I was heading toward Eastwell and the Winchilsea estate, where poet Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea, composed some of her best writing. The farther I traveled on the narrow Kent road towards Wye, the more peace and contentment flowed within me. I imagined Anne being driven home by carriage after visiting dear friends in nearby Hothfield, where I had practiced my driving—poorly;) 1
One curve unfolded into another. Approaching an English cottage at the curve of a road bordered by Hawthorne hedgerows—another perfect stand-in-time moment, an indescribable feeling of belonging there. But I didn’t. The ache of it made my throat hurt. I had to have lived here in a previous life. The pull was too strong.
Under a stunning, ominous sky, I pulled up to Eastwell and its gray stone and turreted manor. The charming ivy-covered country house was magnificent. Relishing in the refreshing breeze. I passed through an outer cobbled courtyard, walking by neatly stacked rows of firewood. Inside, oak-paneled walls with leaded windows and a fire burning full in the large stone fireplace, scenting the inviting space. Only one of the deep leather armchairs and love seats was occupied. I sat. No one bothered me, though, clearly, I was not dressed for the wedding reception taking place.
The vast manor house was gorgeous, the gardens were spectacular. Though not the initial seventeenth-century home, the garden walls were original. Until that time, I had failed to sense Mary’s presence, but here in the gardens Anne’s gentle presence was everywhere. No wonder she was content to leave the court after James and Mary were deposed. What a fruitful place. I walked around to the back of the estate. The wedding party was being photographed on the terrace steps.
I snuck a few photos.
The clouds grew more threatening. I roamed the manor, keeping away from the bridal party—except in the loo—until the rain passed. Convivial generations of ladies primped in front of Victorian mirrors. I washed my hands, making a joke about something to do with their conversation. As usual, after hearing me, they asked if I was American. They were curious about me, but no one questioned my presence. Since I looked artsy, I think the employees and guests assumed I was one of the wedding photographers. I had been discreet but busy with the 35mm Nikon that hung from my neck.
Again, I sank into a deep-seated leather chair by the fireplace and observed.
The reception was on the east side of the manor. The dining hall was straightaway, still empty, but formal tables were set with stunning crystal, beyond more stunning leaded glass. A man sat across from me, mournfully.
Perhaps he was a recently widowed member of the groom’s family, or maybe he was a man stood up by his mistress. This would be a perfect place for a romantic rendezvous. I imagined returning with Tony. They would go nuts for his southern accent.
Back outside, I sat under a flowering tree in the east garden, avoiding intermittent drizzle, soaking in the walled garden and breathing in the colors, wondering how it would feel when I painted from home, using photos I took. When I cried at the end of Lord Attenborough’s PBS series on treasure houses of Britain, when the camera panned the staircase on the last episode, had it been Eastwell? Was this where I had lived a previous life?6 What fitting happenstance that would be. Kismet.
I could have stayed there for days, but the storm was imminent. Regretfully, I said my imaginary goodbyes to dear Anne and continued on. I wish I had thought to look for her burial site when I was there to pay my deep respect.
On the train to London/St. Pancreas, I chatted with a friendly Brit rendezvousing with college mates, as all my train companions seemed to be doing when train traveling to London. They were going to do a historic pub crawl. We talked about security and American politics. Brits enjoy chatting with Americans. Saying hello invited conversation; they immediately detected my accent.
Somehow in talking about the beauty of Kent, the gent inspired me to find that wild hair and journey to Edinburgh for a night. James and Mary lived there off and on, at Holyrood Palace, where Charles II thought they’d be safer, due to James’s intense, unflinching Catholicism. Queen Elizabeth II stayed there at least once a year, every summer. Just days before, I didn’t think my injured lower back would take a five-hour train ride, but it was so much better, and I had my borrowed pillow placed just so to relieve the pressure. Tony often teased me about my former propensity to steal sunglasses from Walmart. I can now add pillow theft to my rap sheet. I meant to mail it back. Honest.
I was too close to Scotland. I had to go for it. I don’t know the chap’s name, but I thought of him all day and giggled to myself because we had laughed at how often I dodged the ever-present rain—so often, when I needed to be outside, it would disappear. He said whatever writing I ended up with should be titled Rain Dodging.
- I was introduced to the Countess in my summer tutorial, “18th Century Literature and the Arts,” at Oxford University, Professor Peter McCullough.. ↩︎
(Some excerpts from: Rain Dodging 233-234, 240)
