I find myself sat under a large triangular shelter, built snugly into the southern corner of a three-sided walled garden open to visitors, known as Baddesley Clinton. In their down-season dress, ornamental flower borders line three of the garden’s walls, sprinkled here and there with red bows bringing a little Christmas cheer. The sky is fixed grey and moody, and after warming myself with lunch in the bright bustling café, this spot seemed as good a place as any other to sit awhile and write.

Built primarily as a shady summer retreat, I’m certain that in the heat of summer, this shelter offers cool respite for visiting guests, and for working gardeners too. In this shade, time served timbers and darkened joists support a thatched mossy roof, under which a tangled bird’s nest rests in the shadows; just like me. Red bricks line the floor,

bench seats and boarding furnish the two walls, and whilst dry under cover, the air is decidedly fresh.

Sat in the corner, my long view across the soft central lawn and up over the fruit trees takes in a tiled range of roof tops, a wrought iron weathervane showing my forward direction to be just shy of north. Westwards, beyond the beds and borders no outer wall exists, just a grassy bank down to the moat, and beyond that, the charismatic moated manor house that rises high. Before coming here, if I’d wished for an inspiring wintertime garden space in which to sit, in which to absorb the past and present, and write, then this would have been it.

On this cold day, and with only occasional passers-by the space feels somewhat private, though whilst it is peaceful, it is far from silent. Sitting on this December-cold bench, I close my eyes and listen for a while to hear birds ticking, squeaking, screeching and chirping too. As my eyes open, I’m not surprised then to see a robin hopping towards my feet. Further out, aside from the hush of a distant major road all seems serene, the only other sounds occasionally arriving being voices from people strolling by, and quacks from disgruntled ducks down on the water.

Pondering the scene for a while, I realise that despite passing swiftly through the first month of winter, autumn still clings on, a testament I guess to the micro-climate within these bee-pitted red brick walls. Slipping out of the shelter, my vision flows neatly from gravel to grass, onwards then between apple trees and through twiggy rose beds, to a delightfully understated sundial, around which the whole garden, if not the universe spins.

People are coming and going and frequently moving past the shelter, some stopping to look in to see this lone character writing, some not noticing me here at all. Whilst a few pause awkwardly, as if they might have ventured in had I not been here, no one chooses to step inside, maybe mistaking my welcoming grin for a stay away snarl; it can be a close-run thing, I fear. I hear people discussing the weather, the decorations they’d seen inside the manor house, and comparing the garden to their visit this time last year. One person even stopped and peered into the shelter, looking at the walls behind me as if I were invisible, commenting in a deflated manner how “they had things in there to see last year”.

I ponder the random mix of comments and reason with them, knowing only too well the unseen complexities that cause this entire space to be just so, and then I let them go; but not before I imagine a conversation with each visitor. In my mind, I invite each of them in turn to be seated for a while, to sit quietly and see what happens. You see, after a few moments of stillness and when confidence returns, birds will hop onto the trellis from the shrubby stems just outside, and then across to our feet. Each in turn will look us straight in the eye and say with expectation: “I don’t suppose you’ve a few crumbs going spare, have you?”

Drawing a line under those notions and made-up conversations, I begin to picture this shelter, albeit somewhat smaller, in my own garden space. Wouldn’t it make a perfect little writing place, I think. Naturally, whilst devoid of people passing by, its structure would likewise create a sense of enclosure, for hermit-like seclusion. A thick rooftop would ideally insulate me from the worst of the weather, though an open front would offer that all-important connection to the elements. For sure, on a day like today a dry cushion or a blanket might add a little touch of comfort, so long as it didn’t insulate me from the fresh, honest and restorative experience I’d want my garden to provide; how perfect that would be.

Maybe it’s just me, but I’ve been here minding my own business for a while now and it seems to be getting cooler. A chill is creeping up my back and beginning to tickle my legs, and I’m feeling like my time here in this shelter is nearly done. I’m glad that I pushed myself to make my way here, because I know it was needed: time to think, to see, to feel, and to connect with a garden again. I could have ventured almost anywhere, but today it was here, to this still cold bench in the shaded corner of this winter walled garden.

As my timeslot comes to an end, broken by a cheeky man’s cackling laugh from beyond the wall, it’s time to stash my pen away, wrap up my book and move along. The world outside the shelter beckons me, with its distant hush from a major road calling me to resume my slot in the rat race. Before I finally take my leave though, maybe there’s just enough time left to visit the pre-loved book shop; actually, I know there is.

Many thanks for making it through my garden rambling for today, if you’d be so kind as to leave a like, it would be much appreciated. Also, if you’re inspired to visit Baddesley Clinton, Warwickshire, I’ll pop a link below for you. 

Kind regards, Gary Webb

https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/visit/warwickshire/baddesley-clinton