I am always on the lookout for different things to do at dusk—new woods and paths within a reasonable distance of our home, outdoor concerts and theatre, if they do not start too early, and the audience is not overlit. Much research is needed, and often the idea does not come off.
“You should look into Mottisfont,” says Pete. “They have a walled rose garden, and they open late for two weeks around midsummer, when the roses are at their peak, because so many people want to see them.”
Eagerly I page through the National Trust handbook. Mottisfont is a property in the valley of the River Test, not too far away. Its rose garden is internationally famous, specialising in traditional old-fashioned varieties that have not had the smell bred out of them in pursuit of the structure or longevity of the blooms.
I run my finger down the table of opening times—and indeed, for two weeks, the gardens stay open until 8:30 p.m. But, consulting my diary for sunset times, I find that this is no good—because around the summer solstice the sun is at the peak of its glorious career and, diva-like, does not quit the stage until at least twenty past nine. Currently, I can manage half an hour before sunset—but that would mean starting any visit at 8:50 p.m., twenty minutes after the gardens have closed.
So near and yet so far, I think sadly, imagining roses that I will never see. I mind even more for Pete than for myself; I want to give him treats that we can enjoy together, as there is still so much he has to do alone.
So I decide that I have nothing to lose. I write a letter to Mottisfont explaining my situation and asking if there is any possibility that we could visit the garden later. I offer to pay for the inconvenience, or extra hours for staff.
It is early May when I write, and I fully expect to receive nothing but a polite refusal. But then, in mid-June, a lady phones me up. “I’m sorry we haven’t got back to you,” she says. “It is extremely busy here during the rose season. But yes—you can come. We can open the gardens for you between nine and ten, and there’s no need to pay.”
“That’s wonderful,” I say, overwhelmed. “Thank you so much.”
So on the date agreed, I climb out of my puppy cage into a car park from which the last vehicles are dispersing after a long and sultry day. The air is warm and close, but the first cool tendrils of evening are beginning to lace their way through. Soon a young woman appears, with keys, and lets us into the main grounds. Together, we cross a stone bridge over the burbling river, then pass along the north front of the house, and past the stable block, and through an avenue of enormous stately trees, before we reach the walled garden itself.
The wall is high, and made of old bricks in an incredible variety of colours—russet, violet, peach and cream, the descending sun brushing all of them with gold. The young woman unlocks a door in the wall, and holds it back for us with her outstretched arm.
We go inside.
The smell wallops us in the face.
It is as though we have passed from air to some new substance, formed of a thousand interlocking scents that twist languorously about each other, like invisible smoke. We feel resistance on our skin as we push further in, as if the garden within the wall were at a higher pressure than the world outside. The temperature itself grows warmer. “There you are,” says the young woman. “Enjoy! I’ll meet you back at the front gate at around ten.” She closes the door on us, and we are left alone in this magical, rainbow garden, trespassers in its silent, oozing profusion. To strike a match would probably be dangerous; the whole thing might explode.
We look slowly about us. A wide border runs all the way around the walls, backed by climbing plants spread-eagled across the brick. The main part of the garden is laid out in geometric beds, with long straight paths running between them. Some of these walks lead under arches, thick with climbing roses. At one crossroads is a circular stone pool, with a little fountain at its centre. Apart from the discreet bubbling of the water and the drone of late bees zigzagging between blooms, everything is still.
There are roses here—but many other flowers as well: lilies that thrust upwards on long slender spikes, tufted carpets of pinks, neat humps of lavender like green-and-purple porcupines; plants that fork and furl and splay, plants of which I do not know the names, plants with ordered, structured heads, plants with trailing, pendulous sprays.
I run my fingers gently along smooth and furry leaves, put my nose into velvet and silken depths. I want to get bodily into the beds, and roll; I have to hold myself back.
Slowly the light alters, from yellow to purple to blue. The colours in the garden grow softer and less distinct. Pete, who has been taking pictures, puts away his camera and comes to join me. We sit on a bench beside an enormous flesh-coloured rose, its blossoms blowsy and collapsing, revealing indecently hairy yellow centres. Petals spread over the earth and grass like a layer of delicate ears. The fragrance wraps us in a private cloud.
“We are very lucky to see this on our own,” says Pete. “During the rose season there are usually hordes of visitors, and the whole place is packed.”
There is evidence of hordes passing through: some of the paths are made of turf, which has been ground down into bare earth by hundreds of feet. And there is a sandwich on one of the seats, in a plastic triangular case.
“Yes—it’s wonderful,” I say, leaning back on the bench and looking at the sky, where a moon has appeared, like a suddenly opened eye. “Complete, decadent luxury.” But I still feel a small pang. I would quite like to be part of a horde now and again, to rub up against my own species in the mass. It does not happen any more.
We wander back to the door in the wall, and slip through into the real world, closing it carefully behind us. We make our way through the shadowy grounds to the entrance, passing an elderly lady exercising a snuffling dog among the stately trees.
“She must live here, lucky person,” I whisper to Pete.
“Yes,” he replies, “I think there are apartments in the house.”
The young woman with the keys is waiting at the gate. When we thank her, she tells us that it has not been any trouble, as she does not live far away. We drive back in the not-quite-dark midsummer night, and on the inside of my eyelids I carry with me the imprint of glorious flowers, and in my nostrils, the ghosts of their perfume.