I've had
cause to re-assess the phrase "quiet leafy suburb". Temporarily relocated
to one such in London, I sat this morning on the patio, enjoying the summer
warmth and the view of the lush and extensive garden, while listening to the sound
of birdsong - disturbed only occasionally by over-flying jets on their way to
and from Heathrow. But at nine o'clock the neighbours' workmen arrived: to the left
they began to saw and hammer at wooden decking; to the right they started grinding
through concrete paving blocks; and, somewhere behind the trees at the bottom
of the garden, they kicked a lawn mower into action. Continuous maintenance and
improvement, it seems, go with the territory.
Otherwise it
may still be described as "quiet" in a non-literal sense: apart from
the presence of tradesmen there is no evidence of any other activity. I suppose
that is what the inhabitants value and want to preserve. A ten minute walk away
is Fenton House - an elegant 17th
century townhouse, lovingly preserved by the National Trust. Yesterday I bought
some early apples from its orchard and ate one in its perfect garden while
watching the bees rummage through the multi-coloured blooms. Who would want to
change such a pleasing setting?
But I haven't
been spending all my days sitting in gardens: I also took a train to the south
coast to meet with my room-mate from another era, forty years ago. We hadn't
seen each other in all that time and, although age had made itself apparent in
his physical being, there was no change in his charming demeanour. He lives now
in a "quiet leafy suburb" and during our reminiscences he told me
that he is very happy there and that he prefers things not to change (even
though he accepts the futility of this hope). Like most of us he lives in an
inherited habitat, one made by previous generations to suit the ways in which they lived. We may tinker with the
layout, modernise the facilities and update the decor, but otherwise we are constrained
- physically and psychologically - by the buildings and infrastructure we
inhabit. To what extent do they define the way we live?
I got some
sort of an answer when I visited another National Trust house near Esher. Just
before WW II the architect Patrick Gwynne persuaded his parents to let him
demolish the Victorian family house and build a replacement, in the same grounds
but further away from the increasingly busy Portsmouth Road. This was The Homewood, a modernist triumph - and
I say triumph because there was and still is so much resistance to the notion of
modernist architecture in our domestic dwellings. He did not compromise on the
principle of designing a sleek “machine for living”, so much so that, during
our guided tour of the house, some commented on the “eccentricity” of his
rigour. The house was tailored to the life he wanted to lead and he was fortunate
to be wealthy enough to indulge his convictions.
Patrick Gwynne
lost his parents soon after the house was completed. He lived there, never
marrying, with his sister whom he outlived. Without offspring he was able to refine
the house further to suit his own purposes and ideals which otherwise might
have become diluted. His architectural practice was successful but he was never
commissioned to replicate the design of The
Homewood. Perhaps his vision of the perfect house was too extreme - or even
alien - for others to contemplate. It would have suited me.
But there
was one thing he couldn't control: walking around the immaculate and
thoughtfully landscaped gardens I noticed that that there was no escaping the intrusion
of traffic noise from the Portsmouth Road.
The Homewood
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