Beverley Nichols was an English writer (and non-heterosexual) who a few years after the Second World War bought a large and somewhat dilapidated estate not far from London. Merry Hall, the name of the Georgian manor and the resulting book, is a collection of essays about his efforts to restore the surrounding gardens with the kind of obsessive love of flowers (and water elements and pines, for which he has a 'thing') and disregard for financial concerns that will ring true to all gardeners of a certain persuasion. (He's also a big lover of cats.) Nichols is an incredible wit, and writes with the kind of descriptive powers that almost made me thankful that the book is only accompanied by a few photographs.
Although it's difficult to pick a favorite passage, one of mine is where Nichols describes the joy of planting a 'wood' -- or small forest -- from seed. 'If you are in a position to plant a wood,' he writes, 'and if you refrain from doing so, you must be, ipso facto, of a bleak and sullen disposition. You are to be shunned.' He goes on to describe the miraculous feeling of seeing huge trees that you once held in your the palm of your hand, which I suppose is a form of parenting for those of us who don't take the traditional route.
As someone who devotes increasing amounts of time to a little 'wood' in Washington Heights, I could relate. Anyone who loves to garden (and who has a sense of humor) will find much to admire about Merry Hall, and much to regret that Beverley Nichols is no longer among us.
Comments