It is a beautiful Autumn day and my friend Jules and I decide to go to Chatsworth to see a display of Sculptures dotted around the gardens. The golds and reds of the Autumn leaves as we approach the bridge over the river in front of the house are simply stunning, gilded in hue by a touch of sunshine which has bathed the whole landscape in a warm and restful repose. There is a huge horse chestnut tree by the river which is all skirt and no blouse; the leaves having completely fallen from the top half, yet full on the bottom, as if someone has imposed two photographs in a scrapbook, the half of one, the half of another.
In the gardens there is movement everywhere. The house, itself, is still partly covered in a veil of scaffolding, with workers all over the place. Further in the gardens there is a huge digger moving boulders to create a 'natural' garden. It reminds me of the Highland Garden at Biddulph Grange, nearby, which was created by one of the great Victorian Plant Hunters over a hundred years ago. But this one is being made today by young lads with beards and top knots and a large JCB.
We decide to walk through the coal tunnel which goes quite some distance under the grounds, built so that a previous Duke wouldn't have to see his workers. There is a sign designed, it seems, to put people off at present. It says that the tunnel is flooded, which is true, but it is only a couple of inches deep. It seems a good opportunity to put my waterproof leather boots to the test.
The tunnel is arced by small white lights all the way along. And, because it is flooded there is a still plate of deep reflection along the whole length of the tunnel, giving the appearance of walking through a series of hoops. It is cool and silent, not a popular place at present, and that makes it all the more magical.
As we come out of the tunnel we bump into the present Duke and Duchess coming the opposite way. The Duchess in a vivid green skirt and wellies. She says Hello and glances down to see what I am holding in my hands. As it happens I am caught red-handed, pilfering from the Duke's Estate. I am holding a large bundle of coloured leaves and the prickly casings of sweet chestnuts, cracking open to reveal the smooth-skinned nuts inside. I am taken by the two-tone colours of lime green and bronze of the prickly casings which have been lying discarded on the ground beneath the imposing boughs of the Chestnut tree. Like a bag of Chocolate and Lime sweets from the Old-fashioned Sweet shop in Tissington. Or the fine writing, I remember once, on an exquisite Patisserie Box from Laduree. The prickles dig deep into my palms and I bite my lip. The Duchess says nothing. They go to see the progress the men with diggers have been making. As we sit on a bench later, admiring the view, I consider the irony of a situation in which the coal tunnel, built by one Duke to avoid having to see ordinary workers is, perhaps, being used by another Duke to avoid the plethora of ordinary tourists.
It starts to rain, quite heavily now. And, although there is brilliant sunshine illuminating the landscape, we are sitting in the dry on a bench under a large tree watching a townscape of people with black umbrellas going hurriedly from left to right and right to left along the paths in all directions. I expect to see bowler hats appearing any minute now. It is quite surreal. I am presuming the umbrellas have been handed out by staff in the grounds. But we are dry, in our own little summerhouse beneath the tree, and supping on mugs of Sweet Potato and Black Bean Stew. And a 'creative' Salad (if I say so myself) made of all the left overs in the fridge and on the Dresser - pomegranates and goats cheese, avocado and toasted pumpkin seeds. Sometimes, recipes simply make themselves).
It has been a lovely day and we have caught the best of the Autumn colour, before the winds come to whip the leaves away and pile them into heaps for small children to run through, kicking high into the air and shrieking as they go. What is it with this slick of red leaves, brushed across the grass; thin laces of lacerating wind that whips and taunts? What is it with the dazzle that quickens the blood, makes children shriek; that busies the gardener, the squirrel, the returning Robin? Autumn in all her finery paints magic across the landscape wherever you turn. Fleeting, temporary, like Sotheby's visiting statues of sword hilts seemingly dug into the fine lawns of Chatsworth. Tomorrow there will be change. But just for today there is something to savour. Just as it is in the kitchen: Today's meal is tomorrow's memory.
Love Martha
