House Style at Chatsworth

With meetings finished for the week, we decided to head north, rather than south, for the weekend.  Trees and flowers are blooming later in Derbyshire than in Dorset, but there was a hint of spring warmth and likely only light numbers of visitors to the Peak District.

Chatsworth House, towards the southeast corner of the Park, is one of the enormous stately homes beloved by the British.  It was established by the Cavendish family in the 1500s, located in the Derwent River valley half way between Bakewell (of the  Frosted Tart) and Chesterfield (of the Twisted Steeple).

The home is an enormous beige Tudor block, set in lovely green rolling gardens: the current Duke and Duchess host tours and rotating exhibitions.  Currently, ‘500 Years of Fashion’ are on view, a well-composed collection that rambles through two floors of the House.

  

The Cavendish family has been prominent in British politics, culture, and diplomacy for eleven generations, and  the assembled photographs and ballgowns reflect their evolution and influence across the centuries.

 

Exhibits range from banal embroidered t-shirts to wispy wedding and christening gowns, from peacock –feathered costume parties to formal corseted state affairs.  ‘Fashion’ is almost exclusively women’s clothes throughout: men favour jackets and trousers with only the ties tracking the trends.

     

The interiors are occupied and composed, with none of the feel of an attic on display that some Homes have.  Here, rooms reflect everyday life: Writing desks are laid with diaries and letters, the formal dining room is ready for a dinner like I have never attended.

  

The size of the table would only allow for conversation with nearest neighbors sitting alongside: did people mingle or rotate between courses? 

Similarly, how would daily life flow through so many rooms: there had to be many fewer social and family interactions in the House than would be the case in a Home today. 

 

Every room seems to be a stage, decorated and lit to impress, even those unlikely to ever have seen a visitor. 

I suppose it was a reminder to them, as it would be today, of their heritage, position, responsibility, and wealth.  In a time of Brexit, it is a preservation of how British exceptionalism was defined for centuries.

At the same time, in our populist age,  the Chatsworth is both egalitarian and voyeuristic.  The parade of ordinary people gaping at their stately rooms and taking selfies with poised dresses is leveling and polarising: they are so like us, but really not like us.

Flying Silver

It’s been, well, decades since I flew in the airlines lowest privilege category. ‘not a bad thing, but different now that I’m demoted.

The cause is a combination of factors.  I’m not traveling as much overall. When i do, it’s to Stockholm, Budapest, Dubrovnik: Low-cost carriers rather than the majors.  And my long-time loyalty partner, Delta, has changed their program to reward dollars spent rather than mils flown.  ‘not good if I am always looking for a discount fare.

Which leaves me Silver, not Platinum, for 2017.

Differences.  No lounge access.  Half-full wine glasses.. No complimentary upgrades.  Lower mileage matches.

 

But, you know, it’s good.  The day was coming, and the chase was getting tired.  The pre-flight mimosa, the complimentary newspaper, the miso soup and shortbread, early bag unloading, occasional preferred customs, and the speedy wifi, adds up to little.  Really. Being part of the global elite is addictive, but neither necessary nor defining.

 

So I am exploring the airport shops for small gifts, buying a panini and a pint when the mood strikes, and scrounging power from the Witherspoons in exchange for purchasing a bucket of chips.

All good, nothing lost.  ‘just different.  And really, not worth the money or chase.

Even given the cheap wine glass, only half full.

London twilight

     

Poole, into London

A close friend called, asked if I could meet him in London today on a personal matter.  Of course, anything, let me get the train in.  I pick up a flower and a some fizzy water before heading out.

I’d planned a day along the beach, long overdue.  A storm surf would have been wonderful, white foam and booming breaks, but the early morning was placid along the harbor and the beachfront.  Still, lovely to walk the sands and share the morning with the couples and dog-walkers.

    

Right.  9 am: hit the roads north.  On arriving in Basingstoke, though, there were a few adjustments.  There is no more cruel word in Dutch than snelbus. The British equivalent is Replacement Bus, evident only after I’d paid for parking.  When track works are on, the transit times double.

 

In this case, the delays start with waiting for an onwards bus, and end with further 45 minute waits for a train in Woking.  Still, it’s a chance to see the place, and, in my case, to find the landing spots for Wells' Martians.  They are well remembered in the city: a landing spot near the mall, the mechanical tripod striding along the thoroughfares.

  

All in all, five hours to London, car, bus, and train.  And there will be an equal measure back for the evening.  Still, the visit with the family in St. Thomas meant a lot for all of us.  Between conversations, there were moments free for walks along Southbank.  A small food fair, a burst of rain, a lot of tourists to study.

     

‘not a terrible trade for the day on the beach.