Forrest Park. At the narrow part of the loop the bends of the river are barely two hundred yards apart, forming a sort of narrow isthmus through which ran the track on which I stood. This was the only road to the Hall, and it divided at the lodge gates for Whitescar and the West Lodge which lay the other side of the park.
The main road, along which my bus had come, lay some way above the level of the river, and the drop past the quarry to the Hall gates was fairly steep. From where I stood you could see the whole near-island laid out below you in the circling arm of the river, with its woods and its water meadows and the chimneys glimpsed among the green.
To the east lay Forrest Hall itself, set in what remained of its once formal gardens and timbered walks, the grounds girdled on two sides by the curving river, and on two by a mile-long wall and a belt of thick trees. Except for a wooded path along the river, the only entrance was through the big pillared gates where the main lodge had stood. This, I knew, had long since been allowed to crumble gently into ruin. I couldnât see it from where I was, but the tracks to Whitescar and West Lodge branched off there, and I could see the latter clearly, cutting across the park from east to west, between the orderly rows of planted conifers. At the distant edge of the river, I caught a glimpse of roofs and chimneys, and the quick glitter of glass that marked the hot-houses in the old walled garden that had belonged to the Hall. There, too, lay the stables, and the house called West Lodge, and a footbridge spanning the river to serve a track which climbed through the far trees and across the moors to Nether Shields farm, and, eventually, to Whitescar.
The Whitescar property, lying along the river bank at the very centre of its loops, and stretching back to the junction of the roads at the Hall gates, was like a healthy bite taken out of the circle of Forrest territory. Lying neatly between the Hall and West Lodge, it was screened now from my sight by a rise in the land that only allowed me to see its chimneys, and the tops of the trees.
I left my view-point, and went on down the track, not hurrying. Behind the wall to my right now loomed the Forrest woods, the huge trees full out, except for the late, lacy boughs of ash. The ditch at the wallâs foot was frilled with cow-parsley. The wall was in poor repair; I saw a blackbirdâs nest stuffed into a hole in the coping, and there were tangles of campion and toad-flax bunching from gaps between the stones.
At the Hall entrance, the lane ended in a kind of cul-de-sac, bounded by three gateways. On the left, a brand-new oak gate guarded the Forestry Commissionâs fir plantations and the road to West Lodge. To the right lay the pillars of the Hall entrance.
Ahead was a solid, five-barred gate, painted white, with the familiar WHITESCAR blazoning the top bar. Beyond this, the track lifted itself up a gentle rise of pasture, and vanished over a ridge. From here, not even the chimney-tops of Whitescar were visible; only the smooth sunny prospect of green pastures and drystone walling sharp with blue shadows, and, in a hollow beyond the rise somewhere, the tops of some tall trees.
But the gateway to the right might have been the entrance to another sort of world.
Where the big gates of the Hall should have hung between their massive pillars, there was simply a gap giving on to a driveway, green and mossy, its twin tracks no longer worn by wheels, but matted over by the discs of plantain and hawkweed, rings of weed spreading and overlapping like the rings that grow and ripple over each other when a handful of gravel is thrown into water. At the edges of the drive the taller weeds began, hedge-parsley and campion, and forget-me-not gone wild, all frothing under the ranks of the rhododendrons, whose flowers showed like pale, symmetrical lamps above their splayed leaves. Overhead hung the shadowy, enormous trees.
There had
The main road, along which my bus had come, lay some way above the level of the river, and the drop past the quarry to the Hall gates was fairly steep. From where I stood you could see the whole near-island laid out below you in the circling arm of the river, with its woods and its water meadows and the chimneys glimpsed among the green.
To the east lay Forrest Hall itself, set in what remained of its once formal gardens and timbered walks, the grounds girdled on two sides by the curving river, and on two by a mile-long wall and a belt of thick trees. Except for a wooded path along the river, the only entrance was through the big pillared gates where the main lodge had stood. This, I knew, had long since been allowed to crumble gently into ruin. I couldnât see it from where I was, but the tracks to Whitescar and West Lodge branched off there, and I could see the latter clearly, cutting across the park from east to west, between the orderly rows of planted conifers. At the distant edge of the river, I caught a glimpse of roofs and chimneys, and the quick glitter of glass that marked the hot-houses in the old walled garden that had belonged to the Hall. There, too, lay the stables, and the house called West Lodge, and a footbridge spanning the river to serve a track which climbed through the far trees and across the moors to Nether Shields farm, and, eventually, to Whitescar.
The Whitescar property, lying along the river bank at the very centre of its loops, and stretching back to the junction of the roads at the Hall gates, was like a healthy bite taken out of the circle of Forrest territory. Lying neatly between the Hall and West Lodge, it was screened now from my sight by a rise in the land that only allowed me to see its chimneys, and the tops of the trees.
I left my view-point, and went on down the track, not hurrying. Behind the wall to my right now loomed the Forrest woods, the huge trees full out, except for the late, lacy boughs of ash. The ditch at the wallâs foot was frilled with cow-parsley. The wall was in poor repair; I saw a blackbirdâs nest stuffed into a hole in the coping, and there were tangles of campion and toad-flax bunching from gaps between the stones.
At the Hall entrance, the lane ended in a kind of cul-de-sac, bounded by three gateways. On the left, a brand-new oak gate guarded the Forestry Commissionâs fir plantations and the road to West Lodge. To the right lay the pillars of the Hall entrance.
Ahead was a solid, five-barred gate, painted white, with the familiar WHITESCAR blazoning the top bar. Beyond this, the track lifted itself up a gentle rise of pasture, and vanished over a ridge. From here, not even the chimney-tops of Whitescar were visible; only the smooth sunny prospect of green pastures and drystone walling sharp with blue shadows, and, in a hollow beyond the rise somewhere, the tops of some tall trees.
But the gateway to the right might have been the entrance to another sort of world.
Where the big gates of the Hall should have hung between their massive pillars, there was simply a gap giving on to a driveway, green and mossy, its twin tracks no longer worn by wheels, but matted over by the discs of plantain and hawkweed, rings of weed spreading and overlapping like the rings that grow and ripple over each other when a handful of gravel is thrown into water. At the edges of the drive the taller weeds began, hedge-parsley and campion, and forget-me-not gone wild, all frothing under the ranks of the rhododendrons, whose flowers showed like pale, symmetrical lamps above their splayed leaves. Overhead hung the shadowy, enormous trees.
There had
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