Places to find some peace and (relative) quiet

Turtle spotting in Central Park.

A trip on the tramway (actually a cable car) 

over the East River to Roosevelt Island.

Very little to do there

but a stroll to the Four Freedoms Park

was pleasant enough and completely deserted.

The outright winner for tranquility was the Met Cloisters.

Monarch butterflies in the Conservatory Garden.

Purl Soho. A pilgrimage to see the knitting shop of online fame.

It was certainly quiet in there. Somnolent even.

I had to ask someone to help me 

because nothing is labelled for brand, composition or price.

After a short discussion and vague hand waving at the shelves,

 the young woman turned away, as I thought, 

to show me a pattern but to my consternation

fell into another assistant's arms for a prolonged embrace, 

much back stroking and murmurs of consolation.

I stood behind her wondering what I had done to trigger this collapse.

Eventually she straightened and wandered over to the rack. 

I came away empty-handed.

Running away

First to Greenwich Park where we took in a photographic exhibition

at The National Maritime Museum -

The Great British Seaside.

I have never known the lime blossom to be more

blissful and poignant.

There was a whole avenue of it to drink in.

That along with privet blossom is the scent of childhood summers.

And then today when the kerfuffle and cacophony reached its apogee

with the arrival of more scaffolding and men with nail guns,

we went to Igtham Mote.

But even that was too noisy for comfort so we set off

(at midday) on one of the estate trails.

Unfortunately we timed our arrival back home with the work still in full swing,

and the music on the roof had increased in volume with our absence.

Someone had brought along their own playlist.
Bobby Darin was an improvement on talk radio but

my first choice for the scaffolders would have been

I think it was the first pop song I ever heard.

Kondo to the max

Looking for an antidote to Kondo-mania?
This stretches the spark of joy test to the limit.

Meet a man, Charles Paget Wade, who in the early 20th century 

assigned a whole house, Snowshill Manor, to his 22,000 piece collection of 

toys, furniture, bicycles, spinning wheels, suits of Samurai armour, 

chests, model boats - you name it and if he thought it exemplified 

good design or craftsmanship,

then he had to have it.

Crucially, for him, good workmanship that might be lost to posterity sparked joy.

Nothing shall perish

was his family motto.

The collection is so vast and varied that it is not catalogued or labelled.

One visitor, I was told, likes to bring and place a new object each time he comes

to perplex the curators and present custodians, The National Trust.

I would argue with his assertion that each room has a restful atmosphere.

I found it overwhelming and was repeatedly drawn to the windows

for respite from the Stuff.

But Snowshill Manor House was a home to things not people.

It is a vast cabinet of curiosities, 

a giant version of the one that his strict granny used to let him open 

on a Sunday if he had been good all week.

He lived in the tiny dark Priest's House in the garden.

When he eventually married aged 63, his wife was not keen to

make it the marital home -

this is the bathroom

and there was no electricity or heating

so you rather sympathise.

Luckily they were able to decamp to the family's

sugar plantation in St Kitts.

And like the doves from his dovecot

I was glad to escape into the warm Cotswold sun.

The allure of the past

 I'm not sure what I feel about 

Alastair Hendy's Home Store

after my second visit at the weekend.

Experiential shopping taken to extremes.

Who is buying the 

Denby and Woods Beryl Ware china

(aka Anglican china)

and ostrich feather dusters?

They aren't cheap here, but elevated to museum status

in their meticulously contrived vintage setting,

they exert a curious pull.

The fact that the same things can be found 

down the road in one of the many junk shops

at half the price means that people must be

 willing to pay through the nose for

the scent of the real open fires and dusty floorboards

if this oddity is to survive.

His window dressing is pitch perfect,

the attention to detail obsessive,

but the place has a haunted,

not a happy atmosphere.

It reminded me of Dennis Severs' house,

another time capsule experience

dominated by the personality of its creator.

I went in with my camera,

and wandered about in a slightly hypnotic state

but came out empty-handed into the chilly street 

with a feeling of relief.