Making a pile
I think, in another life, I must have had a double-barrelled surname and a proclivity for tweed. it’s also possible i had a fabulous, rambling country house—a country pile to use the British vernacular.
While there’s no way of knowing for sure what my previous incarnations were, I can say for absolute certain that I’ve been an admirer of the English country house genre since the day I was born.
Perhaps you, dear reader, feel the same way? To that end, I thought it might be helpful offer some specific tips, some clear instructions on how to create your very own pile to call home. Here’s what you need to do:
Find an idyllic rural setting. Green, rolling, a friendly forest, gentle fields, maybe a delicate brook or river. The land should look as if it’s been borrowed from another time (or a dottering duke).
Build something big and rambling, preferably in brick or stone. Wood, while lovely, is a touch pedestrian for this sort of thing.
Mash together a few different architectural styles. Jacobean, Edwardian and Georgian, for instance. The randomness will suggest an estate that’s evolved over generations.
Garden the smithereens out of the landscape. Lots of boxwood topiary and cedar hedging, some fruit trees, ivy or other climbers on the walls of the manse, a vast vegetable patch (hidden from view by a ha-ha), impeccably-bordered flower plots, seemingly ignored container gardens, and a vast expanse of immaculately tended lawn.
Let’s go inside and doll things up, shall we?:
Starting with the walls. Hang heaps of art. Some precious ancestral portraits (no one will ever know if they’re actually yours or not), lemon-gold framed watercolours of a basilica in Florence (painted on someone’s Grand Tour, presumably), a splash of abstract modernism (to show you’re not completely stuck in the past), and some children’s art (because family is everything—even if you sent the kids to boarding school at 8 years-old). Oh, and plenty of black & white photos (school classes, sport outings, family portraits, etc.) hung in clusters or sitting atop Chippendale (as in Thomas, not shirtless) side tables.
Stuff the shelves with books. Lots and lots and lots of books. Build more bookshelves as needed. Keep stuffing. Too many is never nearly enough. You’ll want a mix of old leather-bound classics (complete collections of Shakespeare, Jane Austen, etc), yellowed paperback thrillers (i.e. everything by Jeffrey Archer), loads of tattered travel guides, and some witty short reads for the loo.
Let’s bring in some furniture. A great variety of knackered (but expensive and gorgeous) pieces from every style over the past six hundred or so years. Burnished leather and patinated wood will make your home feel right, if not exactly bright. But that’s okay, physical comfort is the key. You should be able to spend three days on a deep and soggy sofa before it even hints at being uncomfortable. Tartan throws and countless cushions are de rigeur. Never mind the odd chair whose cracked seat has been roped off with twine, this is all about living with the real.
Pay special attention to the kitchen—the heart and hearth of every home. This room needs to be big, able to swallow the Aga, a large oak table from a French rectory, more chairs than necessary, armoires packed with china, cut crystal stemware and enough silverware to sink a barge.
What else? Dozens of well-worn Persian rugs, acres of chintz, legions of wellies and Barbours in the mud room, and a trio of dogs (a well-tempered breed that likes napping almost as much as the hunt).
A proper country home is never full. Keep importing books, copper pots, and random art until a state of delicious clutter is achieved. Your place must never look dirty, but should always be elegantly scruffy. Because you don’t really give a rat’s ass what other people think. Do you?
By the time you’ve pulled your pile together your finances should have started falling apart. Neither easy nor cheap this country life. No matter, now that you have a beautiful burden of your own to call home. When you’re barely able to pay the gardeners, you’ll know you’ve really and truly made it.
