Over the bank holiday weekend, when
Charlie was off running his favourite marathon (Avebury to Stonehenge, in case
you’re interested), we took ourselves off fairy hunting. Furzey Gardens is this hidden gem in
Minstead in the New Forest. It's fairly unique in not being the traditional stately home and
gardens set-up, but a charitable trust in which the wonderful gardens are tended
by volunteers and young people with learning difficulties. It was one of the first places we were brave
enough to embark on day trip to when Charlotte was a baby (I know, we are
pretty hardcore, venturing all the way to the next village: we should probably write a book about this
kind of stuff!). And it’s one of those
places that keeps us coming back because every time there’s some new structure
or discovery to be made. And of course
there are the fairies ...
Same child, same wall of pink ... eight years on
When we first started coming the
fairies had just moved in. Now they seem
to be pretty well established, with over 30 fairy doors waiting to be
found. The great thing about these is
they’re not set on a trail, and while there’s a vague kind of map it’s more a
nudge in the right direction. So you
never discover them all, and finding a new one is genuinely magical. Some of them are probably totally secret. This time we found Midas’ Mansion for the first
time, off the beaten track: a door at which fittingly a pile of coins had been
left to be turned into riches. It would
be rude not to join in. We found about
10 doors today, and the expression on Katie’s face – who thinks Ben and Holly
totally rule, and who is gutted that there is no sign of the tooth fairy visiting
her yet – was priceless. Throughout the
gardens little offerings of flowers have been at the fairies’ doors, and it
struck me, particularly after Long Barrow a few weeks ago and the sudden death
of someone in our village whose doorstep has since been decorated with pots and
wildflowers, how compelling our need is to reach out to fairies and the dead
with colour.
We’ve been to Furzey loads, but the
spring is truly spectacular, I haven’t seen pinks and reds like it anywhere
else on earth (I haven’t retouched any of these pictures). There’s an adventure playground, inventively made
up of a series of African treehouses, tunnels and a dry boat. There’s a great three-floored treehouse with
views over the Isle of Wight, a bug barn, eccentric scarecrows, alpacas
studiously ignoring the interlopers, a giant’s picnic table, a hidden star-gazing
hut, and 16th century cottage complete with a family of sleeping
children guarded by a spider (you really have to see it to get it). It’s a place for stories to unfold, and you
don’t need to say very much at all because the children are immediately drawn
in. For the adults there’s a rather good coffee
shop, art gallery and plant sale (I say for adults, like I would have the slightest
clue how one negotiates a plant sale). But really, with the massive lawn
looking down over the spectacular mass of colour, picnics win every time.
It’s true at one point Katie had a
total meltdown after cruelly being taken away from the swings. (Am I the only
person in the world who totally hates swings?
You spend your whole time either queuing or riddled with guilt that your
turn might go a millisecond over the agreed norm.) We made some cursory attempts at distraction,
making grass guns, fountains and horns, which she treated with the disdain they
deserved. But such is life, and as my
older children point out, it makes it somehow it more memorable remembering the
various places where strops have been had.
It was only really when we discovered the next fairy door that some semblance
of order was restored. And such is
Furzey Gardens that there are so many compelling new spaces to be discovered; it’s hard
to maintain a funk for very long.