As regular readers of this blog will know, one of my favourite local locations is Painshill Park, an eighteenth century landscape garden in Cobham. When I woke up one morning late last month to find a heavy fog, I took my trusty Fuji down to Painshill for a ramble.
The mist had coated everything in the finest dew and the spiders’ webs were looking stunning against early Autumn foliage.
Every tuft of grass bore a sparkling hammock of silk.
Berries of every hue reminded me that, in the words of the immortal Keats, this was a season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.
Not to be outdone, fungi of all kinds were busy decorating the grass,
the forest floor,
and every tree stump.
Most of the trees had yet to start turning, but there were a few obliging maples dropping their pastel leaves prettily onto the banks of Painshill Lake, just to give me some foreground interest.
In the mist, everything was still. Even sound seemed to be muffled, and it felt as if I had the whole park to myself.
The Grotto was closed but I explored the outside.
I often think the Gothic Tower, one of Painshill’s many follies, is a little too pretty to be truly gothic, but in the mist it did look a little bit spooky. A very little bit.
In the woods, I came across these dens, no doubt made by parties of children. Blair Witch, anyone?
They were not far from The Hermitage, one of my favourite follies.
For a while in the eighteenth century, every self-repecting landscape garden had to have a hermit. Painshill was no exception although story has it that the first man hired for the job lasted only two weeks before he was discovered in a local hostelry drowning his sorrows! He was never replaced.
Every time I go to Painshill I find something new, whether it be one of nature’s works of art or a fragment of the craft of people.
I made a mental note to go back again later this month to see the Park in its full Autumn glory.
Another of my posts about Painshill, including some of its history, is here.
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
– John Keats, ‘On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer’
Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
– William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
This is another photograph I took at Kimmeridge on Dorset’s Jurassic Coast, one of the UK’s ‘honeypot’ landscape photography locations. In the absence of Kimmeridge’s famed sunsets, I aimed to make the most of the rock formations in this composition.