to penshurst
Just before Penshurst Place goes into its winter hibernation, I decided to make a pilgrimage to the Sidney family estate. Moi went through a phase of Renaissance knighthood admiration due to the New Arcadia. Yesterday's knights are slightly different from today's knight Sir Paul McCartney, who dashed off to the Thames and shouted 'Cunt' at David Blaine--sweet.
The first three quarters of the excursion went like this:
a) Late for thirty minutes, leaving Arthur and Litz waiting patiently at the Victoria coach station.
b) No coach service to Edenbridge; the place is in the middle of no where.
c) Spent a hell long time commuting on the bus. In the early afternoon we were still in London.
d) Train finally carried us to Tonbridge. Attempt to dine in authentic small town restaurant but could only find nationwide Whetherspoon type pub food--menu is the same everywhere.
e) Gorgeous weather disappeared and rain took over. Lovely.
By the time we arrived, it was 3:30ish. There's something remarkable about being the last visitors to a 450-year old building, for you are left with the sense of a dying winter beauty and quietness, even the raw drizzling rain seemed apt. Nice to recognise the familiar Sidney portraits and the ambitious Dudleys who were sadly beheaded. King Henry VIII was also here when he was courting Anne, not to mention Elizabeth I being entertained by the convivial hosts. There was a loving letter written by Robert Sidney to his wife Barbara displayed. She sent him a box of Penshurst peaches, to which he replied with something like, 'It griefs me to receive such a big box of peaches, for it makes me think you left none for yourself'. (awwww~~~) However, peaches we found none, but juicy apples plenty. It's the weight of the name, Sidney, that makes the place grand. I cannot help but think that low-birth Jonson's encomium to the house is a political gesture and desire to climb the social ladder.
Penshurst garden
Wet bench
Roses are red
Litz's hands