“romantic” and “colorful.” Personally I can think of nothing more terrifying than to live in a land where law and order have no meaning and violence is the rule of the day.
On and on we traveled through South Gower, that ancient Norman stronghold, and now on our right Cefn Bryn, the backbone of Gower, rose to form a long treeless line of land beneath the blue sky. To our left the sea at Oxwich Bay flashed far away, sometimes hidden, sometimes revealed by the gates set in the hedges. And ahead of us at last, shimmering with promise and seemingly beckoning us on into a mythical kingdom, the hump of Rhossili Downs marked the end of the Peninsula and a view that I believed no land in Europe could surpass.
We turned off before the Downs. The motor picked up speed as we roared into the parish of Penhale. Moors dotted with wild ponies stretched before us again, but we could see the trees of Oxmoon now, and presently the high wall of the grounds bordered the lane on our right.
“Hurrah!” cried John as we reached the gates.
Oxmoon lay ahead of us, droll little Oxmoon, an eighteenth-century parody of the classical architecture made famous by Robert Adam. We had arrived. My father halted the motor with a triumphant jerk and as the noise of the engine died I at once felt in a better humor. We had been traveling with the roof closed and all the windows shut in order to keep the dust out, so when we flung open the doors the fresh air came as the most exquisite luxury. I got out, stretched my long legs which had not been designed to suffer gladly fifteen-mile journeys in motorcars, and took a deep breath. The air was fragrant with the scent of new-mown grass mingled with lavender. I could hear the larks singing and suddenly, for one precious moment, I was back in my childhood with Ginette so that when I turned to face my home again I saw not the provincial little country house of reality but the fairy-tale palace of my dreams.
My mother opened the front door.
Instantly the past was wiped out and I was left with all my most ambivalent emotions in a highly uncertain present. Assuming an impregnable mask of filial respect I exclaimed with warmth, “My dear Mama, how splendid to see you again!” and moved swiftly up the steps to embrace her.
“Dearest Robert,” said my mother, regarding me tranquilly with those pale eyes which saw far too far and much too much, “welcome home.”
VIII
I WAS AT OXMOON waiting for Ginette. It was seven o’clock on the evening of my arrival and I was dressing for dinner. Fifteen hours to go.
When I had finished I paused to survey my oldest possessions which, arranged around me on shelves, created a powerful atmosphere of nostalgia. Here were the silver cups I had acquired during the course of my academic and athletic career as a schoolboy. Here were the favorite books of my boyhood, the dog-eared collection of Robert Louis Stevenson’s work, the battered copy of Eric, the haggard edition of The Prisoner of Zenda. Here were my school photographs hanging at regular intervals on the wall above my bed to record my progress from stony-faced small boy to supercilious young man. Why had I kept this amazing collection of trivia? I could only suppose that despite my well-ordered mind I had fallen victim to one of Oxmoon’s most exasperating traditions: everything was hoarded; nothing was thrown away.
Tucked discreetly behind a cushion on the window seat I even found the toy dog which I had been given in infancy, his white woolly coat worn threadbare and his ears sagging with age. To my astonishment I saw that his tail had recently been repaired. This seemed to indicate either the presence in the house of a demented housemaid or a tension so profound in my mother that she had been obliged to scour the bedrooms for something to sew. I was just picking up the dog tenderly by the front paws and remembering how I had screamed when Ginette had once tried to annex him, when the door of my room was
On and on we traveled through South Gower, that ancient Norman stronghold, and now on our right Cefn Bryn, the backbone of Gower, rose to form a long treeless line of land beneath the blue sky. To our left the sea at Oxwich Bay flashed far away, sometimes hidden, sometimes revealed by the gates set in the hedges. And ahead of us at last, shimmering with promise and seemingly beckoning us on into a mythical kingdom, the hump of Rhossili Downs marked the end of the Peninsula and a view that I believed no land in Europe could surpass.
We turned off before the Downs. The motor picked up speed as we roared into the parish of Penhale. Moors dotted with wild ponies stretched before us again, but we could see the trees of Oxmoon now, and presently the high wall of the grounds bordered the lane on our right.
“Hurrah!” cried John as we reached the gates.
Oxmoon lay ahead of us, droll little Oxmoon, an eighteenth-century parody of the classical architecture made famous by Robert Adam. We had arrived. My father halted the motor with a triumphant jerk and as the noise of the engine died I at once felt in a better humor. We had been traveling with the roof closed and all the windows shut in order to keep the dust out, so when we flung open the doors the fresh air came as the most exquisite luxury. I got out, stretched my long legs which had not been designed to suffer gladly fifteen-mile journeys in motorcars, and took a deep breath. The air was fragrant with the scent of new-mown grass mingled with lavender. I could hear the larks singing and suddenly, for one precious moment, I was back in my childhood with Ginette so that when I turned to face my home again I saw not the provincial little country house of reality but the fairy-tale palace of my dreams.
My mother opened the front door.
Instantly the past was wiped out and I was left with all my most ambivalent emotions in a highly uncertain present. Assuming an impregnable mask of filial respect I exclaimed with warmth, “My dear Mama, how splendid to see you again!” and moved swiftly up the steps to embrace her.
“Dearest Robert,” said my mother, regarding me tranquilly with those pale eyes which saw far too far and much too much, “welcome home.”
VIII
I WAS AT OXMOON waiting for Ginette. It was seven o’clock on the evening of my arrival and I was dressing for dinner. Fifteen hours to go.
When I had finished I paused to survey my oldest possessions which, arranged around me on shelves, created a powerful atmosphere of nostalgia. Here were the silver cups I had acquired during the course of my academic and athletic career as a schoolboy. Here were the favorite books of my boyhood, the dog-eared collection of Robert Louis Stevenson’s work, the battered copy of Eric, the haggard edition of The Prisoner of Zenda. Here were my school photographs hanging at regular intervals on the wall above my bed to record my progress from stony-faced small boy to supercilious young man. Why had I kept this amazing collection of trivia? I could only suppose that despite my well-ordered mind I had fallen victim to one of Oxmoon’s most exasperating traditions: everything was hoarded; nothing was thrown away.
Tucked discreetly behind a cushion on the window seat I even found the toy dog which I had been given in infancy, his white woolly coat worn threadbare and his ears sagging with age. To my astonishment I saw that his tail had recently been repaired. This seemed to indicate either the presence in the house of a demented housemaid or a tension so profound in my mother that she had been obliged to scour the bedrooms for something to sew. I was just picking up the dog tenderly by the front paws and remembering how I had screamed when Ginette had once tried to annex him, when the door of my room was
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