blancpain (which famously equipped Jacques Cousteau with watches for his early diving expeditions, an association it still trades on today), Patek Philippe has never ventured to create links between its watches and men of any particular distinction. That is not to say they don’t exist, merely that Patek has never been overt in its courtship of greatness. Many of its best watches were commissioned, perhaps a sign that, in some cases, the watch has greater power to augment its owner’s status than the other way round.

Plutocrats of the early 20th century, most famously Henry Graves Jnr and James Ward Packard, entered into a slightly unseemly battle of one-upmanship, commissioning watches with ever greater numbers of complications from Patek. In doing so, they prompted some of the most valuable watches ever made (and the most complicated imagined before the dawn of CAD technology).

In 2014, the Henry Graves Jnr Supercomplication was sold by Sotheby’s for a then-record sum of $24 million (£18.9 million). Were it not for such watches, it’s highly unlikely that these men would still enjoy the oxygen of column inches they do today.

It’s settled, then? Not quite. Because there is one watch that owes almost if not all its greatness entirely to one man. If not for Paul Newman’s love of the Rolex Daytona with an ‘exotic’ dial, the model would almost certainly have disappeared into the archives.

Introduced in the 1960s, the dial configuration that now distinguishes a Rolex ‘Paul Newman’ Daytona was a commercial flop — but thanks to the association, vintage examples routinely sell for six-figure sums and up.

His own watch, given to him by his wife and inscribed with the words ‘Drive Slowly, Joanne’, went under the hammer in 2017 for $17.8 million (£14 million). Newman’s greatness singularly elevated the watch to its current grail status.

There’s an exception to every rule — but, otherwise, great watches and great men co-exist in a sort of mutual-appreciation society. And what a society it is.

There's always a little rush of excitement that comes from finding a traditional country house that's full of surprises. And East Boreston, in the village of Halwell within Devon's hopelessly bucolic South Hams, is a perfect example.

It's for sale at £2.25 million through Marchand Petit, and at first glance appears to be a very pleasant, albeit slightly unremarkable rural home. Step inside, however, and you'll find yourself in a place where blue and green hues are expertly positioned for maximum impact, with huge windows looking out over secluded gardens.

You'll fin with fixtures and fittings that could have been taken from a smart London interior design studio, blended with cosy vintage furniture, vibrant colour schemes and the odd surprise — not least a bubblegum pink dresser in the sun room.

It's beautiful, liveable and fun — and the sort of home that could easily grace Country Life's interiors pages just as easily as the property section.

The main house comes with five bedrooms, a large, open-plan kitchen/dining/sitting room and a separate formal sitting room.

We say 'main house', because as well as the Grade II-listed farmhouse, the new buyer will be getting themselves a fully-established and successful lifestyle retreat business.

There's a converted five-bedroom holiday barn, a detached and separate one-bedroom holiday cottage, and an indoor swimming pool.

The net effect, in the words of the agent, is a property that offers ‘generous and highly flexible accommodation, designed for both family living and entertaining. The principal house enjoys its own defined private gardens and grounds, ensuring complete separation from guest areas’.

The current owners pride themselves on the property’s eco credentials — and quite rightly, for they are extrarordinary: an extensive array of solar-generated electricity and ground-source heat systems produce 34kw of power, enough to power the underfloor heating throughout the principal buildings, keep the swimming pool and hot tub warm, and still have a surplus to sell back to the grid.

Marchand Petit report that there is a 'net-positive income stream, after heating and electricity costs. That earns East Boreston a remarkable Grade A with a 97 rating on the EPC certificate; for a period property such as this one, that's almost unheard of.

And the location? The South Hams is one of the most talked-about parts of the South West, and Halwell is within easy reach of some of the best towns — including Salcombe and Dartmouth — and the golden beaches of Blackpool Sands. The larger town of Totnes, with its road and rail connections to the rest of the country, is just six miles away.

East Boreston and The Barn are for sale through Marchand Petit at £2.25 million — see more details.

What, pray tell, is the greatest artwork of our time? For Spectator editor Michael Gove, a staffer once told me, the answer is none other than the films of Christopher Nolan. Yet this view failed to materialise when the Speccie ran a feature on 21st-century masterpieces last year (the coveted accolade went instead to Tina Fey’s 30 Rock, Channel 4’s adaptation of Sugar Rush by Julie Burchill, and others). Gove, allegedly, had suggested that Nolan’s films also be in contention. Staffers disagreed. Their magazine could not, and should not, be seen as pandering to Hollywood.

Refuting the blockbuster might have made sense were one to erase the epic from artistic history. Yet the genre of The Aeneid and of Paradise Lost is currently enjoying a resurgence. Nolan’s latest effort, The Odyssey, opened last Friday to critical and commercial acclaim: the umpteenth adaptation of Homer’s ancient poem and, akin to the translation it used as source material (Emily Wilson’s, from 2017), set to be the definitive.

It has become unfashionable for artists, whether they be painters or filmmakers, to dwell much on the everyday. The epic offers an antidote to contemporary art’s obsession with banality: the threat of war, surveillance culture and eco catastrophe means audiences have shifted away from stories that deal with relatable absurdities and towards those that grapple with more classical themes such as death, power and fate. The most recent film to win Best Picture at the Oscars, Paul Thomas Anderson’s One Battle After Another, explores the theme of heroism in a thinly veiled satire of modern-day America. Kane Parsons’s Backrooms, the movie event of 2026 before The Odyssey came along, gives banality the epic treatment through a seemingly interminable journey into the ghostly, liminal spaces opened up by existential dread.

Nolan, too, is interested both in heroism and the immensity of the world. In 2014, Interstellar followed astronauts searching for a home beyond Earth. 2023’s Oppenheimer explored the journey of a man lionised for his military contributions and later castigated for expressing a conscience. These are the hallmarks of the modern-day epic — and a neat fit for our Odyssean times. Not for nothing have pundits spent the weeks leading up to The Odyssey’s release invoking Homeric epithets wherever the political context appeared relevant.

The modern condition is no longer served by art that edifies ennui. A film like The Odyssey — gargantuan, pedigreed, obsessed with scale — feels far more emblematic of our strange and itinerant times.

This feature appears in the July 22, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

‘In a decade, our wildlife has gone from being present to being abundant,’ says Martin White, the head of rewilding at 42 Acres, a sweep of wooded countryside in east Somerset. Behind him, meadow brown butterflies tumble through oat-grass and blackcaps sing from tangled hawthorns. White is well placed to comment, having worked here for every one of the 10 years since this former family estate was taken over by the current owners.

The 42 Acres name is a misnomer. This rural getaway — which offers wellness retreats and self-catering accommodation — was originally 42 acres in size, but now covers 173, most of which are intentionally left to their own natural devices. The retreats themselves tie into this approach, ranging from one-day ‘Slow Sundays’ to longer stays, themed around the likes of nature guardianship and listening to the land. And there’s plenty of land to listen to. The wind whistles through ancient woodland studded with mossy, fallen trunks and pale fungi; birdsong fills the ears during a stroll down country lanes; in the lake, carp splash and water sloshes against hefty beaver dams.

Yes, beaver dams. The busy rodents have been reintroduced here and now live wild, with evidence of their lodges and waterlogging widespread. ‘They’re a keystone species,’ emphasises White, pointing out a muddy, beaver-made channel. ‘The benefits they bring to other creatures in the ecosystem are huge.’

The rewilding efforts take multiple forms. In one large area of native woodland, spruces planted for wartime timber are being thinned out to allow original species to flourish. Elsewhere, netted enclosures are home, separately, to white storks and wildcats, both of which — if breeding continues to be successful — will eventually be released. To look into the eyes of a wildcat, one of Britain’s most endangered mammals, is a rare thrill.

42 Acres describes itself as a ‘regenerative estate, nature reserve and wellbeing retreat centre’, and it’s the real deal on all three fronts. This do-it-right-or-not-at-all approach is also true of both its accommodation and its food.

There are two main clusters of buildings on site, one based around a refurbished 18th-century farmhouse, the other around a one-time hunting lodge. In and around them are a total of seven self-catering options, from cottages and renovated barns, to converted stables and a boat (it’s called Tiny Boat (above) and lets you gaze across the water from bed). If you’re staying in one of these properties, the wider grounds are yours to explore — and indeed swim in — at will, while meals such as breakfast baskets and vegetarian lasagne can be pre-ordered.

Eating is no afterthought. All food, which includes full catering for guests on scheduled retreats, is freshly prepared by the so-called ‘medicine kitchen’. Don’t be put off by the pharmaceutical-sounding description: the chefs are hugely experienced (there’s at least one Royal Academy of Culinary Arts graduate), passionate about organic ‘soil-to-gut’ dining, and have a bounty of hyper-local produce to work with.

Most of this comes courtesy of either the edible walled garden — a vibrant reimagining of a traditional English estate with everything from artichokes and sweet-tasting yacón to peaches and greengages, or the permaculture garden, which produces duck eggs, honey and some 50 (50!) varieties of vegetables.

There are guided tours of the gardens, as well as yoga, foraging, firecraft and wild sauna sessions. But all, in a sense, are sideshows to the main rewilding project, the green effervescence which is likely to be your abiding memory. ‘Rewilding,’ sums up White, as a woodpecker drops down into a canopy of maples, ‘really does work.’

Visit the 42 Acres website for more information and to book.

Standing up for what you believe in can come at a high price — the highest price. It's a lesson that William Tyndale learned in October 1536, when he was strangled to death, and his body then burnt at the stake. Even that was supposedly a mercy for a man found guilty of heresy: the fact that he was strangled before being burnt was a concession to his stature as a scholar.

Tyndale's crime was becoming a major figure at the vanguard of the Reformation in England. His New Testament, the first complete translation in English, proved hugely influential in both religious and literary terms. Much of it can still be seen today: scholars have estimated that 84% of the King James Bible was taken from Tyndale's work.

Translating the bible had long been a risky pastime in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, but Tyndale might have survived if he'd left it at that. Instead, his scholarship picked at the open sores of the Reformation, enraging first the Catholic Church — by supporting Henry VIII's right to be head of the church in England — and then, two year later, infuriating Henry VIII himself by arguing against the King's proposed divorce from Catherine of Aragon.

Tyndale judged Henry to be the more dangerous, and fled to the Continent — only to be arrested in 1535 by imperial officers of the Holy Roman Empire. He was imprisoned for over a year in Vilvoorde Castle, near Antwerp in modern-day Belgium, convicted of publishing a translation of the Bible without church approval, and executed as a heretic on October 6, 1536.

Four centuries later, Willie Hartley Russell stands in the pulpit that originally came from St Adeline’s Church in Little Sodbury, Gloucestershire, where Tyndale began his ecclesiastical career after leaving Cambridge. Open in front of Hartley Russell is a copy of Tyndale’s translation of the New Testament, first published in Worms, Germany in 1525.

Tyndale was briefly a tutor to the children of Sir John and Lady Walsh at Little Sodbury Manor and, by tradition, preached from this pulpit. It was transferred to the manor house — a former home of the Hartley Russell family — when St Adeline’s was rebuilt in 1849 and then to Bucklebury House in about 1906.

On the table is a bust of Benjamin Franklin, who collaborated on his own abridgement of the Book of Common Prayer in 1773, aiming — in the spirit of Tyndale — to make its text more usable for ordinary people.

Hartley Russell as another connection to one of the men who shaped the modern world: he is a descendant of David Hartley, who corresponded with Franklin, and was a rare voice during the American Revolutionary War as a British MP sitting in Westminster who called for an end to hostilities, and supported the rights of the colonists.

As well as pushing for conciliation, Hartley also proposed the abolition of the slave trade in 1776. As a representative of the British government, he was a signatory of the Treaty of Paris on September 3, 1783, which recognised the independence of the United States.

Find out more about Bucklebury House and estate at their website.

Far from being mere exercises in nostalgia, the regeneration of lidos, piers and other historic coastal properties can be a powerful contemporary force for good — but only if those embarking on such projects think strategically.

That was the message of the Valuing Seaside Heritage Symposium, organised by Historic Buildings & Places, which convened at Saltdean Lido in East Sussex last month. Representatives from national and local conservation bodies ranging from the Seaside Heritage Network to Historic England gathered to share lessons learned from half a century of work and reflect on ways forward.

Now that the mass domestic tourism that built Britain’s seaside resorts is a thing of the past, how can their futures be safeguarded? Securing the investment required to revitalise them and help them flourish once again is far from straightforward. Council-owned assets around the country have closed in droves over the past three decades due to prohibitive maintenance costs, with seafront buildings particularly vulnerable to the elements.

The current Government’s Levelling Up initiative was not focused on the coast and, although in March 2024 a dedicated Government fund to ‘support enhancements to our seaside heritage’ was announced, at the time of writing the proposed funding stream has not yet been developed.

The National Lottery Fund has awarded more than £200 million to seaside regeneration projects, including Hastings Pier and Margate’s Dreamland, but grants are competitive and the bid-writing process complex.

Despite these challenges, the symposium identified grounds for optimism. The creative industries — the fastest-growing section of Britain’s economy — have proved time and again that they can deliver a transformative shot in the arm to coastal communities. Attendees heard testimonials from Cleethorpes in Lincolnshire, where grassroots cultural projects are bringing the town’s theatrical heritage into the present day, and Folkestone in Kent, where the Old High Street has become the heart of an attractive and vibrant creative quarter.

‘People said it was an overnight success, but actually when it came alive, we were 14 years into the [regeneration] project,’ said Alastair Upton of Creative Folkestone, the Arts charity that has spearheaded the town’s transformation. Speakers highlighted the importance of thinking long-term. Although one-off injections of cash are welcome, developers and charities alike must never lose sight of long-term viability.

Key to this is carefully staging restoration projects, said Matthew Mckeague of the Architectural Heritage Fund. He pointed to Grange Lido in Cumbria and Tarlair’s sea-cliff pool in Aberdeenshire, both of which have seen buildings refurbished so that they can become revenue-generating once again as a first step before costly work restoring the pools gets under way. This sort of phasing allows those in charge to ‘build a business model over time and learn who the market is,’ he said.

Projects with community involvement from the get-go stand a much higher chance of succeeding, not least because they are more likely to become financially self-sustaining all year round rather than only during the warmer months. A case in point is Saltdean Lido itself, considered the pinnacle of lido architecture and rescued from a long decline in 2022: it is now home to a gym with 600 local members, a popular community library and cafés and event facilities, as well as the restored pool.

Clevedon Pier in Somerset, dubbed England’s most beautiful by Sir John Betjeman and the country’s only Grade I-listed example, has weathered numerous storms under the care of the community-focused Clevedon Pier & Heritage Trust. Another success story is Penzance’s Jubilee Pool in Cornwall, the country’s most famous saltwater tidal lido: a significant proportion of the £1.8 million initial refurbishment investment was community shares, which made the people of Penzance part-owners.

‘You can see the regeneration it has spurred around the town,’ said Mckeague. However, he stressed the importance of drawing up business plans that are weatherproof, both literally and figuratively. ‘Community ownership isn’t a panacea. You still have to do all of the thinking.’

Seaside conservation groups are keeping a close eye on the Government’s new ‘Pride in Place’ scheme, which will see up to £5 billion given to some 250 areas across the UK with a focus on long-term improvements. With the UK now a member of UNESCO’s 2003 Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage, they are also hoping that the seaside holiday might be recognised as an example of living heritage, with all the attendant protections.

Meanwhile, although the days of the default bucket-and-spade holiday are long gone, a growing social-media-driven appetite for outdoor swimming and increasingly hot summers are making trips to the coast ever more tempting — and momentum is building behind seaside heritage projects as a result. One such is Ramsgate’s Marina Bathing Pool in Kent, which was closed in 1975 to make way for an unloved car park. The Ramsgate Heritage Lab is in discussions with Thanet District Council and a developer to revive it, and believes bringing the lido back to life could set a new and more sustainable course for the town’s future.

‘It is our responsibility not only to value seaside heritage because it tells us where we’ve come from, but because it can tell us where we’re going,’ said Rob Kenyon, its CEO.

This feature originally appeared in the July 22, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

The Country Life quiz runs daily every afternoon, with new editions published on weekdays at 4pm.

Missed a day? Want more quizzes? Catch up with all our previous quizzes here.

There are a lot of things to like about the town of Sevenoaks, but by far my favourite is the number of quirky place names you'll find in the surrounding villages. If you tootle around this corner of Kent you'll end up passing through Noah's Ark, Toy's Hill, Twitton, Bat & Ball (named after a pub which disappeared three or four decades ago), and the best of the lot: Pratt's Bottom.

One of the best of these names is Seal Chart. Sadly, it's not named after a marine mammal who learned to map-read and made its way up the River Darrent, but instead most likely dervies from an Old English word meaning 'muddy pond'. That may not sound particularly glamorous, but plenty of the homes in this well-heeled part of the word are — and one of the finest has come up for sale: Chart Cottage.

Linda Wesson of Hamptons Prime quotes a guide price of £2.5m for this enchanting, Grade II-listed home in what is a hamlet about three miles east of Sevenoaks itself.

It's delightful: a quirky and peaceful place which was once three cottages, one built in the 16th century, one in the 17th century and one in the 18th century, all of which were knocked together in the Edwardian era.

Not only does this add to the place's higgledy-piggledy charm, it also means that you get a far bigger house that you'd normally find while looking for a Kent cottage: there is more than 3,000sq ft of space, with three reception rooms, six bedrooms and two bathrooms, all set amid eight acres, and with sweeping views across the North Downs.

As fine as the interior is, the true historic element of the property is outside, for the gardens were designed by Gertrude Jekyll herself. Jekyll was one of the pioneers of gardening as we know it, a patron of Sir Edwin Lutyens, and a regular contributor to Country Life in the early days of the magazine's 129-year history.

Jekyll laid out these gardens in 1911, but they'd been almost completely lost by the time the present owner moved there almost 40 years ago. However, meticulous research, with help from experts in the UK and the University of California, Berkeley, — where the original Jekyll garden designs are held — saw the cottage garden replanted and laid out over time according to Jekyll’s original design.

The Kent Gardens Trust has documented both the process (you can download their PDF explaining all here) and the original story of the gardens. It was the tenants in 1911, a man named Bernard Blunt and his wife, who wrote to Jekyll asking if she would undertake the design of the garden at the cottage as he had read several of her books.

'He gave Jekyll carte blanche with her designs, putting in just a few suggestions and requests,' the history reads.

'As well as roses and sweet peas he especially asked for lilies and hibiscus shrubs. When the designs came back he expressed his pleasure at the inclusion of medlar and quince trees and wondered if a group of standard red currants could be added.' How extraordinary to see such things come back to life well over a century later.

Chart Cottage is for sale through Hamptons — see more details.

The Country Life quiz runs daily every afternoon, with new editions published on weekdays at 4pm.

Missed a day? Want more quizzes? Catch up with all our previous quizzes here.

Tucked away in a pretty Nottinghamshire village, this house was built by a lacemaker who helped to transform Nottingham’s city centre into the global hub of the trade in the 19th century.

The owner approached Emma Wraithmell of deVOL to help create a kitchen that reflected that history. ‘She was adamant that it was about restoring, rather than renovating the space and that would start with using unfitted furniture,’ explains the designer.

During preparation work, an old floor covering was removed to reveal the original Victorian red-and-blue quarry tiles that were once the standard choice for kitchens, sculleries and entrance halls. They informed the colour of the cabinets, which are from deVOL’s Shaker-inspired range and painted in the company’s Refectory Red with worktops in black granite. These are set against lime-washed walls in a warm burnt sienna to give a raw and unfinished feel. ‘The idea was to make it look as if this kitchen could’ve been there for decades,’ says Wraithmell.

A two-oven Aga stands in the chimney breast, behind which is a splashback made in tiles from the company’s Lace Market Tiles in sepia. By the window is a double sink with taps in aged brass. The lace café curtain is another nod to the past; it was sourced by the owner. A plate rack from the company’s Heirloom range, also painted in Refectory Red, displays collections of plates. In the centre of the room is a Victorian prep table, which was also the owner’s discovery.

The Real Shaker Kitchen by deVOL starts from £12,000.

This feature originally appeared in the July 15, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

Here's a look at some of what you'll find inside.

Meet Peggy, Britain’s naughtiest dog

Agnes Stamp meets the cereal-snaffling, bed-wrecking, turkey-wrangling miniature bull terrier who took the title—and rounds up the best (or worst) of the rest

The 39 steps to being a good dog owner

From clamping down on begging to sweetening bad breath, William Hanson presents his guide to modern pet-iquette

Ian Seath’s favourite painting

The Royal Kennel Club chairman chooses a work that celebrates canine collaboration with humans

Pup and coming

There have never been so many options for pampering your pooch. Mary Skipwith explores the rapidly evolving world of canine luxury

Country-house treasure

John Goodall marvels at the extensive 18th-century library at Powderham Castle in Devon

The legacy

Kate Green applauds Enid Blyton for dreaming up the spirited adventures of the Famous Five

A power in the landscape

In the first of two articles, John Goodall explores the early history of Curraghmore in Co Waterford, one of Ireland’s great houses

Bone appétit

Why settle for discarded street snacks when there is succulent chicken on the menu, asks Jack Russell Maud Parker Bowles

Interiors

Arabella Youens investigates interiors designed with pets in mind and Amelia Thorpe shares accessories for the (dog) house

Winging it

Why can’t we learn to love the wood pigeon, asks Mark Cocker

You got me there

David Profumo pursues tricky brown trout in a day on the Test

Everything bar the Oompa Loompas

Harry Pearson visits The Oldest Sweet Shop in England, which has traded in treats since 1827

Luxury

Fruity accessories offer rich pickings for Amie Elizabeth White

Colour for all seasons

Kathryn Bradley-Hole admires the spectacular successional planting in the new gardens of The Copper House in Kent

Travel

Steven King savours the spirit of the Hebrides and the natural beauty of the Isle of Harris during a stay at historic Rodel House

Arts & antiques

The rise of service à la russe in the 19th century turned the tables in upper-class British dining, discovers Carla Passino

To say nothing of the dog

Michael Prodger examines the history of canines on canvas and reveals how artists have warmed to Man’s best friend

And much more.

Standing out at the Festival of Speed is not the easiest thing to do. But painting your Porsche in the style of a particularly raucous acid trip is one way to do it. It is, of course, one of life’s great questions: how do you make a Pagani look plain? The answer, it would seem, is to seek inspiration from the Summer of Love.

In 1970, Porsche knew that their 917 was underpowered when compared to the other giants of Le Mans, and so it was that the Long Tail (or ‘Langheck’) was developed, specifically for the straights of the famous 24-hour race. Innovation is the key to success, and when the 917LH hit 240mph down the Mulsanne straight, it became clear rather quickly that what Porsche couldn’t solve with pure power, they could defeat with innovative design.

But the Martini 917LH was innovative in more ways than one. Anatole Lapine, Porsche’s designer in 1970, realised that not only did the 917LH need to stand out on the stopwatch, but also on the track and to the spectators. Armed with 1,500 paint cans, the team got to work to create the swirling green and purple car that graced the grid on June 13, 1970. It finished second in a race plagued by torrential rain, behind another 917K (short-tail or ‘Kurzheck’), for a 1-2 finish for the 917s. Now it was here at the Goodwood Festival of Speed.

‘On the straight, the biggest problem was the spray — it was so thick that we couldn’t see,’ Gérard Larrousse, one of the car’s drivers, tells me. ‘When we arrived behind a 911, it was a complete fog. You had to guess whether to pass on the left or the right.’ Larrousse is 86 years old and, as we talk, he signs autographs from passing punters, mesmerised first by the car and then from his recollections of driving it. He sits in his race overalls with a twinkle in his eye, clearly delighted to once again be driving the world's fastest painting. ‘This car was the first 917 I ever drove. It was prepared for Le Mans, and when we arrived at Le Mans it was in a certain livery,’ he says. ‘And then the day after, it had another one, this one you can see now, which is very nice.’

Looking at the ‘Hippie Porsche', as the car soon became known, is a reminder to the assembled younger generation (myself included) that they weren’t the first people to invent sex, drugs and rock & roll. ‘The car came at a time of enormous cultural change,’ Frank Sytner, its co-owner, explains. ‘We’re talking about the Woodstock era. It was an amazing period of change and exciting new developments. The hippie movement and the psychedelic era introduced so many new ideas. It was a changing attitude to life, and designs like this came from imagination that may well have been influenced by….’ Sytner pauses, with a knowing smile, ‘certain chemicals.’

The Hippie Porsche existed not only at a time of cultural change, but engineering too. Purpose built for Le Mans, it never raced on another track, and was designed purely to make the most of its immense top speed on the various straights of the Circuit de la Sarthe, which in 1970, was even straighter than it is now. It existed at an inflection point between digital and analogue design. ‘It was really man versus the elements — a combination with no outside aid, no sat-nav, no ABS. Just a guy in a car,’ says Frank. ‘The 917 wasn’t designed by a computer. It was designed by a gentleman with a pencil and a piece of paper, drawing what he believed would be the most aerodynamically effective machine.’

‘That became the basis for what followed. The cars that came afterwards are still fantastic machines, but they followed the path the 917 pioneered. Motorsport has always been about pioneering spirit — that has been the part of its foundation from the very beginning.’

In 1971, the car returned to Le Mans, qualifying on pole and recording the fastest-ever top speed and lap time in the process, a record that stood for 37 years. Sadly, the psychedelic colour scheme was lost, with the Gulf Wyer team re-painting the car in its own blue and orange livery. It was sold to the Czech car dealer Vasek Polak, who in turn sold it to Massimo Padrazzi, who planned to race it in the South American Interseries. Alas, Padrazzi decided to build his own car, a Sabre D4, and the 917 was considered lost, spending 47 years hidden away in Padrazzi's garage, until it was sold to its current owners in 2024.

All around us, engines begin to sputter into life, and whistles blast. It’s time for the Porsche 917LH-043 (to give it its full title and chassis name) to once again stretch its legs up the Hill at Goodwood, and the small tent fills with smoke and thunder. A pioneering piece of art, a pioneering piece of engineering, an assault on almost every sense, makes its way to the start line, traced by countless eyeballs. Pioneering and unforgettable, almost 60 years later. A trip, in more ways than one.

For more information about the Hippie Porsche, click here.

It's an age-old question: what could be better than life as a rock star in an iconic band, travelling the world, earning millions and living a wild lifstyle?

The answer, if you're a born showman, is nothing. But for those who'd rather-not-be-too-much-in-the-limelight-thanks-very-much, there's an even better answer: being the manager of an iconic rock band. You have all the fun, and yet you can walk around Sainsbury's without being bugged for autographs.

The fine country home you see above — which is for sale through Hamptons at £3.25 million — is that of a man who lived this life. Norman Sheffield might have had to deal with contracts and balance sheets rather than groupies hurling underwear at him on stage, but as manager of one of the greatest bands of the 1970s he enjoyed the trappings of success without the burden of fame.

And yet, as ever in life, you should be careful what you wish for — because Norman Sheffield's management of Queen took a disturbing turn.

Sheffield started his music career not as a businessman, but a musician. As a drummer for instrumental band The Hunters he had success as a performer, playing for Cliff Richard among others, and went on to open a record shop in London in the Swinging Sixties. In 1968, Norman and his brother, Barry, had an idea that would transform their fortunes and lives, converting the space above the shop into a state-of-the-art recording studio.

Artists were attracted by the studio’s ‘relaxed vibe and ability to be creative while surrounded by the latest technology and superior producers and engineers’, according to the Trident Studios website. That tech — including Dolby noise reduction and a sophisticated eight-track recording system — persuaded The Beatles to use Trident Studios to record Hey Jude, among other songs, since Abbey Road didn't have the same facilities at the time. From there, the studio became a huge success, with Elton John, Carly Simon, Lou Reed and David Bowie among those to record hits there.

It was during this heady era that Sheffield took a chance on a young quartet calling themselves Queen, letting them use the studio after hours, and getting them a recording contract with EMI.

Under his wing they released three albums, which featured songs such as Seven Seas of Rhye, Killer Queen and Now I'm Here.

At the time, Sheffield lived at Trevigue, the mock-Tudor property that’s now on the market. The band apparently spent a lot of time at the house with their manager, as well as the other artists in his orbit, with Elton John allegedly tinkling the ivories for them here. If only those walls could talk...

As Queen's early success turned into superstardom in the mid-1970s, the relationship between Sheffield and the band unravelled — over money, predictably — and they parted ways. Though Queen got out of their contract, Freddie Mercury was embittered enough to write a song, Death On Two Legs, which was seemingly aimed at their former manager.

Death On Two Legs was the opening track on A Night at the Opera, arguably Queen’s best-known album, released in 1975 — and Sheffield believed it was filled with references to him, including a line describing 'a sewer-rat decaying in a cesspool of pride', and including lines such as 'You suck my blood like a leech / You break the law and you breach... You've taken all my money, and you want more.'

Sheffield was not happy, to say the least, and threatend to sue: 'It was some kind of nasty hate mail from Freddie to me,' he later said in his autobiography, Life On Two Legs: Set The Record Straight, as recounted in The Daily Mirror.

Sheffield and Queen reached an out-of-court settlement that cleared the matter up, though it's notoriously a messy moment in the history of the band. In later years, however, Queen superstars Brian May and Roger Taylor paid tribute to Sheffield's Trident studios, particularly for the recording time they were allowed to let the young band find its voice and sound.

Mercury's vocals in particular benefitted hugely from these sessions, May explained: "As soon as he is in the studio, he hears his voicing come back at him through the speakers and says, "No, I don’t like that. I’ll do it again. Do another one." In a very short time, he tailored his performance to the way he wants to hear it. He became a really expert vocalist really quickly. He found his voice and he found the means to use it."

It's hard to know how deep the rift was felt — and even after the split, Queen's iconic, groundbreaking video for Bohemian Rhapsody was made by Trillion, a subsidiary of Trident Studios. Furthermore, following Norman Sheffield's death in 2014, May posted a tribute on his blog: 'We had our differences of course, but, in the Grand Scheme of Things, all the water had long since flowed under the bridge.'

But enough of the spat! Let’s get back to Trevigue. Set in more than two acres in the village of Hailey in Hertfordshire, the six-bedroom house is now a ‘beautiful family home’, says Hamptons.

A spacious hall, featuring a large fireplace and a sweeping staircase, sits at the heart of the property. Arranged around it are a dining room with a wooden bar, a double-aspect drawing room, a family room, a study and an office.

The kitchen is located towards the back of the house, alongside a utility room, pantry and boot room. All-important rooms in a busy family home. And let’s not forget the wine cellar underneath.

Exposed timber beams throughout the ground floor add plenty of character.

On the first floor, the main bedroom has the luxury of not one but two dressing rooms and two ensuite bathrooms. There are five further bedrooms, alongside three bathrooms and another dressing room — ample space for family and friends alike.

Outside, the grounds are bound to pique the interest of keen gardeners. They have been landscaped to create a series of distinct spaces, including a vegetable garden, rose garden, soft fruit garden, and a walled garden.

There’s also an ornamental pond with koi carp and a fountain as well as a large pond with a footbridge.

A swimming pool — installed by Sheffield — plus a pool house, and a number of outbuildings complete the set-up.

Oliver Babbage, Head of Sales at Hamptons in Hertford, says: ‘Having been lovingly updated and meticulously maintained by the current owners over the past 13 years, the property offers the perfect balance of family living and entertaining space with stunning landscaped gardens. It has been at the heart of countless memorable gatherings, celebrations, and family moments.

‘The owners are now preparing for their next chapter and are looking to downsize and relocate as their children begin to leave the nest.’

Trevigue is for sale via Hamptons at £3.25 million — see more details

I recall vividly sitting once with the acclaimed plein-air artist Kurt Jackson in his adopted Cornwall. As he worked, he kept looking intently back at the sunless Atlantic horizon. ‘Grey,’ he suddenly burst forth, ‘it’s such a beautiful colour!’ I can already hear readers asking: grey? For those who need convincing of its extraordinary aesthetic impacts, I recommend the sight of herring gulls flying over snow-covered fields.

The birds seem to gather the light in their underwings — ‘like candles in the night’ was how Henry David Thoreau described the effect. Yet the grey on their upper wings acquires an almost ethereal quality and it glistens and sparkles more intensely than the snow itself. Our ancestors knew this aspect, because when they named the herring gull they made it Larus argentatus, which means ‘ornamented with silver’.

In some ways, the beauty of herring gulls is at its most impressive when the birds gather in flocks above the city refuse dump. Back and forth goes the enormous bulldozer blade, driving the great multi-coloured tides of rubbish, and over everything the silver-winged gulls hover and rise and fall, feasting on our abundant waste. The birds thus reclaim our excess as a thing of natural beauty. Ironically, it is these adaptations made by a seabird to a world dominated by our species that has brought it into disrepute.

A good example is the herring gull’s change of nesting habits. It once bred almost exclusively on coastal cliffs, but in the early part of the 20th century it made a double shift from seashore to inland localities and from rock-face to rooftop.

The pioneers of the new habits began in towns such as Dover in Kent and quickly adopted a suite of settings amid factory tops, churches, chimneystacks, aircraft hangars and hotels, but also domestic houses. The behaviour then passed from town to town and long since travelled inland to major cities, including London.

One of the problems arising is that herring gulls make noisy neighbours. The birds are famous for an extraordinary vocalisation called the ‘long call’ when an adult begins with head facing downwards. The sound is one part hysterical wail, one part manic laughter, but, as it reaches the emotional climax and maximum volume, the bird throws its head high over its back. It is magnificent to see and to hear, albeit not perhaps at 4am.

Add to this the copious guano from the adults and chicks, then the stale food and huge stick-and-seaweed nest choking your gutter with debris, and it’s understandable why rooftop herring gulls are not always welcome. The birds can then literally add injuries to insult, because people passing below are viewed as possible threats to their offspring. Like all good parents, the adult gulls will defend their genes, sometimes swooping on the humans unawares.

Rooftop nesting by gulls has been a cause célèbre for some cities such as Gloucester, where the colony is more than 2,000 pairs, although the number comprises mainly lesser black-backed gulls. Alas, the choice of nest site is only one in a string of complaints. Gulls have been accused of killing small dogs, of brazenly walking into seaside shops and helping themselves to snacks, of routinely scattering the contents of rubbish bins across the streets and — heartlessly — snatching ice cream from the hands of small children.

MPs have made speeches in the House of Commons, warning of ‘gull wars on our high streets’. In Berwick-on-Tweed, vigilantes were reported to have taken matters into their own hands and shot gulls. Reminding people that herring gulls make grey beautiful may not cut it as a counter argument.

However, what about the fact they are now red-listed in Britain, having suffered massive declines? Despite wide perception that the birds have prospered by coming into our towns and cities, the switch in lifestyle is starting to look like necessity. Gulls are essentially sea-going birds.

Yet the 1960s coastal population has fallen from 286,000 pairs to 130,000 today. It has probably remained constant for several decades, although this apparent stability disguises the extent to which the species is now dependent upon roof nesting. We may yet have to learn to live with the herring gulls among us.

This feature originally appeared in the print edition of Country Life on July 15, 2026. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

At this year’s Hay Festival, I was lucky enough to see two out of three of my favourite contemporary female authors — Elizabeth Strout and Maggie O’Farrell. As for the third, alas I was three years behind the curve. Margaret Atwood’s last appearance on stage at Hay was in 2023 and there is no knowing when the 86-year-old Canadian might be back.

Her name cropped up again a couple of weeks later, however, over coffee with a Norwegian travel colleague whose company, Up Norway, designs highly personalised, expertly delivered trips to Norway and the Nordic countries (take note should a holiday to that part of the world be on your agenda). She told me of an extraordinary literary art project in Oslo, now in its 12th year, and I was instantly hooked.

Future Library is the brainchild of Scottish conceptual artist Katie Paterson, who has been doing weird and wonderful things in the art world for several years — often in collaboration with scientists and scientific researchers.

Among her notable works are the broadcast sound of melting glaciers, a map of some 27,000 dead stars and a lightbulb designed to simulate the experience of moonlight. A library, by comparison, might seem somewhat mundane.

Paterson’s library, however, is not exactly as it might sound. This is a 100-year ‘living artwork’, commissioned as part of Oslo’s cultural Slow Space public art programme, with a distinct beginning, middle and end.

The project started in 2014 with the felling of an area of trees within the Nordmarka Forest on the edge of the city to make way for the planting of 1,000 spruce saplings. The felled trees were to be used in the construction of a special ‘Silent Room’ within the Deichman Bjørvika Public Library where Future Library would be housed; the new spruce trees would be used in 2114, 100 years on, as paper for the printing of the library’s contents.

The middle part is where the project takes a more intriguing turn. Each year, from 2014 onwards, a writer of global standing would be asked by the trustees of Future Library (an evolving group as time goes by) to contribute an original written work of any length and in any literary genre, with only one catch. Apart from its title, each work would remain unread and unpublished, sealed within a thin, illuminated glass drawer of the Silent Room’s walls, until 2114, when a limited-edition anthology of all the manuscripts would be printed.

First up to contribute to Future Library was Atwood, with a work titled Scribbler Moon. We know no more than that. Since then, nine further writers, including the brilliant Turkish-British author Elif Shafak, have submitted manuscripts and two more, American writers Tommy Orange and Amitav Ghosh, joined the fold on June 28. Their handing-over ceremony, as did those before them, took place amid the spruce-tree plantation in Nordmarka Forest, their works representing 2024 and 2025 respectively.

The big reveal of 2026’s writer is expected imminently. The Silent Room, therefore, its curvaceous interior fashioned from 100 concentric layers of wood like the growth rings of a tree, now has 12 full drawers with another 88 to go.

How many of these, one wonders, will be filled with manuscripts by people who are yet to be born and how many people alive today will ever get to read them? The City of Oslo and the Future Library Trust have signed a 100-year contract guaranteeing the protection of Nordmarka Forest, the Silent Room and the manuscripts, but who is to say how the world might have changed by 2114. Perhaps humans won’t be reading books anymore, perhaps libraries will be a thing of the past and perhaps, God forbid, no one will care a fig about Atwood.

This feature originally appeared in the July 1, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

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You wait all year for a billionaire's palatial £25 million home in a leafy enclave of London to come up for sale, and then two come along at once.

Last week we looked at the Goldsmith family's magical home in Richmond Park, Ormeley Lodge, which was home to the late Lady Annabel Goldsmith for many decades — and the place where she and her husband, Sir James Goldsmith, hosted everyone from pop stars to royalty.

Today, we look at a different house cut from the same cloth, and located just three miles away: Stud House, the Lebedev family home in the grounds of Hampton Court, for sale with Knight Frank and Savills.

It has a huge amount in common with Ormeley Lodge: both are located in the grounds of a Royal Park (in this case, Hampton Court Park); both are Georgian buildings full of character, flair and beauty; both are on the market for £25 million; and both have been in the family of high-profile billionaires for many decades, with a guest list that reads like Who's Who. Stud Park was bought by Alexander Lebedev in 2007, and it has long been the home of his son Lord Lebedev — best known as Evgeny Lebedev, owner of The Independent and The Evening Standard newspapers — who is now selling the place.

The timing of the sale seems to be good for the vendor. Research from Knight Frank suggests that there are around 3,000-4,000 billionaires in the world at the moment (neither the Lebedevs nor the Goldsmiths are among them these days, according to reports), and many of them are flocking back to buy property in London.

New research by Beauchamp Estates suggests that the market for homes in the £15-million-plus bracket has been soaring in the first half of 2026, with £1.24 billion of ultra-prime property sold — that's up 79% on the same period last year.

The reason for all this? A combination of soaring stocks in tech companies, and the political instability in the Middle East making London once again an enormously popular spot for the well-heeled to buy a home. 'London has bounced back,' says Rosy Khalastchy of Beauchamp Estates, 'the luxury homes market spluttering back to life with American and Middle Eastern buyers currently dominating ultra-prime sales in the capital’s best addresses.'

We'd say that 'Stud House, Hampton Court' definitely counts as one of those 'best addresses', and whoever ends up taking on this 18th century home will have a place that really is quite something, inside and out. It's hard to know where to look in a home full of fascinating art and glorious furnishings, which Lord Lebedev brought together with the artist and designer Patrick Kinmonth and the antique dealer and interiors consultant Edward Hurst.

Stud House is a fascinating home, arranged on an unusual inverted-L floorpan: entering the house via an enormous grand reception hall, there is a reading room and conservatory immediately ahead of you, and to access the rest of the rooms you move around to the right through a second hallway, past the morning room and drawing room with its semi-circular bay window, and then on to the larger part of the house.

There's a library, study, dining room, TV room, kitchen, pantry and laundry arranged around the stairs in the centre of the house.

Head down and you'll find a huge wine cellar, but head up and you'll get to the first floor, where you'll find six of the eight bedrooms — including a magnificent master suite with dressing room and a huge bathroom attached.

Two of the bedrooms have access to a balcony looking over the grounds, and Hampton Court beyond, while there are also a couple of treatment rooms and a security room on the floorpan.

The second floor has the remaining two bedrooms, plus a sitting room and storage — it's a space that is seemingly ideal for staff accommodation.

It's a lot to get your head around, but thankfully the agents have kindly shared a video walkthrough which will let you see the house, the art, the grand pianos, the four-poster beds, the exotic wallpapers, the spectacular gardens (laid out by Mollie Sainsbury) and more.

Lord Lebedev — or Baron Lebedev, of Hampton in the London Borough of Richmond upon Thames and of Siberia in the Russian Federation, to give him his full title — has spoken with great warmth of this beautiful home, though it wasn't necessarily the sort of home he'd have chosen himself. He explained to the FT a few years ago that it was really his father who fell for Stud House first: 'I think he was probably more in love with it than I was but I can see now, having grown older, that it’s a special house.'

There is one more curiosity of Stud House that's worth mentioning: it's a leasehold property, with the freehold part of Hampton Court; the lease has 128 years left to run. And the service charge? £300 a year. Not bad for a place that literally has Hampton Court on the doorstep.

Stud House is for sale through Knight Frank and Savills at £25 million.

'Time is a lot of the things people say that God is.’ Thus begins Outlander, the first book in the best-selling fantasy series by American author Diana Gabaldon.

Time is to an extent the protagonist of her story — a historical novel with romance and time-travel elements — but also a reason for the book’s changing fortunes.

When she first wrote it in the 1980s, publishers hesitated because they didn’t know how to categorise it: was it a romance? Fantasy? Historical fiction? Fast-forward several decades and genre-straddling books have almost become a genre of their own, Outlander is an immense success and has spawned an equally popular television series, starring Caitríona Balfe and Sam Heughan as the protagonists, 20th-century nurse Clare Fraser and her husband, 18th-century laird Jamie.

With the final season airing now, Bonhams in London is offering a selection of costumes and props on August 5. Among the highlights are the costume worn by Heughan in the Battle of Culloden scenes (estimate £1,500–£2,000) and the red ball gown created for Balfe (£3,000–£5,000). A special exhibition of the lots runs until August 4.

Bonhams previously oversaw the sale of replica royal costumes, coronation robes, furniture, props and set pieces from The Crown (2016-2024). The 2024 auction had a total estimate of around £525,000, but went on to make more than £1.67 million. The house described the sale as a major success, helped by huge international interest and more than 30,000 exhibition visitors before the auction.

In 2023, Kerry Taylor Auctions sold Colin Firth's famous wet shirt from Pride and Prejudice (1995) for £20,000, roughly double its estimate. As well as film and TV costumes, Kerry Taylor specialises in vintage and contemporary fashion, fine antique dress and European, Asian and Islamic textiles.

The house negotiated the private treaty sale of the wedding suit of James II to the V&A Museum and organised the sale of most important private collection of Audrey Hepburn's haute couture dresses and accessories to ever come to market. It included a black lace ensemble which was worn by the star in the film How to Steal a Million (1966). The Givenchy masterpiece sold for £55,000.

Throughout history, Muntham Court — situated on the South Downs, four miles north of the seaside enclave of Worthing — was a place souls retired to to indulge in their hobbies.

Unusually for a large country estate, Muntham was not passed down through generations of the same family. Instead, different characters would arrive and then depart, leaving a trail of clues as to who they were when they had occupied the land. Neighbouring Cissbury Ring, Britain's second-largest Iron Age fortification, hints at the first occupants.

In the early 1950s, archaeologists working at Muntham uncovered evidence of a sizeable Iron Age settlement and a Roman-era 'village'. Fragments of even-earlier Bronze Age weapons were also found.

Throughout the years, the land was bought and sold by the Munthams (who are presumed to have built the first house on the site), the Cornwallises, the Apsleys, the Shelleys, the Gorings, the Crowes, the Middletons and the Montagues, until, in 18th century, it was purchased by William Frankland.

Frankland, a descendant of Oliver Cromwell and the rumoured inspiration for Jane Austen’s Henry Dashwood in Sense and Sensibility, was, it is fair to say, eccentric.

Born in India to the then-governor of Bengal, he amassed a vast fortune in the East India Company. By the age of 40, he determined to venture west, taking three years to travel to England, sometimes (for safety, apparently) disguised as a Turkish messenger, via Baghdad, Jerusalem, Babylon, and Palmyra.

At Muntham Court, the confirmed bachelor dedicated his latter years to scientific research and inventing. He extended the property, filling rooms with all manner of devices he invented. There were whirring textile machines, printing presses, spinning devices and electrical apparatus. And if that wasn’t enough noise, he also fashioned machines to play musical instruments and filled what space was left with timepieces, which presumably chimed on the hour.

When Frankland died in 1805, his vast collection was immediately auctioned off.

Muntham was then sold, and then sold again, until, in 1850, Harriet Thynne (nee Baring), the Dowager Countess of Bath, moved in, after ceding control of Longleat (of stately home safari fame) to her son.

The Dowager Countess recognised the estate's potential, but was far from impressed by its appearance, famously declaring that: 'The upper classes do not live in red brick!' She employed local architect Henry Woodyer who refaced the house with local flint and added Jacobean-style Dutch gables, and, later, a Bath stone extension.

The Dowager Countess was also determined to overhaul the gardens.

Yew trees — long associated with sacred ground — were abundant so she had them fashioned into walls, walks and clipped into symmetrical shapes. She also planted a Judas tree, a species native to southern Europe and East Asia that produces vivid rosy-pink flowers every spring.

Country Life’s photographs of Muntham Court date to 1907, 15 years after the Dowager Countess had died. By then, it was in the possession of Lady Ulrica Thynne, her widowed daughter-in-law. She, in turn, passed the property to her son, Colonel Ulric Oliver Thynne.

Thynne was a much-decorated veteran of the Boer and First World Wars and, by 1922, the standard bearer of His Majesty’s Royal Bodyguard of Gentlemen-at-Arms. He was also, as was common among the gentry of the time, a keen marksman and trophy-hunter. His Muntham contained more than 50 taxidermied animals, including a hippopotamus, which lived in the Billiards Room.

Thynne and his stuffed menagerie stayed at the house until the outbreak of the Second World War when, like so many other large properties, it was requisitioned by the War Office. Unusually, after hostilities ended, he returned, living there until his death in 1957. He was buried in the grounds and the estate was put up for sale.

No attempt was made to sell the house as a home; instead, it was advertised as a possible school, hotel, convalescent home or residential development. Sadly, no one's appetite was whetted.

The house and majority of its land was eventually purchased by Worthing Council who at the time had little regard for antiquity. In 1961, Muntham Court and its gardens were flattened. It's now the site of Worthing Crematorium — where souls still go to retire.

The Judas Tree — reportedly the largest known specimen in Europe — still blossoms every year, but the hippo’s whereabouts are unknown.

The Country Life Image Archive contains more than 150,000 images documenting British culture and heritage, from 1897 to the present day. To search and purchase images directly from the Image Archive, please register here.

'I was so lucky getting mono,’ coos Mira Sorvino as Romy White in 1997’s Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion. ‘That was, like, the best diet ever.’ She and her best friend are reflecting on their senior prom ahead of their cohort’s first decennial meet-up, preparing to face the hierarchical world of secondary school once more. What could possibly go wrong? It turns out, everything.

Summer is prime time for the alumni gathering. People flock back, often begrudgingly, to the schools that made them who they are. Anxieties run high, yet the pull is gravitational. Who’s got married? Divorced? Had children? Come out of the closet? Where does everyone live? Who now owns their own home? Whose businesses have succeeded? Whose have failed?

The older one becomes, the more the points of comparison multiply. Who is still in good health? Who, indeed, is still alive? Curiosity always wins out; either that, or we have a repressed teenager within each of us keen to prove ourselves and craving the approval of peers we once deemed superior.

My first sixth-form reunion is taking place in September, 10 years and two months after we left. ‘There’s no escaping it,’ says a friend (I’ll bet: ours is happening on a boat). I have to hand it to the organisers, who decided to take charge once it became clear that our school had forgotten to arrange anything: a far cry from Harrow, which hosts its annual Founders Day in March and invites old boys back to the Hill to play Harrow Football against sixth formers in their old house.

‘It’s a great day out,’ says an old Harrovian. ‘No talk about work or weddings: we just run around the mud getting generally embarrassed about how much less fit we are than our 18-year-old counterparts.’ Not all school reunions are created equal. Some prior attendees mention the worst of their pubescent fears coming home to roost. ‘We all need our heroes,’ one tells me, ‘and I was shattered to find that the person I idolised most at school now led an ordinary life. It was depressing.’ An old Paulina reveals that she once tried to organise a reunion only to face resistance from a group who couldn’t believe that she, a one-time it-girl, was thinking of inviting them. ‘You’re having us on,’ they told her.

Some will organise games. Others, addresses. The most outlandish will involve rituals. For most, however, the school reunion is an occasion to confront the potential reality that the best years of our lives are behind us. ‘I bloody hope not,’ says an old Radleian. ‘Imagine how sad it would have been to peak at school!’ Here's hoping you didn't.

This feature originally appeared in the July 15, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

We're on the runway at RAF Wittering near Peterborough, Cambridgeshire, and there is a yolky-yellow JCB in front of me. It is very low, very long (32ft) and narrow; sleek like a missile and just as quick (and potentially devastating). Agricultural is the last word you’d use to describe this thing. Ballistic, more like.

It is powered by two hydrogen-gas-powered engines that have been developed, mind-blowingly, from regular JCB four-cylinder blocks (specifically the 3CX Backhoe Loader), raising power from 80bhp each to a combined 1,600bhp. That is alchemistic tuning; Jesus may have upgraded water into wine, but he had nothing on this. In between the engines and their digger-derived clutches sits a 63-year-old man without a hi-vis vest or construction hat. Instead, he wears a lemon-yellow race suit and a full-face helmet. He is retired Wg Cdr Andy Green, the fastest man on earth. The plan for this JCB, christened ‘Hydromax’, is to exceed 350mph on the salt flats in Bonneville, Utah in the US of A.

Strangely, JCB is no stranger to speed. The Guinness World Record holder for the fastest tractor belongs to the JCB Fastrac Two, which Guy Martin got up to 153.771mph back in 2019. Twenty years ago, chairman Anthony Bamford came up with the idea to construct the JCB Dieselmax and break the world land-speed record for a diesel-engined vehicle, given that diesel engines powered the vast majority of his products. It had two engines producing 750bhp each and, in Bonneville on August 22, 2006, a JCB tractor gave it a bump start from which the Dieselmax sprinted into the distance, clocking 350.092mph.

Two decades later, Lord Bamford is ready to try again. JCB is producing hydrogen-gas-powered products, so why not create the Hydromax and go for the zero-emission land-speed record (LSR). This machine has already beaten the previous hydrogen internal combustion LSR of 185.5mph, set in 2004 by BMW’s H2R prototype. It should surpass the hydrogen fuel-cell record of 303mph achieved in 2007 by Venturi and Ohio State University’s Buckeye Bullet 2 without breaking a sweat. The electric vehicle top speed of 342mph achieved by the Buckeye Bullet 3 in 2016—also built by OSU and Venturi—is well within JCB’s sights, if everything goes to plan.

‘This is not just about speed—it’s about showcasing the world-class engineering talent we have here in the UK and the robustness of our new hydrogen engines,’ says Lord Bamford. ‘Dieselmax was always a bit of an unusual idea, but it proved a point. Putting an advanced engine into a land-speed car showed the world what it could do in a way a digger never could. It’s the same thinking with hydrogen today.’

The 2006 Dieselmax and 2026 Hydromax look similar. However, the only carry-over part is Wg Cdr Green. He served in the RAF from 1980 to 2019, where he flew Phantoms and Tornados and captained the Cresta Run team. Between 2003 and 2007, he was the commanding officer at RAF Wittering, where we are for the Hydromax’s shakedown.

In 1997, aged 34, Wg Cdr Green (whose callsign was ‘Dead Dog’) found a new hobby; going supersonic on the ground. He set his still-unbeaten record of 763.035mph in the cockpit of ThrustSSC, the Richard Noble-built jet car powered by two massive Rolls-Royce engines. He was behind the wheel of Dieselmax’s 350mph run in 2006, and now Hydromax, which must be a bit ‘pipe and slippers’ compared to the ThrustSSC. Of course, cars, lorries and construction vehicles have little use for jet engines. Hydrogen has a lot more relevance for the future of land-based mobility.

JCB booked out RAF Wittering’s north taxi-way to test the machine and invited Country Life to bear witness. Horsepower was ratchetted up gradually. Like its predecessor, the new LSR car requires a push-start, this time courtesy of a powerful Land Rover Defender Octa (nicknamed ‘Octapushy’). After a couple of false starts, Wg Cdr Green was off, whooshing down the 1km (0.6 mile) tarmac straight, revving to a pre-agreed limit and triggering the parachutes at 180mph. The vehicle consumed a little over 2kg (4.4lb) of hydrogen during that day’s run and produced 18-litres of water as its only by-product.

Later in the week, the team would achieve 208mph, but it’s not about top speed for now. It’s about systems checks, gradual development and ironing out all the niggles. In Bonneville, which has 10 miles of straightaway, they’re looking to double that V-max.

‘It is an extraordinarily ambitious attempt,’ says Wg Cdr Green. ‘The chairman’s either completely mad or totally brilliant, but he’s willing to ride with that. And the rest of us are going, yeah, alright, we’ll give it our very best shot and see if we can make that happen. Based on what I’ve seen so far, we will.’

After Bonneville, the wing commander intends to hang up his helmet. It will be his final journey towards the record books and this national treasure will finally slow down to the national speed limit. ‘I’ll be 64 when I leave Bonneville this time and I think I’ll draw a line under it after this visit. I’ll say I’ve been very lucky to drive some very fast cars.’

I first came across a pair of Bavarian mountain hounds at Badminton Horse Trials. They were tucked beneath the counter of the Hiho Jewellery stand with rich chestnut coats, soulful eyes and slightly furrowed brows. Their markings were wonderfully distinctive.

Clem Ransford, their owner, says she can only bring them out when the customers have left: ‘They ask us more about the dogs than the jewellery!’ Clem and her husband first discovered the breed at Blair Atholl Horse Trials. They called their first puppy Minke, later breeding from her and keeping her daughter, Orca.

Today, Minke and Orca live with Clem and her family in West Dorset. Indoors, she laughs, they’re ‘more like dachshunds’, happiest buried beneath a blanket. It’s a far cry from the determined working hounds they become the moment they catch a scent. ‘They are not a dog, they are a hound,’ cautions Clem. ‘They make very good pets, but they are a working dog. When their noses go down, they are difficult to stop.’ However, despite being bred for the mountains of Bavaria, they’re curiously unimpressed by a wet English afternoon. ‘They hate the rain,’ says Clem. ‘They just want to be close to you.’

The breed originated in Germany during the late 19th century to track injured game through the mountains and, unlike many working breeds, have remained remarkably true to their original purpose.

Designed to work on steep slopes, they’re agile, athletic and built for difficult terrain. Clem jokes that they seem to have a ‘spring in their legs’, scrambling effortlessly across uneven ground. To call them scent hounds feels almost inadequate. Their noses are extraordinary. A Bavarian mountain hound can follow a scent that is up to 48 hours old, often over several miles and, perhaps most impressively, without becoming distracted by fresher scents that cross its path. They are occasionally utilised by the emergency services.

Perhaps their most remarkable quality, however, is their silence. When tracking, they do not bark continuously. Instead, they move quietly, only giving voice once they have located the injured animal.

There are thought to be around 1,000 Bavarian mountain hounds in the UK and the Royal Kennel Club records only 90 puppy registrations each year. With numbers that small, finding a well-bred puppy takes patience, and The Royal Kennel Club recommends breeders carry out a variety of best practice schemes and tests, including one for hip dysplasia, before proceeding. Prioritising genetic diversity and the fact that they’ve never been fashionable has also helped the breed to stay so true to its origins.

Would-be owners don’t need to live in a large house, but they will need a sizable garden with secure fencing. Consistent and patient training is a must, and they shouldn’t be left alone for too long — the dogs forms a deep attachment to their owners and can suffer from separation anxiety. The Bavarian mountain hound is not for everyone, but nor, one suspects, would it want to be.

Surrey — £3,500,000

Tucked away in an enchanted spot ringed by woodland near Hindhead and Haslemere, Hunters is a wonderful little enclave on 12 acres of land.

The main house is full of charm, and a separate pool and poolhouse seem perfect for summer life in Britain.

For sale via Strutt & Parker — see more details and pictures.

Devon — £6,500,000

The ultimate coastal estate? Glenthorne has a strong claim to that title, with 77 beautiful acres on the north Exmoor coast, beautifully tucked away, wonderfully private, and exquisite within.

For sale via Savills — see more details and pictures.

West Sussex — £3,500,000

Mermaid Cottage sits on one of the most sought-after plots on the estuary at Bosham — and it's glorious. This Grade II-listed house was re-designed and extended in striking style in 2012, and is a superb blend of period charm and modern cool.

For sale via Knight Frank — see more details and pictures.

Bedfordshire — £1,350,000

A magical Bohemian fantasy of a home, gorgeously presented, and full of wonderful touches as the pictures here show. There's also a detached garage building with workshop and a self-contained annexe above.

For sale via Michael Graham — see more details and pictures.

Perthshire — £10,500,000

One of the grandest residential and sporting estates in Scotland is seeking a new owner. The Kinnaird Estate has a fine main house, 11 cottages, four miles of salmon fishing, farmland, moorland, woodland, stalking, a pheasant shoot, gardens and a healthy holiday letting business.

For sale via Savills — see more details and pictures.

Oxfordshire — £5,250,000

A dream home on the Thames, with seven bedrooms, pool, tennis court and much more.

For sale via Knight Frank — see more details and pictures.

The river keeper

Getting soaked by freezing Upper Test water has happened more than a few times, as I have been known to believe I’m taller than I am, especially in waders,’ laughs Michael Taplin, river keeper at Wherwell Priory in Hampshire. ‘It also means I am on my third mobile phone and counting, having lost the previous ones to the river.’

His career path was an obvious one: he grew up a stone’s throw from the River Test and next to the boundary between the Houghton Fishing Club and the Leckford estate. He fished with his father and grandfather, messed around on the river after school and spent time with family friends who worked as river keepers. His employment is, he says: ‘My job, life and passion. Like any keepering role, it cannot be viewed as work, but more of a vocation.’

During winter, when the banks are empty of fishermen, major projects are carried out: constructing bridges, re-building banks, tree work, moving whole river channels, creating large wetland areas and digging new lakes. The summer is predominantly about managing the river and banks, with mowing, strimming and weed cutting. As well as maintenance, the role includes guiding experienced fishermen or teaching newcomers about chalk-stream fishing.

The appeal is that the environment is constantly changing: ‘No two seasons are the same and it fascinates me how altering one thing affects everything else down the line, whether that be weed growth, gravels, fly life or where the fish hold in a particular stretch of water.’ Taplin explains: ‘In my opinion, the basis of everything is weed. Ranunculus is the most important for us here. With ranunculus comes cleaner water, a sustained level, more fly life and happier trout. It needs flow and light to grow, so, generally, with a good winter of rainfall, a decent flow of water and some spring sunshine, it thrives. Then we can cut and shape the weed in order to maintain a healthy fishery. Observing these changes and drawing patterns is what helps me to continually improve the health of the river and, with that, improve the quality of fishing and the experience of being alongside it.’ Mary Skipwith

The open-water swimmer

Belle Kennedy found her appreciation of water changed dramatically when she went to university in the maritime city of Plymouth, where she is studying ocean science and marine conservation.

‘I used to be a competitive swimmer when young, but it left me with a difficult relationship both with water and swimming,’ she says. ‘Since coming to Plymouth, I have got massively into swimming in open water, which has changed how I view the coast and made me want to protect it. Tinside beach is especially popular here — as soon as the sun comes out, everyone is paddling and swimming — but, unfortunately, it is also popular with sewage. It has been a shock to discover how dirty the sea can be. You can’t see it physically — the water isn’t brown — which is why sewage alerts are really important. In 2025, it was the most polluted beach in England and Wales.’

Kennedy volunteers for the Rock Pool Project, a community movement collecting data on marine species, and for Surfers Against Sewage, a campaign group involving anyone using the sea. ‘The more volunteering I do, the more conscious I have become as to how fragile these ecosystems are. The pollution isn’t only affecting people, but wildlife, too. The Rock Pool Project is a great way to collect data, you get to connect with local people and it’s fun.’

She joined Surfers Against Sewage as a regional rep this year and answered a call-out to organise a nationwide paddle-out to raise awareness of pollution; more than 50 coastal locations joined in, making it one of the biggest turn-outs for years. ‘I’d seen it on social media before and I couldn’t pass up on the opportunity,’ Kennedy explains. ‘It was such a wonderful event, with a sense of collective care. It felt deeply humbling and was also a reality check, that the problem doesn’t only weigh on me, it weighs on others.’

The main aim of the event is to lobby water companies, calling on them to be accountable and to organise long-term fixes. ‘It is inevitable that it becomes political, but it is annoying,’ Kennedy comments. ‘Clean water should be a basic expectation. I think public awareness has shifted significantly. These conversations once felt confined to government circles, but now people are aware of the wider failures of water companies and the dangers of getting into dirty water. There is a strong sense that public pressure does matter.’ Kate Green

The wetlands scientist

Lizzie Grayshon, an ecologist at the Game & Wildlife Conservation Trust (GWCT) charity for 11 years, works mainly on wetland conservation in the Avon valley, which links Hampshire, Dorset and Wiltshire. This involves monitoring water quality, restoring wader bird numbers, releasing water voles and working with the local Farmer Cluster, part of a 100-plus-strong initiative in which groups of farmers work together to revive biodiversity relevant to their area.

Here, that is principally providing habitat for wader chick rearing and improving water quality. ‘Everyone is connected by the river and the flood plain,’ she explains. ‘It’s a beautiful place. There are not only waders, but meadow specialists — reed warblers, meadow pipits, cirl buntings and marsh harriers. We’ve had a huge gaggle of geese this year and loads of cattle egrets. As much as the marsh harriers cause problems for the waders, their presence is a good [biodiversity] indicator, although yesterday I saw one take a lapwing chick — you do have mixed feelings.

‘It is a protected area, but it is farmed and managed with grazing [mostly by cattle] and hay cutting, so has a nice mosaic of habitats. We advocate best-practice lethal and non-lethal control of predator species, which here include protected ones, such as buzzards, red kites and goshawks. Climate change plays a part; we are a relatively natural flood plain — one minute it’s under water, the next, it’s bone dry.’

The much-loved water vole is another helpful indicator of wetland health, a once-abundant native species that has declined through habitat loss and predation. Grayshon has been involved in an eight-year focus to identify and remove its chief enemy, the mink: ‘They really limit water voles’ recovery and success. We have been encouraging landowners to use their mink rafts [which float and detect the mustelids through their footprints], plus we supply traps and camera alarms.’

Wetlands provide a great natural cleaning service: they take in phosphates and absorb pollution, plus they are useful indicators of water quality and pollution sources. ‘Farming tends to take the rap, but is by no means responsible for all of it — there are a lot of people and villages and towns,’ says Grayshon. ‘We are under pressure here because the river meadows are SSSI-protected and there’s a designated inland bathing area at Fordingbridge, so testing has increased. There’s definitely a shift in public perception and councils, water companies and farmers are under more obligation to improve water health.’ KG

The river restorer

Phil Wright had been in the military for nearly 21 years when he was medically discharged with conflict PTSD in December 2021. It followed a couple of harrowing tours in Afghanistan when he had been seconded to an army special investigation branch and was ‘basically, dealing with death’.

He was directed to the charity Supporting Wounded Veterans and, through its mentoring programme, joined the Rivers’ Forum, its initiative to tackle pollution and simultaneously develop career opportunities for veterans. His first job was a pilot testing project on the River Dart in Devon using various methodologies and equipment including auto- and satellite testers. ‘I was on the upper Dart, which is remote and right up on the moor. It’s a spectacular river and one I knew well from Totnes down from Dartmouth from my time in the Navy,’ Wright explains. ‘I have had some mental-health struggles, but water is a very calming environment and being around it doesn’t really feel like work.’

Wright, an angler (mainly carp) and a canoeist (he was off to paddle the Great Glen in Scotland last month), also works for the Western Sussex Rivers Trust, which looks after the Lavant and Rother. ‘That job is currently less “rivery”,’ he explains. ‘I am on a temporary contract doing admin and finance, plus some geo-spatial mapping work, but I will be getting into river restoration work. Since I started, I have been massively surprised by how unclean some rivers are, despite appearances, with pollution and loss of biodiversity. A lot of work is needed. It’s completely new stuff for me to learn, really fascinating.

'Since being discharged, I have struggled to find a sense of purpose — quite a common experience for veterans — but this work has given it to me. Merely working for a wage is not good for the head.’ KG

The water campaigner

Katie Alcott, founder of international charity Frank Water, realised at first hand the problems caused by filthy water when she was 19 and working in a school in Kashmir in India. She took her customary two-litre bottle of water with her when out to supper with a local family, but, when it ran out during a hot curry, she drank their water: ‘Within half an hour, I was well acquainted with the bathroom.’

Those few swigs led to a three-year struggle with amoebic dysentery. ‘I knew nothing then — in the UK, we have the NHS, we turn on taps. You are unlikely to get unwell here from drinking tap water,’ she says. ‘A few weeks after getting ill, I noticed that beyond the junior part of the school, there were hardly any girls. The headmistress explained that it was water related — as soon as a girl can carry 10 litres of water, they are kept busy at home, plus they are off school when they are menstruating. This totally shocked me. I realised that families were living off water from an open well that was filthy — people had even fallen into it and died — and from a river where buffalos were pooping, not to mention humans. I realised how many opportunities women were missing out on through water.’

Much of Frank Water’s work is abroad, in places where water shortages are causing environmental migration and where huge quantities of water are being used to supply the western world, such as with rice-growing in India. ‘A lot of our work is about how water flows. Then there comes a greater respect and love for it. We work with nature, looking at geology and hydrology, where rock is porous and where it can charge to the aquifer successfully, ensuring that solutions are natural.’ Now, however, there can no longer be complacency about water in the UK — in the week of this interview, customers of South East Water had no supplies. ‘Our work is focused on seeing water as part of the whole system. Every drop counts,’ Alcott explains.

‘We have plentiful rain in the UK, but we have become disconnected from the water cycle. We have tarmacked miles of city centres, we are putting down fake turf and paving over front lawns to park cars. We are still building houses that flush lavatories with drinking-quality water — that’s bonkers. The rain has nowhere to go — it’s zooming down storm drains into rivers, taking rubbish with it. We’re sleepwalking into an ecological disaster.’

She adds: ‘It is more of a landscape issue in Britain. Farmers are under pressure to grow food for people and animals and the soil isn’t able to use water as it once would have done: it isn’t healthy enough to soak it up and let it re-percolate into the right places. We have seen water purely as a resource and have managed it to the nth degree instead of working with it. It’s not being held in the right places — or enough places — hence destructive floods.’

Alcott observes that if access to water is improved, people automatically use more of it. ‘With new housing stock, there should be a policy that they all have rainwater storage and use grey water to flush loos. Everyone should be self-sufficient in the hottest months.’ KG

The dowser

John Baker discovered he could divine water during a random post-Sunday-lunch game with friends some 30 years ago. ‘Someone had seen it in a magazine and thought it a good idea to have a dabble,’ he recalls. ‘A pair of L-shaped metal rods pointing outwards like six-guns were shoved in my hand and we were told to walk down a drive. It felt extremely silly. All of a sudden, the rods swung against me and my host explained that I was standing over the water pipe to the greenhouse. Then, after a few paces, the rod swung out, which was even more bizarre. That turned out to be because of an electrical current running to lights in the orchard. I was quite amazed.’

Baker, who then ran his own construction business, explains most dowsers discover their capability by accident. ‘You certainly can’t force it — you’re like a dummy waiting for something to happen. After a while, you realise you can tune your subconscious mind into looking for something specific, like tuning a radio. You learn to use your conscious and unconscious mind together — Nature’s answer to Google.’ Wanting to discover ‘if I was going mad or not’, he joined a local archaeological group where he was initially ‘treated with disdain as the weirdo with the rod. Then they twigged that I could save them a lot of digging. You can find anything under the ground if you can find water’.

His work now may involve searching for crypts under churches, looking for wells — ‘these can be dangerous if they collapse’ — and working with construction companies to investigate for leftover war ordnance or with landscape designers to check for springs. ‘This planet is covered with tens of millions of springs and building work can shift them around. Yesterday, I was with a friend who wanted to check if they really needed a new boiler. I don’t think they do — they’ve just got a leaky pipe. What I do is Marmite: you either accept it works or you pooh-pooh it. People think the computer is the great innovator, but we forget we have a brain that is a million times better than any computer and we’re not using it.’ KG

John Baker teaches dowsing and is the author of ‘One Man and his Rods’, available from the British Society of Dowsing

The campaigner for fish

'I had had a lifelong obsession with fish and rivers,’ admits Nick Measham, chief executive of WildFish. ‘My parents bought me a fishing rod when we were on holiday in Scotland when I was 10, which fuelled the passion. I’ve gone full circle to messing about with rivers again, although admittedly in a more serious way than playing Poohsticks.’

In 2014, Measham landed with WildFish, the only independent charity in the UK that campaigns for wild fish and their environment. It came about after a stint volunteering to help run the monitoring of phosphate pollution coming from cress farms into nearby rivers. ‘Our goal is healthy, sustainable populations of wild fish,’ he explains. ‘Fish are at the apex of the biodiversity crisis. We work on evidence and we use the law when needed to hold the Government and its regulators to account.’

Campaigns by WildFish focus on ‘what fish want’, which is healthy water and connected rivers. According to Measham, the UK’s rivers and coastal waters are in a poor state. More than 80% of rivers fail the Water Framework Directive’s standard of ‘good’, a minimum acceptable outcome. ‘Our rivers are special because they are unique habitats that are home to rare life — Atlantic salmon and freshwater pearl mussels, as well as plants and invertebrates — which are critical to maintaining biodiversity,’ he explains. ‘Protecting these endangered species is central; if we fix it for salmon, we fix it for everything that swims, including us. We do this by tackling the causes rather than mitigating the symptoms.’

This means reducing abstraction (extracting water from natural resources), stopping pollution from sewage and agriculture, removing barriers to migration and ending open-net salmon farming. ‘Wherever the salmon farming industry exists, it is the num- ber one threat to migratory fish, such as wild salmon and sea trout. It’s in our power to stop this if we have the desire, so one goal is to bring salmon farming to an end.’

Another of the charity’s projects is Smart-Rivers, in which volunteers monitor their local rivers and collect industry-grade data that can highlight any stressors. This crucial scientific data provides WildFish with the evidence needed to take action. ‘Anyone can participate because we help teach members of the public how to become citizen scientists. Amplifying our collective voice is crucial in this day and age to get politicians to listen.’ MS

The lifeboat crew member

Despite living near the Thames, Claire Price had never considered volunteering for the RNLI until a school mum who helms at Teddington Lifeboat Station in Richmond, asked if she might be interested. ‘From the first time I came to the station, I was hooked by the combination of being able to give back to the community, do something different, learn new skills and be part of an amazing group of people,’ she explains.

She has been volunteering for more than four years, starting as shore crew before working her way through the lifeboat crew levels. ‘People think that you need to have a maritime background, but most of our crew don’t — we have architects, lawyers and IT consultants,’ says Price, a management consultant. ‘It’s also great to challenge the misconception that lifeboat crews are made up purely of men — about 15% of RNLI operational crew are female.’

Teddington is one of four lifeboat stations on the Thames and one of the first to cover a river; the service was started in 2002 after the tragic Marchioness collision in 1989. The crew trains together weekly to ensure they can deal with whatever might be thrown at them. ‘We never know what awaits us until we are briefed by the launch authority. If my pager goes off when I am on call, I have to stop what I am doing and run to the station. Our target is to have the boat in the water six minutes after the pager sounds.’

Rivers and inland waters can be as unpredictable as coastal ones and they pose many challenges, as proven by the number of fatal incidents during the May heatwave. ‘Although it’s warm outside, the water temperature can be as low as 12˚C, which leads to a danger of cold-water shock and drowning,’ Price warns.

‘Two recent shouts I’ve been on involved local residents who had their own boats and ended up in the water without life jackets. They were incredibly lucky to have been rescued by members of the public before we arrived. Hearing them talk about their experiences was really emotional and a stark reminder about the danger the river poses even to people who are very familiar with it, but it was also a great reminder of the community that exists on and around the water.’ MS

In the beautiful gardens at Plas Brondanw, one feature has special significance. Terminating an avenue of chestnuts is a flaming urn that, as the carved dedication below states, was ‘raised on the ashes of their home by Clough and Amabel Williams-Ellis’ to mark the end of the rebuilding campaign on December 10, 1953, and commemorate the seven local masons and craftsmen to whom restoration was due.

Exactly two years earlier, the couple had awoken to the smell of smoke. Clough found the ground-floor library ablaze and his beloved terrier, Pennant, lying dead on the threshold. The telephone cable was already burnt through and Clough was lucky to escape after the floor gave way beneath him. A messenger ran to the village summoning five fire brigades, but a winter gale fanned the flames until little more than the 3ft thick walls survived. Press reports described the usually dapper architect of Portmeirion, now 68 years old, his face, feet and one hand bandaged, ‘wearing his wife’s spectacles and borrowed clothes,’ resolute that: ‘My house will rise again.’

Williams-Ellis had inherited the Brondanw estate in Gwynedd in 1908, aged 25. As a child, his mother had taught him to appreciate the simple Welsh cottages she liked to sketch and the combined dynastic responsibility and romantic setting of the Williams manor house in the shadow of Snowdon immediately inflamed his antiquarian tendencies. It was some 50 years since Williams-Ellis’s grandfather had left the house on succeeding to Glasfryn in Caernarfonshire. Tenants from the local slate quarries had moved in and, by the early 1900s, seven families inhabited the building.

This period of familial absence neatly coincided with most of the Victorian era, the architectural output of which Williams-Ellis roundly despised. Having, as he put it in his autobiography, ‘never been deflowered by restoration or improvement’, Brondanw was ripe for sympathetic conservation and every spare penny he earnt from clients was channelled towards its gradual resurrection.

Built into the slope of the hillside, the oldest part is the two-storey late-Tudor entrance range (Fig 2). This survived the 1951 fire and maintains its large farmhouse hearth under an impressively wide, but shallow arch of slate. In the 17th century, a grander four-storey cross-wing had been added overlooking the tidal estuary of the Afon Glaslyn, an area subsequently reclaimed by William Madocks for farmland and the building of Porthmadog on the coast. A slate plaque set into the south-west end of Plas Brondanw records the initial and date ‘W. 1660’.

Despite their divergent scale, the two building phases sit harmoniously together within the wider landscape, accessed from an 18th-century forecourt and linked by what Christopher Hussey, in a 1931 Country Life article, called the ‘plentiful slabby stone, blue and purple and brown, that inspired most of [Williams-Ellis’s] operations here’.

The architect’s first building projects at the house were a sturdy gate lodge with fairytale-castle qualities and a rather French-looking orangery that set oeil-de-boeuf win- dows in the local rough stone, both of 1912–14. This external work was partly due to the ongoing tenancies; Williams-Ellis’s own space in the house was initially limited to the lower ground-floor brewhouse vacated by the hasty departure of a notorious salmon poacher. As the second son, inheriting the second estate, Williams-Ellis also lacked money for grand gestures.

Evidence that he did speculate on the possibilities for more ambitious changes comes from a Capriccio for Rebuilding Plas Brondanw, now in the RIBA drawings collection. Here, the vernacular original has largely disappeared in a perspective view that features a Classical pediment over the garden front and polygonal bay windows rising through three floors of the gable end. The 15th-century range has been raised by two storeys and become an infill with a new gabled tower behind it linked to a second cross wing. Certain elements foreshadow nearby Portmeirion, perhaps his most famous creation (Country Life, January 7), but there is also something of the Cambridge colleges Williams-Ellis knew from his brief spell as an undergraduate. The 1913 date is significant, for this was the year he met his future wife, Amabel Strachey.

Keen to demonstrate his suitability as a potential husband, Williams-Ellis had the bravado to exhibit his dream at the Royal Academy, picturing himself next to a veiled woman in the foreground, plans spread out before them. As it turned out, the house was already perfect for his bride-to-be. Amabel later confessed that: ‘It was a good thing that I’d promised to marry Clough before I saw Brondanw, otherwise I could never have been sure it hadn’t been for love of Brondanw, rather than any fancy I had for him, that had made me say yes.’ Immediately after the couple’s Surrey wedding in July 1915, they boarded a train to their Welsh home. As a wedding present from his fellow officers in the Welsh Guards, Williams-Ellis requested a folly. Baffled, they obliged (Fig 1).

After the war, garden improvements continued as the house returned to a single dwelling. Williams-Ellis’s growing architectural practice, the demands of three children and his wife’s work as an author and journalist meant, however, that the family lived mostly in the capital, settling at Romney’s House, Hampstead in 1930 and letting Plas Brondanw to friends. In 1937, Williams-Ellis solved the problem of a bulging west wall in characteristically stylish fashion, adding a belvedere tower that acts as a buttress as well as simultaneously enhancing views from, and of, the house (Fig 5). At its base, arches on three sides span the lower terrace, creating exactly that sensation of a little tunnel Williams-Ellis particularly enjoyed.

When war came again, the family left London for the safety of rural Wales. It was the first time they had permanently inhabited Plas Brondanw and, although they shared it with a string of evacuees, they came to know it more profoundly and, in Clough’s case, to see its faults. In some ways then, the fire presented an opportunity to improve and modernise the interior.

The difficulties were considerable in an era of building licences and continued rationing, but few architects were better trained in using salvage than Williams-Ellis, who kept a store of historic parts at Portmeirion. To reinstate the burnt-out floors, he opted for fire-resistant concrete covered with oak parquet. Unable to source the required steel joists, he scoured redundant slate quarries on the Brondanw estate and repurposed old tramway rails to do the job. Roof timbers and slates came from an old school nearby; 18th-century doors and fire surrounds arrived from a London dealer. The biggest change to the interior was on the attic floor, which became a self-contained flat accessed from the steeply rising ground at the rear via a playful route across a stone arched bridge, roof terrace and loggia.

On the ground and first floors, Williams-Ellis skilfully manipulated sightlines, borrowing light and creating vistas into the landscape that lend a feeling of grandeur to what is really a compact and intimate interior. With barely three bedrooms and three main reception rooms, the connecting spaces are all the more important. In the entrance hall, two short staircases re-use four different designs of timber balusters, a suitably quirky introduction to a house where decorative features from across the eras mix with ease.

One stair descends to the ancient brewhouse, the other leads up to a room in the buttress tower, where windows on three sides frame shifting views of the near garden and far mountains. The neighbouring library (Fig 6) was Williams-Ellis’s studio until his death in 1978. He worked here into his eighties, standing at his drawing board, surrounded by books and a cosy jumble of sofas, armchairs and sidetables. A Classical fireplace speaks to his love of the Georgian style, as do the four fluted pilasters on the gable wall that add status to an otherwise ordinary sash window. Such is the depth of the window reveal that Williams-Ellis used it to conceal extra bookshelves.

Today, Plas Brondanw is open to the public, showcasing the work of the family’s eldest daughter, Susan Williams-Ellis, artist and founder of Portmeirion Pottery. The library curtains are made from her mid-century textile designs and displays of her ceramics and works on paper rotate alongside exhibitions by contemporary artists. Although it is now a gallery, Brondanw retains the informality of a lived-in space, thanks to a combination of curatorial sensitivity and the strength of Williams-Ellis’s architectural personality. His unique stamp is everywhere. In the Tudor kitchen that became the dining room and eventually Amabel’s bedroom, it is most visible in the stepped alcove that juxtaposes a large window with elegant fanlight against the room’s low, beamed ceiling. Set into the green terrazzo floor is a grey marble circle that began life as a tabletop made for Penrhyn Castle.

At the heart of the redesigned home are the staircase hall and upper landing, defined by curves and round-headed arches. Together, they provide a generous, clean space that seems to sit effortlessly within the historic structure. Key to this more open arrangement was the replacement of the original dark oak stair treads with slate, the lower steps arcing round to meet the worn slate of the surviving hall floor (Fig 8).

Reversing the stairs allowed for construction of a new ground-floor cloakroom with an access tunnel that is vintage Williams-Ellis, teasing out the architectural pleasure from a small and functional space. The short passageway has a barrel ceiling, its floor is laid with chequerboard black and white marble, borrowed light coming from a round-headed peep hole in the wall. At the top of the stairs (Fig 7), the bespoke iron balustrade employs a repeat pattern of interlocking ovals with rounded tops and bottoms, the sections separated by uprights that mimic the pair of fluted oak pilasters framing the entrance to the landing. Painted in turquoise and gold, the ironwork matches the iron gates (Fig 3) and garden features visible outside.

The first-floor drawing room opens off another strip of chequerboard marble that runs across the landing to its door, an architectural reminiscence, perhaps, of the picture gallery at Romney’s House Williams-Ellis laid with black and white squares for his studio. As a decorative device, it cleverly establishes a hierarchy of space, marking out the public drawing room from the private bedrooms, dressing room and bathroom. Post-fire, a new Venetian window gave the drawing room greater external emphasis. That it was also a bit of Classical pomp is clear from the flaming plaster urns over the two side windows, the whole internal window nook outlined by fluted oak pilasters with gilded Corinthian capitals (Fig 4).

The use of salvage elsewhere on the first floor was more utilitarian. In the dressing room, surplus doors became a high shelf with a hanging rail fitted to the underside for clothes storage. Structural decoration in the main bedroom was minimal. When one realises that the angle of the window splay on the north-east wall allowed Williams-Ellis to view the peak of Snowdon from his bed it becomes clear that nothing else was really necessary.

For its response to and ongoing conversation with the landscape, Plas Brondanw is a special and beautiful place. The spirit of Williams-Ellis and his love for this corner of north Wales is as alive here as it is in nearby Portmeirion, more subtle certainly, but every bit as delightful.

With special thanks to Rachel Hunt.

Visit the Plas Brondanw to find out more about visiting.

This feature originally appeared in the June 24, 2026, print edition of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

The spectacular Dinmore Manor estate at Hope under Dinmore, situated on high ground in a remote Herefordshire valley, is one of the west of England’s most private and pristine residential, sporting and farming estates. Today, it's seeking a new owner.

The estate was briefly seen on the open market in 2019 — when we described it as being 'straight out of a fairytale' — but later withdrawn as the Pandemic took hold not long after. This historic, 1,468-acre property sitting between Hereford and Leominster, is now for sale again through Savills at a guide price of £25 million for the whole, or in up to eight lots.

A guide of £9 million is quoted for lot 1, the Grade II-listed, six-bedroom manor house with its Grade II*-listed medieval chapel, manor barn and two cottages — 397 acres in all.

A guide of £12.5 million is quoted for lot 2, Dinmore Farm, comprising an extensive farm-buildings complex, cattle-breeding facilities, a state-of-the-art equestrian centre with an indoor riding school, 40 stables and staff accommodation, the four-bedroom Kipperknowle Farmhouse and seven additional cottages — 862 acres in all.

Lots 3 to 8 are smaller parcels of arable land and woodland, a lodge and semi-detached cottages, at prices ranging from £414,000 to £1 million.

Dinmore was established by royal charter in 1189 as a Commandery of the Knights Templar and, in 1320, following their suppression, of the Knights Hospitaller. Little remains of the original 12th-century chapel, apart from some ancient walling; the rest of the chapel was rebuilt in about 1320.

Dinmore reverted to the Crown at the Dissolution, after which it was granted by Edward VI to Sir Thomas Palmer, who unwisely supported Lady Jane Grey’s claim to the throne and was tried and beheaded in 1553 on the orders of Queen Mary.

The manor passed through the Wolrych and Fleming families of Shropshire before being sold to Richard Hollins Murray in 1927. His descendants owned it until 1999, when it was acquired by the current owners, who embarked on an ambitious 10-year programme of restoration, renovation and remodelling, which included the purchase of an additional 600 acres and two further properties.

The focal point of the estate is the fairytale stone manor house, which dates from the late 16th century. Notable elements added over the years include the magnificent Cloisters and Music Room built by the Murray family in 1936.

For all its stately grandeur, Dinmore Manor is a surprisingly well-organised and manageable family home, which has been restored and upgraded by some of England’s finest craftsmen.

The main house offers 15,770sq ft of spacious, light-filled accommodation including entrance and staircase halls, three main reception rooms, a kitchen/breakfast room, study and music room, with the sumptuous master suite, three further bedrooms and bathrooms on the first floor, and a further bedroom suite on the floor above.

Highlights include the grand entrance hall leading to a newly created cantilevered staircase; an elegant drawing room with an 18th-century marble fireplace from Berkeley Castle; a charming green-panelled sitting room; and the impressive main dining room, which stretches along the southern façade and features a fine Georgian fireplace of 1765.

The pièce de résistance is the wonderful Music Room with its two staircases, one leading to the Cloisters overlooking the garden, the other up a turret to a secret sixth bedroom.

The Dinmore Estate is for sale through Savills at £25 million — see more details.

A thousand years ago, English rivers were fed by hundreds and hundreds of tiny streams that ran in a pattern like the veins on a spreading leaf. This natural drainage flowed slowly and carried little silt. Then, as farming developed, it demanded more extensive and speedier drainage. Ditches were dug, peatlands harvested and even the heavy clay soil of East Anglia made productive. Efficient water management drained the natural rivulets into manmade channels that fed directly into rivers. It was the basis of the Agricultural Revolution and few considered the long-term effects of drying the peat or carrying the top soil out to sea.

After the Second World War, artificial fertilisers and chemical inputs were unquestionably seen as the way ahead. Productivity soared, supported by public subsidy, and the chemical residues were carried away along these improved drainage systems, further polluting rivers and damaging biodiversity. At the same time, piped water was extended to almost every village and, with it, more and more homes were connected to the sewage system. Millions of houses were built or improved and businesses expanded — all of which expected to be supplied. Water had never been more available nor more convenient; it was cheap, in town and country alike, and people expected it to be cheap — after all, it fell free from the sky.

Alas, the system had not been planned. It had grown in an entirely haphazard way and, by the 1970s, the strain was becoming all too obvious, so the then Prime Minister, Edward Heath, pulled it together into a more logical structure of 10 regional water authorities. These new bodies inherited an aged, under-invested system funded by an outdated mechanism of water rates, which were largely unconnected with usage. Neither governments nor municipalities ever provided adequate investment because there were always more urgent demands for funds.

When Britain signed up to the European Community’s water regime, the awful truth had to be faced: we had the worst water standards in northern Europe. Beaches were filthy, sewage floated in the seas, hosepipe bans had become the norm and the fast-growing demand could not be met. Huge investment was required to make up for past failures, which is why Margaret Thatcher determined on privatisation as the only way to afford to do what was clearly necessary.

Looking back, it can be seen that neither public nor private ownership has been a success. At the heart of it is an unwillingness to pay the necessary price for water. Even after privatisation, successive governments used the regulators to keep the water bills down for electoral reasons. Companies were allowed to profit improperly and yet, at the same time, they were not allowed to undertake the necessary investment. The financial regulator, Ofwat, drove the system and the Environment Agency lacked the funds or the influence to play an effective role.

Now, following the extensive report by Sir Jonathan Cunliffe, which was highly critical of the lack of cohesion, the Government has put a new structure in place which seeks to correct the failures of privatisation without the huge cost and questionable value of a return to public ownership.

However, fundamental problems remain and are made more urgent by the changes in climate. Much of Britain’s water infrastructure is more than a century old and deteriorating fast. There is water in the North, but a real shortage in the South and East. The means of carrying water to the stressed areas are wholly inadequate and dependent upon canals and aqueducts built by the Victorians. The South of England is at the end of the water transfer system and, all the way down, water is taken by various regional undertakings, so that there is simply not enough left for Southern or South East Water. Of course, these poorly run businesses ought to have built reservoirs to conserve local rainfall, but, through a mixture of regulation failure, planning refusals and company neglect, they haven’t. Indeed, a new reservoir hasn’t been built in England for more than 30 years.

The Canal & River Trust (CRT) needs urgent investment to repair the ageing infrastructure bringing water from north to south. Dams, aqueducts and canals need upgrading if their failure is not to threaten whole communities and if they are to play their necessary role in flood prevention. Yet the Government is planning to reduce CRT’s budget. The cost of that cut may well be measured in lives, as well as in economic loss. It must not be allowed.

In the East of England, things are even more serious. Here, shortages are endemic. The Essex and Suffolk Water company has announced that it cannot provide water for any new or expanded business in its area until 2033. Yet, every year in winter, vast quantities of freshwater are pumped from the fields into the sea. Then, during summer, in this semi-arid region, farmers don’t have enough water for the irrigation upon which they depend. Urgent works to conserve this water supply are a priority for a Government that has properly recast the regulatory system, but still has no long-term integrated programme to address these issues.

Drier summers, wetter winters, more severe storms and torrential rain — this is today’s reality and we need a land-use policy to reflect it. Serious flooding is inevitable unless previous drainage methods are reversed, slowing the water flow by allowing more to be held in the land. Farmers should be enabled to plant trees and hedges appropriately and encouraged to dig and restore farm ponds. Farm reservoirs should become the norm and be part of agricultural permitted development, so they don’t require planning permission. New buildings should be designed to reduce wastage, save water and be drained in a sustainable way. White goods and water kit — from shower heads to taps — installed should meet higher water-saving standards. There must be no more paving over front gardens for car parking, but permeable surfaces instead, to allow the water to drain properly.

Our rivers need cleaning up. Water companies and agriculture have an equal role in this. For example, the cause of pollution in the Wye is a 50-50 split between sewage outflows and agriculture — the direct and indirect run-off from poultry farms is a major contributor. The food industry has a pivotal role in the clean up, but if we want clean rivers, farmers cannot be undercut by imported food produced without the environmental costs imposed on them here.

The reality is that there is no business as usual. Britain is not ready to cope with torrential rainfall or summer drought. Yet water is not only an essential for life, but a necessity for economic growth. The data centres that will drive the future economy use huge quantities of water. Food security depends on water for farmers. In much of the rest of the world, water is even more scarce than it is here and many producers we have relied on for imports will become too water-stressed to supply. In a world where already more than two billion people lack safe drinking water, climate change will exacerbate the problem.

Despite all that Britain has to do and the huge costs involved, we are truly fortunate. We can have the water we need, at a price we are able to afford, if only we have the determination to secure it.

It was written in the stars, perhaps. All signs pointed towards Sir Michael and Clare, Lady Morpurgo ending up together. Their love story began long before either of them was born; before they had met, their ancestors' paths had crossed multiple times.

In the 1780s, James Dunn, an ancestor of Clare’s, saved a man's life. That man was John Wesley, Michael’s ancestor. This is just the first of an almost unbelievable set of connections that have been pulling Michael and Clare towards one another over the years.

The second has to do with publishing. Clare’s father Sir Allen Lane co-founded Penguin Books, which had a lot to do with the encouragement of his mentor, John Lane (who Allen took his surname from — this is a long story). At the beginning of the First World War, Michael’s grandfather Emile Cammaerts was setting-up a relief fund for Belgian orphans that had fled to Britain. To raise money for them, he decided to create a fundraising book. That book was published by John Lane.

The next connection came after the Second World War, when Allen Lane appointed a new history editor at Penguin Books — Jack Morpurgo, Michael’s step-father. And finally, in 1960, Allen Lane was in the dock of the Old Bailey for the Lady Chatterley Trial, accused of publishing an ‘obscene’ book. Clare was there with her mother to watch — as was Francis Cammaerts, Michael’s uncle. A distinguished teacher, Cammaerts was called as a defence witness in the trial and spoke in favour of Lane. Penguin Books won the case.

Clare and Michael finally met in Greece in the summer of 1962. It was ‘Coup de foudre,’ Michael writes in his new book Down Burrow Lane: Life and Love on the Farm, the launch of which will be ticketed and held at Netherwood Estate in Herefordshire on July 24. The book itself is published in September and is, as Michael writes, ‘in truth, mostly the story of Clare’.

He describes her as his ‘Juliet’ upon first meeting. ‘Tongue-tied, I was… Not a word could I utter. I simply gazed at her.’ Clare merrily admits that her first impressions matched up: ‘He was very gorgeous,’ she brags, although in his book Michael seems to remember things differently, recalling that Clare told her sister afterwards: ‘He’s fine, very sweet. Just right for you.’

That they were head over heels for one another, I have no doubt. The pair married aged 19 and 21 and, 63 years later when I meet them on a sunny day at Fulham Palace in London, they appear just as besotted with each other as ever.

I had set out to interview Michael alone — the author of War Horse, Private Peaceful, Kenzuke’s Kingdom and more besides is worthy of a solo slot. But then Clare arrived with him. She is bright and sparkly and doesn’t seem at all her age (84). It is she, I come to realise, who is the biggest part of the Michael Morpurgo story and, I suspect, it is Michael’s relationship with her that has inspired many of his best novels. Indeed, she mentioned he should look into horses in the war, which in part led to the writing of War Horse.

Fifty years ago, the pair started the charity Farms for City Children — a project to help school children who may not otherwise get to experience the countryside. This is the main subject of Down Burrow Lane. ‘The myth is that it is “Michael Morpurgo” who does this, and it is absolutely the opposite,’ Michael says. ‘Clare inspired the whole thing, right from the start — it was important to set the record right.’

Your aesthetic heroes

Michael: My hero is another writer whom I would very much like to model myself as, and that’s Robert Louis Stevenson. He was a lovely man and he had very strong principles. I have a great respect for him — he’s the writer I most want to be.

Clare: It’s not something I think about much, but I have just finished reading Brick Lane, by Monica Ali. I would love to meet her. It's a fantastic story, so I’d choose her. I haven’t got a hero like Michael, or a heroine. Joan of Arc used to be my hero, or heroine, but that answer is a bit antique these days, isn’t it?

Exhibitions that have impressed you

Michael: I remember going to a place in Amsterdam where there were a couple of hundred paintings by Van Gogh. It was interesting, actually, because you see them reproduced and reproduced and reproduced, and then suddenly you're standing in front of them, and it is a different thing to be there and close to them. I'm always fascinated by the lives of these people, particularly people like Van Gogh, who had no recognition whatsoever in their lifetime.

Clare: We went to Thomas Jefferson’s house, Monticello. It wasn't strictly an exhibition, but it was amazing to think about — that all that time ago, he brought so much stuff back from Europe. It was almost like a European house in America. It was very beautiful.

The last things of note that you bought for yourselves

Clare: Last week Michael bought me a hat — it’s a very sweet straw hat that is embroidered all over with daisies.

Michael: That was quite funny, actually, because we saw it in the shop, and she's very against buying new clothes. She thinks they should all be second hand, but she needed one because it was hot. Anyway, we bought it and we came out of the shop. I said: ‘It must be made by some wonderful designer because it’s so lovely, let’s look inside and see who it’s made by.’ And it said ‘Shein’.

Your favourite paintings

Clare: I used to say Salisbury Cathedral from the Bishop's Grounds by Constable, but I wouldn’t say that now. You say what you think, Michael. I’m just thinking.

Michael: I think the painting that has meant most to me is the one Clare’s wearing on her shirt [a Quentin Blake piece celebrating Farms for City Children]. I think he's a great artist. He has managed to capture [in this painting] in about four and a half geese and a child what the whole world is like for us down in Devon. So that’s why it's my favourite painting.

Clare: I tell you what I love, Eric Ravilious. And we knew his son very well too.

Michael: We both share Eric Ravilious, and I have Quentin Blake and she has Constable.

The possessions that you’d never sell

Clare: The silver teapot.

Michael: Ah, yes, the first thing we ever bought together. In Hampstead, when we were living in a £5-a-week flat — if you can believe that? — there was a wonderful silver shop, and this very lovely silver teapot and we had it and used it and used it and used it.

Clare: I’d never sell that.

The books you’ve found inspiring

Clare: Brick Lane, which I mentioned before and Stefan Zweig's Marie Antoinette: The Portrait of an Average Woman.

Michael: I think the book which I have dipped into the most over the years is a wonderful poetry anthology by Ted Hughes and Seamus Heaney called The Rattle Bag. It has about 500 poems inside and the wonderful thing about it is that you never tire. We keep it in our bathroom. It’s wonderfully familiar and, for me now, I think familiarity is quite important. Clare's very good, she reads new stuff. I tend to like the remembered things, and we knew Ted Hughes quite well — so the book is quite important to us anyway. I think a book that I really treasure has to have some kind of association to do with the people who made it.

Who would play both of you in a film of your lives

Michael: I’d probably like to be Paul Newman. She’s thinking: ‘Yeah, I’d like you to be Paul Newman too!’

Clare: No, I wouldn’t actually. I’d like you to be Gregory Peck. And, how about that lovely lady in the film for me?

Michael: Can I choose one too please? If you’re asking me to choose the love of my life on film, I’d pick Audrey Hepburn. They were in that film together called Roman Holiday.

The music you work to

Michael: Again, I think we now have favourites that we listen to pretty much again and again and again. Of the classical composers, I'm really rather transfixed by Mozart. I like choral music, church music of the 18th and 17th centuries, because that's what I used to sing when I was a young boy, but I also want to mention the Scottish group, The Proclaimers, and The Traveling Wilburys.

Clare: There was a lovely duo that we saw play classic guitar in Petworth. John Williams and Julian Bream. The other person that we love is Joan Baez. We are of our time.

The last podcasts you listened to

Clare: Michael listens to a lot.

Michael: Short History Of…, which I listen to a lot in the night, because there’s always one that I haven’t heard of.

Clare: I listen to the radio when it’s on, and that’s about it.

What you’d take with you to a desert island

Clare: The first thing that came into my head was a bathing costume, but I wouldn’t need one, would I? So probably, I’d take a knife.

Michael: To defend yourself or cut through things?

Clare: Everything. It would be very boring not to have a knife.

Michael: You’re so practical. That’s very interesting, because when I was on Desert Island Discs I didn’t know what to take, so I asked my granddaughter and she said a waterslide.

The thing that gets you up in the morning

Michael: Um… [after a pointed look from Clare] getting breakfast for my wife. She’s not a great getter-upper.

The hotels you could go back and back to

Michael: When I was young we used to go to a hotel outside Venice, The Cipriani. It was wonderful because you’d wake up and open the window in the morning onto an extraordinary Italian landscape.

Clare: Another hotel is the Grandes Ecoles in Rue Cardinal behind the Panthéon. It has a garden which feels so huge in Paris, and blackbirds, and there are no televisions in the rooms. They are quite small rooms, as is the way in Paris, but they look after you nicely.

The most memorable meals you’ve ever eaten

Michael: Clare cooks a really good mushroom risotto, and I always look forward to that. And for pudding, just at the moment, I really like strawberries and yogurt.

Clare: I think probably a risotto or kedgeree.

The best presents you’ve ever received

Michael: This is the most difficult interview I’ve ever had.

Clare: You quite like surprises.

Michael: I do. Let’s see. I know it sounds strange but I actually think the pair of slippers you gave me one Christmas, which are unbelievably comfortable.

Clare: I am thinking of mine. Are you thinking what mine might be?

Michael: No, I am not going to tell you what you think.

Clare: Go on, think of something that I liked, and that I was surprised by.

Michael: Well, over the years I have given Clare jewellery from a wonderful Jewellery maker who lives in Devon, called Charmian Harris. I think her necklaces are the nicest things I’ve ever given her.

For tickets to the launch of Michael’s new book 'Down Burrow Lane: Life and Love on the Farm', at Netherwood Estate in Herefordshire on July 24, see here. 'Down Burrow Lane: Life and Love on the Farm' will be published in September, and available in all good bookshops. For more information on Farms for City Children, see here.

In The Odyssey, we follow hero Odysseus’s gruelling 10-year journey home, through the unmappable lands of magic and monsters to Ithaca, following the Trojan War.

For centuries, scholars and amateur sleuths have argued over where Homer’s roiling seas, realm of the sirens and lands of the Lotus-Eaters might truly have been — if, indeed, they existed at all.

Now, courtesy of Christopher Nolan’s (The Dark Knight, Interstellar, Oppenheimer) highly anticipated, lauded film adaptation (out July 17), travellers have a concrete trail of real-world locations to visit, including the Peloponnese and Athens in Greece, Favignana in Sicily, Scotland’s Moray Coast (famous for its resident bottlenose dolphins) and Iceland.

In the Peloponnese, a large peninsula separated from the Greek mainland by the Corinth Canal and easily accessible from Athens, you’ll find a 1,000-mile-long network of scenic hiking routes, much of which uses mule paths that fell out of use in the 1970s.

The Messinia Trail’s eastern branch encompasses the Temple of Apollo Epicurius, ancient olive groves and Methoni Castle and Voidokilia Beach — both used by Nolan — and crosses an area home to legendary King Nestor, who appears in Homer’s seminal poem.

Villa Collective boasts six properties in the Peloponnese region, including Sir Patrick and Joan Leigh Fermor’s wonderfully tasteful former home.

In the last decade, Athens's grungy, graffiti-lined back streets have changed beyond recognition. Today, it’s a city of muses, somewhere that writers, artists and culinary talents congregate to help nurse the Athenian renaissance. Its ascendency — or re-ascendency — to southern Europe’s new capital of cool did not come as a surprise to Andria Mitsakos, a local PR entrepreneur and the owner of a popular concept store called Anthologist.

Athens’s ‘moment’ was born, she says, out of ‘crisis’. Grexit (Greece’s potential withdrawal from the EU) has been sowing its seeds of uncertainty since the mid 2010s, but it is precisely this turmoil, Andria explains, that has caused waves of creativity. ‘Athens is constantly evolving and when one realises that the city was the cradle of civilisation and the incubator of so much when it comes to design, architecture, poetry, politics, theatre, philosophy and sexuality, that feeling becomes infectious.’

And infectious it is. Everyone, from domestic Greek travellers to Continental weekenders and young creatives, is keen to get in on the action. There are whispers that this is the new Berlin — equally anarchic, but much more affordable, regardless of whether you’re staying for two nights or two years.

Earlier this year, Hilton Athens reopened following a monumental, four-year-long renovation. Now called Conrad Athens The Ilisian, whoever was in charge thankfully spared the iconic marble facade, a wonderful example of Greek post-war Modernism.

Although Nolan shot some scenes in the Greek capital, it doesn't feature in the source material. However, the hotel is situated on the southern slopes of Mount Lycabettus which, according to Ancient Greek myth, was created by Athena — a pivotal character — by accident.

Approximately 670 miles east as the crow flies you'll find Favignana, the largest of the Aegadian (or Egadi) Islands off Sicily's west coast. And while Homer never explicitly referred to 'Sicily' or 'Favignana' in his epic, scholars and historians tend to agree that both are the setting for some of the most famous stages of Odysseus's journey.

Nolan utilised the ruined castle of Castello di Santa Caterina on the latter — a location that required the cast and crew to clamber 900 feet uphill, every day, to reach it and helicopter equipment drops.

You won't have to suffer such indignities to reach Zu Nillu, an exceptional villa that's been built into a disused Roman tufo quarry — as you do. The four-bedroom property is available to rent through The Thinking Traveller which originated in Sicily in 2002.

Placing a little building of some sort, perhaps a folly, a faux ruin or other structure as a focal point in the distance was a favourite trick of the 18th-century landscape garden creators. Such ‘eye-catchers’ were favoured by the likes of William Kent and Capability Brown, for they created visual drama, sometimes also suggesting the estate in question extended far beyond its actual boundaries.

Are any of those eye-catchers as remarkable as the incidental one seen from Underhill House in the pretty Sussex village of East Dean? From the house terrace, you look southwards to view the garden, which rolls down a gentle slope, terminating at a dense hedgerow of mixed shrubs and trees. Beyond it, your gaze follows a steep upward trajectory of sheep-grazed pastures, up to the edge of the famous Beachy Head cliff and the most fascinating of ‘follies’: the Belle Tout lighthouse. Built in 1832–34, for some 70 years it saved numerous sea-going vessels from a hazardous stretch of coast littered with sharp reefs, where thousands of ships have been wrecked over the centuries.

This undulating chalk landscape, grazed by local Southdown sheep and crossed by old droveways and smugglers’ paths, has its own specialised flora, attuned to the fast drainage and alkalinity. Flowers such as bird’s-foot trefoil and salad burnets thrive in its ‘rendzina’ — a geologically interesting loamy and limey soil that enriches the gardens in the valleys, yet is stony to work. As you dig, pieces of chalk and flint emerge all the time, among what is also quite fertile ground.

From 2021 onwards, owner Joanne Dove focused first on substantial internal refurbish- ments to the attractive flint-and-brick house, before turning to the garden. For the latter, three years ago she engaged landscape designer Andy Sturgeon, who is based nearby in Brighton, to modernise the terrace and pool area and refresh the planting everywhere. His plan has been to bring more harmony and ease of circulation into the east-facing front courtyard and especially to the main gardens, which extend for some distance to the east and south.

The main terrace was remodelled to improve space for entertaining and dining, bordered by a substantial raised bed, walled with traditional bricks and flints that match the house elevations. Paving slabs in a near-white limestone harmonise with numerous chalky- coloured stones embedded in the house walls. It also gives the pool surround a fresh and modern look, replacing tired and slippery Yorkstone laid many decades ago and not really in keeping with the local vernacular.

No changes needed to be made to the shape of the existing swimming pool, which already had a sympathetically curved southern edge, attractively mirroring the contours of the land- scape. It was, however, relined with shimmering mosaic tiles in many shades of blue, grey and green, suggesting the colours of the sea, just over the cliff edge on the horizon.

In such an open situation, planting a garden in an interesting and sustainable way can be demanding. It may bake in long hours of sunshine, absorbing the humid, salty air of the nearby coast; it can also be plunged into hours of foggy mystery when a sea mist rolls in.

The long bed separating the limestone terrace from the pool area has an inviting, Mediterranean feel with low, mounding shrubs and eruptions of small, seasonal flowers, reminiscent of a flowery garrigue hillside in spring. Its occupants include cistuses, such as C. creticus, a native of the Levant with crumpled pink petals, and its showier cousin, C. x purpureus.

The rock-loving Euphorbia seguieriana brings shots of lemon and lime in its bright foliage and flowers and the tough little daisy bush Olearia x haastii puts out masses of nectar-rich flowers enjoyed by various pollinators. The tumbling herb Rosmarinus officinalis ‘Prostratus’ always requires careful positioning to show off its propensity to imitate a waterfall; in the terrace bed, it overhangs the retaining wall very prettily.

Herbaceous flowers include fluttering, white Gaura lindheimeri, sword-leaved Libertia grandiflora, salvias in variety and the invaluable little daisy Erigeron kar-vinskianus. Given a chance, it sows itself into every nook and cranny. Here, it makes a pretty edging to the brickwork, picking up the wall’s multitude of pink and dark-rose tones.

Below the pool lies the Rose Walk, with its various roses in pastel pinks and peach, joined by ‘Munstead’ lavenders, foxgloves and felty-leaved Jerusalem sage, Phlomis fruticosa. A lawn beside it encourages eastward exploration, towards an exceptionally appro- priate garden building for this location — a corrugated metal shepherd’s hut, of exactly the type used in the area for centuries, where shepherds watched their flocks and moved the wheeled huts over the Downs as required. No shepherd would recognise its interior, however, which is both a dry sauna and a con-venient hide for watching local wildlife.

‘This is where the foxes and badgers come through,’ says Dove. ‘The sauna is for red-light therapy and infrared; if you’re sitting in it from about 5pm, it’s like rush hour, with all sorts of wildlife coming by. They don’t know you’re there behind the glass.’

The easternmost area slopes considerably, among thinned-out trees, and is devoted to wildflowers. Lawns and a curvaceous bed of shrubs lead to a wildlife pond and, at the lowest point, a slender, productive kitchen garden and small greenhouse, which is used for raising melons and tomatoes. ‘The view from the lower garden is really nice, looking out to all the curves in the hills,’ says Dove.

Sight of the hilltop Belle Tout disappears — and as suddenly reappears — depending upon where you are in the garden. Having been decommissioned in 1902 in favour of a brighter, new lighthouse at Beachy Head, it now serves as a high-end B&B and a curiosity for walkers on the Seven Sisters footpath.

‘We are really blessed to have that view,’ Dove observes. ‘The lighthouse has already been moved once; it was brought further inland from the old cliff edge, but the cliffs continue to erode. I would be sad if it ever goes because it’s such an interesting focal point.’

Indeed it is, but perhaps the lighthouse, with its 360-degree view, is also fortunate to see pretty Underhill House in the distant valley, snugly settled into its charming garden.

This feature originally appeared in the July 1, 2026, print edition of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.