Enys Garden

(Enys: circle, island, clearing in the forest) 

I had absolutely no desire on this particular day to visit Enys Gardens. I had no desire to visit anywhere except for the underside of my duvet and our oversized biscuit tin. Still, I was emotionally blackmailed out of my warm and extremely comfortable bed, into clothes that do not fall within the pyjama category and out into the unseasonably cold May day.

I was still in a bad mood as the car came to a stop in a large field. I had already convinced myself this was one of those car parks that are all too often found to be, what seems like miles from the place you came to see. Inconsiderately situated and at odds with the lazy person. Of course, it rained as we left the car but to be fair the sun was out and the potential of a nice day was in the air (not that I was ready to admit it).

The house itself is now uninhabited and stands slightly derelict in places with a small nod to its former glory. There is an air of creepy yet grandeur, and it seemed to me to exude a kind of sadness. 

Records suggest that this third incarnation, would have originated with the Enys family in the latter part of the 13th century, it burned to the ground in the early 1800s, was rebuilt and ended as a residence still with the Enys Family just after WWII. It was briefly requisitioned during this time by the Royal Netherlands Naval College. It ended its days as a boys school.

History is strewn everywhere as you walk through the grounds, sometimes carefully positioned for the eager visitor but mainly hidden from the unobservant eye. 

Needless to say, I was not planning on any major adventures through the 1000 acres of farmland and woodland but the gentle stroll we took was absolutely delightful. We had managed to come at the best possible time, the main feature (which I shall come to shortly) that brought us here in the first place was at its most magnificent, the like had never been seen for many years previous. The 

The gardens were enchanting, each area sectioned off by fencing affording views out over the sprawling fields or enclosed by ancient, protective stone walls. Doorways leading to garden areas that seemed part created, part wild, felt secret as if I had fallen into the pages of Frances Hodgson Burnett’s, Secret Garden. At any moment I expected to see Ben Weatherstaff and his Robin companion or Dickon and Mary pushing Collin in his wheelchair. 

To have lived here, the familiar steps taken, leading you from one idyll to another must have been tranquillity itself. I allowed myself a minute to sit under the Wisteria and daydream what it would have been like to call this home. 

But time once again was getting away from us and I, reluctantly and reminiscent of duvet vacated the intoxicating smells of the Wisteria bench and pressed on. The main reason for our visit soon became apparent. As we followed a path through the wooded glen, we were hit with a rolling sea of blue. It was the bluebell season and it did not disappoint. We later came to learn this was the best show in recent years and I am in little doubt to the truth of it. The pictures certainly don’t do it justice and I shall not marre their beauty by rambling on. All I shall say is that my husband takes quite a nice picture.