Day 11 -- I get a round
Mrs. Longford being in an uncharacterically dulcet mood and traffic not being bad for Bank Holiday, I get to A La Ronde before it opens. Wander about the grounds a bit, making the acquaintance of a little orange cat (I later learn his name is Jasper). I am the first one in the door.
How do I explain this place -- the Holy Grail of OCD? Parminter cousins, Jane and Mary, went on Grand Tour of the continent to pick up cultural knick knacks, came back home and had a 16-sided house made for themselves -- each room like a slice of pie off an octogonal center hall. The conventional speculation is that they chose this unique design from Italian churches they saw, but I have a different theory -- they needed maximum knick knack nooks. The whole thing is CRAMMED with souvenirs, geegaws, arts and crafts. Once again, I turn to the superior descriptions of STW:
Everything that can be done with pointed scissors, neat gum-brushes, fairy-like needles, with shells, seaweeds, and feathers, they did excellingly. The drawing room walls are decorated with feather-work: small breast feathers laid on in geometrical patterns, looking at first sight rather like mosaic, but keeping a softness and vague sleekness of something animal.
The center hall is meant to be a sort of upside-down ocean grotto, with a stylized seaweed pattern on the walls, going up to the "beach" in the upper gallery, the shell gallery. There are no less than twenty-five thousand shells used in this extraordinary nacreous mosaic. Unfortunately, it is too fragile to allow visitors -- but they've installed a wonderful video camera system, where you can zoom in to the details to your heart's content. Madness -- wonderful madness!
As delightful and absorbing as it is, it's a fairly small place, and I'm off in good time for second stop of the day: Coleton Fishacre, down near Dartmouth. Tedious amount of traffice near resort towns (Paignton and Torquay). Mrs. Longford allows me to put in a request for guidance to nearest town, Kingsweare, but is so appalled by my proceedings that she never says a word to guide me - merely points a mute red arrow in the right direction.
Have a yummy jacket potato with cheese before going in to immaculate Arts and Crafts interior. Simplicity of style absolutely staggering -- makes every curve of a Lalique sconce or swoop of a carpet border into a grand gesture. Handpainted tiles in bathroom, blue marbleized surface to dining table, the granite for the sitting room fireplace has little fossils still embedded in it. Wind gauge and map of the area in smoking room. Everyone who stayed two nights had to do two hours of weeding in Lady Dorothy's garden. All funded by Gilbert and Sullivan -- the builder of the home was D'Oyley Cartes, the principal producer. And every stone brought in by private railway.
Decide to wander back and assay St. Michael de Rupe, the mysterious little church high on the hill that I can see from my bedroom window at Burnville. It is apparently in the "St. Michael ley line" that includes Mont St. Michel and Saint Michael's Mount. Legend has it that the church was commissioned by a merchant who, caught in a storm at sea, vowed to build a church on the first land he saw -- which was the highest point along the coast. The Devil was so ticked off about this, that at night, he threw down all stones that the builders had raised during the day -- until St. Michael showed up, and showed the Devil how throwing boulders really works. I get about two-thirds of the way up before the wind gets the best of me -- it's going to be stormy tomorrow, alas.
On the way back, spy some moor-dwelling sheep and stop to take some photos, which they take violent exception to, and charge the car.
Another excellent dinner from Victoria -- stuffed sole, and strawberries Romanoff (strawberries in a raspberry and cassis coulis -- a very classy alcoholic slurpee). Get postcards written and once again look over tomorrow's itinerary. Well, please God -- not too bad rain or traffic and let me get to Exmoor safely. Wish I could take a book from here -- but all of them seem to be about privileged women in mid-life wondering if that's all there is, until quirky unsuitable male shows up. Bah humbug.