‘The approaches at Norris Castle are symmetrical and have a certain overriding geometry. There is nothing else like this in Repton’s oeuvre, hence they are unlikely to have been designed by him.
Category: Routes (Page 1 of 4)
Oofy here: Editorial: Tell me if it’s the same for you: when I hear a fellow speaking. What they say makes perfect sense. Beautifully expressed. A treat. When I think of saying anything m’self, I get plenty of phrases alright. Jumbled up though. Can’t work out which comes first.
Captain Ken, being a bicycling man, is forever in pursuit of some new place in which to try his skills, be it the screes of a mountain slope or the dense undergrowth of a distant forest and he now returns from the United States with a renewed disdain for the familiar well-trodden paths of custom.
One is never entirely alone in the metropolis that is Harrogate. True it is Yorkshire, but this is not the Yorkshire we are familiar with, a place of crags and craggy visages, of whinstone and wind-swept moors, here the cream of society meets at Betty’s and barely a seat to be had, even on a Wednesday.
Captain Ken is an excellent and reliable fellow, if inclined to extreme scepticism when he comes across any suggestion of the Brown Advisor’s. He numbers archery amongst his past-times and it was while we were amusing ourselves at the butts that he asked me whether I was sticking to the notion that Capability Brown preferred to show off his houses in a head-on view. I said I did, for Brown was a friend to freedom and a foe to forced solutions: if head-on was the most obvious way to see a house, then head-on is what he would provide. Indeed I had already published my opinion on the matter (note 12 for example).
Forgive me if in this note I resume my happy task of setting out the progress of enlightened thought in pursuit of that snappy salesman, the gardener, Capability Brown, through a consideration of Dr Sarah Rutherford’s new book Capability Brown and his landscape gardens.
Norfolk is a county for the conservative, it is a quiet place and the Norfolk people live contentedly there, with their ancient traditions of smuggling and wrecking. With a cutlass in one hand and a twinkling light in the other, and their one good eye always a-roving, they keep a watch for the lost sailors whom they may lure to destruction on the sandy wastes of the Wash.
I have, over the last few years, scarcely opened my mouth without the word ‘riding’ popping out. I and my companions at the Tatler’s Waste-bin are asked about this, begged-for-our-opinion on that, and if-you-would-be-so-kind-as-to-submit-a-few-paragraphs-upon the other.
I was delighted to meet Dr S, whom one seldom meets outside his native Surrey, striding amongst the glorious hedgerows of paschal Buckinghamshire. As two people will who share a common interest, we fell to a discussion of the ridings, as they were designed by that king of the English countryside, Capability Brown.