Forbidden Pleasures

My most recent summer adventure began at 3pm on August 2nd in the middle of the Yorkshire Dales.

We had driven up from London that morning on a mission to visit one of the strangest places in the world -- The Forbidden Corner, an award-winning children's park populated with mazes, tunnels, secret chambers and fanciful oddities. Built 20 years ago by eccentric millionaire Colin Armstrong and architect Malcolm Tempest, it has recently been voted the best European folly of the 20th century by the Folly Fellowship. (And, by the way, how fantastic is it that there is a Folly Fellowship?)

The friends we were travelling with were newbies, but I had visited The Forbidden Corner in 2007 and, for three years, its gothic strangeness had haunted my thoughts until I wondered if I was a character in a Daphne du Maurier novel: "Last night I dreamt I went to The Forbidden Corner again."

I knew I would return.

And guess what?

This time, you're coming too.

We enter by Diabolical Gate. Go ahead, you first.

Which took you more by surprise -- the waving epiglottis or the ogre-like belches emanating from the lingual cavern?

Okay, now look around. A forest of narrow yew-lined footpaths rises up before you and stretches deeper and deeper into the heart of a mysterious world. Your quest has officially begun.

Armed only with a checklist of clues and your natural-born instincts, your challenge is to find the 30-odd sites of interest within the labyrinth-like grounds. (Don't bother asking for a map -- none exists.) At every turn, there are decisions to make and tricks to avoid, but if you persevere, you will discover secret grottoes, talking statues, even a revolving room...and that's all I'm going to reveal.

Note to Parents: Wear appropriate footwear so you can keep pace with your children who will turn into squealing blurs of delight. Seriously, don't lose sight of them -- they are your only hope of getting out.

Take two rights, a left and a right and you might wind up in an underground grotto with a path of stepping stones...

...that leads to a trick fountain...

...that leads to an underground temple manned by Roman sentinels.

Conversely, take two lefts, a right and a left and you could find yourself on a mysterious staircase to nowhere.

There are so many meandering twists and turns that sometimes just when you're convinced you're getting close to something, the path you're on suddenly veers away from it. Hang on -- haven't we passed that cupid before?

"Those who cannot remember the past are doomed to repeat it."

~George Santayana

Me: Avery and Luca, you can have unlimited candy for the rest of the trip if you will just tell me how you got to the other side of this maze. (beat) Yes, I pinky swear.

There are stone towers guarded by watchful gargoyles...

...thatch-roofed hobbit houses...

...and an exuberant herb garden anchored by a turreted dovecote.

Eventually, thanks to the unerring instincts of my youthful companion, I discovered the pathway back to civilization again. (Thank goodness for spongy 8-year old brains that have room after room of available storage. My mental file cabinets are full to bursting. I am becoming increasingly convinced that in order to remember something new, I have to toss something old out.)

From The Forbidden Corner, it was a quick hop to our resting place for the night, the charming Black Bull Inn in the village of Middleham.

The next morning, we were greeted by the clippety-clop of hundreds of sleek, shiny thoroughbreds passing beneath our bedroom window on their way to morning training. Apparently, Middleham is world-famous for its racehorses. Yawn. Just another day in Yorkshire.

After a quick romp on the mist-laden moors, it was back to the car to settle in for an all-day drive to catch a 5pm ferry to the Shetland Islands.

Up next: Drama in Aberdeen ( also known as "What Do You Mean, You Can't Find Our Reservation?!")

Birds of a Feather?

This morning, two words I'm willing to bet you never thought you'd hear in the same sentence: Evelyn Waugh and Lady Gaga.

What could they possibly have in common?

(Portrait of Evelyn Waugh by Henry Lamb; Lady Gaga)

The answer lies in D. J. Taylor's "Bright Young People" which I recently devoured. (If you have any curiosity at all about that crazy cult of 1920's pleasure-seekers called the Bright Young Things, this is the most penetrating book I've read about them.)

(available here)

Anyway, Evelyn Waugh figures heavily in the book. He chronicled the BYT's in his novels, was strongly attracted to their hedonistic lifestyle and knew all the players intimately. So I had him on the brain, so to speak, when on page 147, D. J. Taylor cites an article from a 1929 Punch magazine:

Punch's correspondent is escorted by "Lady Gaga" to an entertainment hosted by "the Honorable Batsin Belfry" and her husband "Bobo." Arriving at a "little house in Bloomsbury" ablaze with light, the couple fight their way to the dining room....On the counter sits "a massive maiden in a cavalry officer's mess-kit...and next to her a fresh-faced lad dressed as a bride....

And later:

Losing sight of Lady Gaga for half an hour, the inteloper eventually finds her with her arm round the waist of "a young heavy-weight in horn-rims dressed as a baby" listening to a hollow-eyed girl in a tutu and an opera hat who is singing a song with the refrain "It's terribly thrilling to be wicked."

So funny, huh? I have to admit I thought, "How cool. This must be where she got the idea for her name." (Okay, I was wrong.)

Another similarity between the world of Waugh and the world of Gaga is their predilection for dressing up in outrageous costumes.

Below, a photo from the infamous "Second Childhood Party" in 1929 which was labeled by onlookers as "the type of behavior that leads to communism."

(Courtesy of Illustrated London News Picture Library)

And check out this one. It was taken April 29, 1930, the night of David Tennant's Mozart Party where guests were required to dress in 1760's attire. Afterwards the revelers took to the streets of Piccadilly and interrupted some night workmen digging up a gas pipe. Cecil Beaton is the one wielding the pneumatic drill.( That poor laborer looks like he doesn't know what hit him.)

(Photo via "Bright Young People")

Below, a few of Lady Gaga's vehicles of self-expression:

Waugh and the Bright Young Things virtually created the phenomenon of celebrity -- prior to them, a member of the upper class was only supposed to appear in print three times (birth, marriage and death). After them, everything was fair game. Gossip columnists became powerful voices, breathlessly recounting to a riveted public all the scandalous doings of this new social order. Novels like Waugh's "Vile Bodies" were huge sellers, offering an insider's glimpse into the lifestyles of the rich and louche.

Newspaper owners demanded their photographers chronicle all the hijinks as well, ensuring that celebrity would forevermore go hand in hand with flashbulbs. Of course, wouldn't you know it, Lady Gaga has a massive hit called "Paparazzi."

It just goes to show you that you never know what you're going to find when you stick your head in a book.

London: The Days of Cool Britannia

In 1996, we moved to the sceptr'ed isle. Piero flew over first and started looking for places immediately. One night he called to tell me he had found a rose-colored carriage house in a mews in Notting Hill.

Piero: You're going to love it. It's totally you. The woman who lived there before -- Camilla something, the owner said she works for British Vogue -- painted everything this amazing mottled pink and cream. It's like a hippy sponge cake. Even the --

Me: (interrupting) Stop! You need to concentrate. Is it Camilla Nickerson? Because she is my total style icon.

Piero: Yeah, that's her.

Me: (trembling) Oh my God. Do whatever you have to. Just get it.

He did. Unfortunately, in an overzealous quest to please their new tenants, the owners had painted every surface white by the time I arrived. (Oh, the loss, the loss.)

(Our former house in Wilby Mews, London, 1996-1999)

But despite its shiny new coat of paint, the house still heaved with character. A lacy licorice-colored staircase soared through the middle of each floor from the ground level up to the third floor attic.

The centuries-old floorboards were stained a golden honeycomb color and, like a battered leather satchel, gleamed with a patina of character that only a long march of years can provide.

(Upstairs salon)

Design-wise, I was in the throes of what I now refer to as my "Hogarthian" phase: out with the new, in with the ancient. I haunted Portobello Road for cheap second-hand treasures and then set about giving them a new life, hand-sewing cushions, embroidering pillow covers and even reupholstering them (hello, staple gun). Tea, bourbon biscuits and Radio 4 kept me going. At night, when friends came over and the candles were lit, the house did radiate an enticing shabby grandeur.

(William Hogarth, The Distressed Poet, 1736)

The bedroom was on the ground floor of the house, and in an inspired renovation decision, the owners had left the stable stall up which bisected the room in two. The bed fit perfectly on one side and on the other, I created a little reading area. One late night I heard a noise and looked up to see a feral-looking silhouette in the window above my head. "Most likely a town fox," my neighbor said. "Absolute rascals, they are." Town fox. The words reverberated in my head for days.

(Bedroom, London)

The kitchen was a tiny galley area on the second floor and completely unassuming in design, but I loved it. Everything was delightfully within arm's reach, the floorboards uttered a comment whenever you took a step and despite the rain, the fog or the sleet, the light was inexplicably always golden. And from that little window on the world...

(Kitchen)

...I was afforded a rose-colored glimpse onto the lush, private gardens of the massive town houses that faced Ladbroke Grove. It was a fantastic wonderland of 19th century conservatories and Victorian follies and deliriously unbridled foliage. If I squinted, there was almost no clue that the 20th century (or even the 19th) had arrived.

(View onto back garden)

It was during this time that I found my beloved WWII-era horseshoe bench (just visible behind the dining table). I had gone to Bermondsey Market at 5am and spotted it there in the pre-dawn darkness. For £60, it was mine. The painting is by E. L. Blumenschein (1874-1960), one of the famous Taos Painters, although I think it was painted during his Hudson Valley years, before he headed West.

(Dining area)

Up on the top of the house was a half-floor that we turned into a tiny (and I mean tiny) lounge. Outside was our very own private garden. Piero cobbled together some wooden planters and we grew an aromatic variety of herbs and encouraged the ivy to fulfill its long-held ambition of becoming a wall-to-wall carpet. Sometimes at dusk, we'd eat our dinner up there, surrounded by smudgy clouds and blue-grey slate rooftops and a ragtag assortment of Victorian chimneys.

(Mews attic)

This is us as we were then. Eagle-eyed viewers will spot my friend Jane in the background.

(Wedding day, Chelsea Registry Office)

Update: A few of you have asked if I still keep in touch with Jane and Mary from my last post. I do. Mary has moved back to England but Jane still lives in Brooklyn and both are busy raising families and pursuing artistic ventures. Two years ago, we all rented a house in Yorkshire and it was wonderful beyond words to see our children galloping across heathery moors, rolling down hills and scoffing sweets together like there was no tomorrow.

(Yorkshire, 2006)

Maybe up next: Thrills in the Hollywood Hills (if I can locate the photos...)

Also, it's Friday, which means my new column is up at W Magazine. Click HERE to read it, but not before I wish a wonderful Valentine's weekend to everyone.

The Vegetable House

(My mother and siblings, 1970's.

I'm the one in back on the left.)

When I lived in England as a child, my parents bought a house outside London called "Hutton Mount", which was a perfectly lovely name for a Tudor-ish dwelling except for the fact that it didn't mean anything to our family. It didn't resonate. My parents had just moved to the UK from Stockholm with five young children in tow and they wanted a house name that felt personal and relevant to their new lives. After a bit of deliberation, they decided to rename it "Brussels Sprouts", because my four brothers and sisters and I were all born in Brussels, Belgium and, well, we were all little "sprouts." Well, as you can imagine, this created quite a stir. No sooner had the name gone up than there was a knock at the door: the news had reached some journalists from the London papers and they trooped out with Hasselblads in hand. Within days, various articles appeared in the broadsheets and tabloids. Of course, they had a field day with the headlines: "Americans Name House After Vegetable" and so on. I have the clippings in an album somewhere; if there's any interest, I'll see if I can dig them out and scan them for you.

This little backstory gives you a bit of insight into why when we moved into our new house in 2008, one of the first things I wanted to do was to name it. Piero and I tossed around an endless variety of monikers, but we kept coming back to "The Kenmore Arms." It expressed just what I wanted to convey: that our home would be a modern-day coaching inn where our friends and neighbors would always feel free to stop by for a pint or a cuppa.

I found a little company in Cornwall, England to fashion a slate sign for us and when it arrived in the mail, I felt a pang of panic that it might be too much for our little refuge to live up to, but my fears were short-lived. Whether our house has grown to fit the name or whether the name has changed our perceptions of the house, I don't know. But I can't imagine it being called anything else.

Does your house have a name?

If it doesn't, what would it be? And why?

W Magazine, Part Five (The Finale)

A sincere thank you to everyone who has been reading my guest blogging posts for W magazine. They've asked me to come back in January for another gig and I couldn't be more thrilled.

Today's theme is all about wanderlust, a word so evocative of its meaning that, in my experience, it has been known to bring about the inescapable impulse to travel merely by uttering it aloud. Use it carefully.

Click HERE and have brilliant weekends, everyone.

(from "British Watercolors of the Eastern Mediterranean",

currently on display at the Huntington Library)

18th Century Open House

Come with me on a Hogarthian journey. We're travelling to Spitalfields in London's East End, so ladies, raise your petticoats when you tiptoe across the cobblestones (you don't want that nasty ordure clinging to your dress) and gentlemen, please don't forget to give a ha'penny to the crossing sweeper.

We're standing outside 18 Folgate Street. Dennis Severs' House. Go ahead, lift the knocker. (Long beat.) That's strange, I told the family we'd be popping by. Let's go in anyway. No, please, after you.

(A bit of background: Artist Dennis Severs (1948-1999) spent his life transforming this formerly dilapidated Georgian house into a living time capsule now open to the public. Half-eaten food on tables, the sound of footsteps overhead and echoed conversations all create the illusion that a fictive family of Huguenot silk weavers is living all around you.)

Look at this room, would you? Those bones. Those details. That artful disarray. It's like a "World of Interiors" spread.

Love the panelling in this room. And the way that jade-colored seat cover pops against all those orangey-red hues. And the rough texture of that beige fabric -- is it a curtain? The edge of a sleeve? I can't tell. But it makes me want to design a billowy hemp blouse to wear with jeans, boots and a big wooden necklace.

That chilly English light creeping in from the window has me at "hello." Especially when tempered with the warmth of an unadorned candle. It's so "Tristram Shandy."

Love the assemblage of tiles on that kitchen wall. (Delft? Perhaps.) Wonder what they made for tea...Venison? Syllabub? Posset?

The right photograph can make the most untidy of rooms look utterly inviting. This is that photograph.

Grace Coddington needs to convince Anna to let her use this location, don't you think?

Mental note: Garlands are for more than just mantelpieces and bannisters.

Pea soup green, cobalt blue and orange. Who knew?
Can't speak.

Really, just can't speak.

Click here for a virtual tour of the house and information on opening times. Monday evenings require booking as they tour by candlelight -- how divine!

(Photo credits: LightLocations. And thank you to reader Linda who alerted me back in March to this incredible find.)