Hatchlands Park Outside of Guildford Town
There was something beyond Guildford Town that no one bothered to talk about. I only discovered the existence of these historical mansions after some digging online.
It took one Sunday morning to catch the bus heading to Hatchlands Park. The bus station was oddly quiet, even though it had already passed nine in the morning. With one custard tart in my hand, I waited at Platform 17 for the bus heading to Epsom. I was not alone; there was a group of Mainland Chinese students chattering in Mandarin.
Once I bought the bus ticket, I secured it in my pocket as it would come in handy later. I waited for the Chinese students settled themselves inside the vehicle, so I could have a proper chat with them.
“You’re heading to Hatchlands, right?”
“Yes,” one guy replied.
“Where are you from?”
“Imperial.”
All the way from London. I talked to the only Hong Konger in the group, Nat, who could only converse in English. Although they were from difficult faculties, they shared a common interest: music. Their purpose of the visit was to view the piano collection within the park’s country house.
The bus moved through the Guildford suburban houses and dived onto the highway. All we could see were trees and fields without a hint of civilisation. I had to rely on the Google Maps to know whether I was close to my destination. The bus stopped in front of a shabby hut where the spiders had woven cobwebs. The woodsy park reminded Nat of East Sussex, where she studied for a short period.
“I did not miss the gloomy environment,” she said. Anywhere outside of London had always been gloomy, the vibrant city was an escape from the countryside or the obscure English towns.
I was astonished to find the parking lot was a full house, seeing that there were drivers struggling to look for an empty spot. My mother never liked the idea of me exploring an area she had never heard of; she would be surprised to find families going out of the city for a day trip.
English Countryside Aesthetic
The red Hatchlands house had not opened its door until 12 in the afternoon. Despite having planned to leave at noon, the Imperial students reluctantly stayed for another hour. I followed them around the park, taking photos of the house’s bare bricks and its mint green roof.
“Are those donkeys?” one guy pointed at the two donkeys resting behind a barricaded wooden stable. Donkeys were usually seen in petting zoos or city farms nowadays; it was rare to find them in a country house.
“Too bad there are no donkeys in China.”
“I thought there would be some in the countryside?” I asked.
“How do you know?”
“TV shows,” I got the impression from the rural villages featured on a Mainland China reality TV show Where Are We Going, Dad?. Or they could be just ignorant about the life in the countryside.
We moved on to the open fields full of dead trees, which painted a gothic atmosphere. The ground was damp from last night’s rain, with dried cow dungs lurked among the lush grass. To avoid stepping on these golden mines, we dashed to the dry footpath full of pebbles. Other visitors brought their kids and dogs to the park so they could run around the grassy field without being leashed. The footpath led the way around the park, passing through a children’s adventure area. Then, we found white, fluffy sheep barricaded behind a wired fence. A signboard urged the visitors to ensure the wooden door remained closed so the sheep could graze freely. What a paradox.
“So they just graze all day,” someone said.
What else they could do? Start a revolution and take over the park?
On the way back to the house, we passed by a deep pit covered in brown leaves and snapped branches. If we were slightly careless with our steps, we could have fallen into the abyss and never be seen again. Following the arboreous trail, we reached the entrance, where more visitors flooded the park’s reception hub.
We could not access to the park’s mint-coloured temple and an out of sight ice house as the path had been blocked by a long chain. The only area to linger was a small garden near the house, where the benches were drenched by the rain. We just stayed for a few minutes before the house’s wooden door was ajar.
Mansions Full of Collections
Since there is a no photography policy within the house, I will describe the interior as vivid as possible.
To the right of the entrance was the drawing room in a yellow hue, shining down on the antique pianos. The pianos came in all shapes, sizes, and design, with mostly 18th century pianos with lower black keys. These wooden pianos were beyond playable, and they also had historical value. For instance, there was a piano belonged to Marie Antoinette, the last Queen of France. There were stacks of Mozart and Beethoven scores, piled high enough for visitors to recognise the collector’s love for music. Portraits were hung on the wall, staring at the fleeting visitors of the house.
On a desk, there were two miniature paintings of a Georgian couple. A lady on duty introduced them as the first owners of the house, Admiral Boscawen and his wife Fanny, who had lived for merely ten years. When the National Trust obtained this house in 1947, it was vacant. Today, the house is rented to Alec Cobbe, a well-known English collector. The house becomes a place to store his musical collections and other miscellaneous items. While the house is opened to the public, Mr. Cobbe remains upstairs until sunset.
Following a velvet red carpet, we reached the saloon where Mr. Cobbe stored more of his piano collection. In the background there was a faint sound of a relaxing piano music, played from a radio hidden in a secured area. Otherwise, I could have thought the room was somehow haunted. More oil paintings and Greco-Roman figures were incorporated into the room’s elegant furniture.
The library was probably my favourite area in the house. This peppermint green room stocked shelves of old hardcover books on which the spines were about to fall apart. There were more portraits hanging on the wall, including Charles II and his mistresses and one allegedly the true appearance of Shakespeare. Modern photographs were added into the collection, displaying photos of Cobbe and his family. I wondered if he would sometimes head down to the library, sitting on the antique floral sofa while watching the television hidden in the fireplace.
“Look at the ceiling,” an Asian lady pointed at a mural above our heads. “Cobbe commissioned this with the permission of the National Trust.”
There were four figures at four different corners: three fair-skinned women and one dark-skinned man. It was supposed to represent the four continents, but even so, no one could tell the symbolism. As the lady said, this was an Eurocentric worldview.
Right opposite was once the Admiral’s bedroom, which was transformed into a dining room by Lord Rendell, the house’s last owner. The dining room was slightly bigger than my bedroom in the student accommodation, enough for ten people to dine together with the silver candelabras and a crystal chandelier. Yet Lord Rendell retained some of the bedroom features, such as the fireplace with the carving of the Admiral’s beloved dog, Becca. At the corner, displayed more information about Lord Rendell, which praised his generosity for sheltering the St. Anne Covent School’s students after being evacuated from London during the Second World War. The house would shut its door whenever Mr. Cobbe had guests around his property, and they would feast in this very room.
The corridor led us to a fleet of stairs, completely barricaded for Cobbe’s privacy. He must have been looking out the window to watch the visitors come and go. What had distracted from the curiosity to explore upstairs was the marble Greco-Roman statues. I recognised Diana with her hunting dogs, Mercury in his winged slippers, and Venus bearing her bare body.
The last room was a 20th century addition by Lord Rendell as a chapel. An organ with two chubby angels playing a cello and a trumpet was near to the house’s exit, which was attached to the chapel’s wall. When Mr. Cobbe moved in, he converted it into a music room. To visualise his ideal of a Valhalla of Musical Talents, Cobbe hung pencil sketch prints of classical musicians on one side of the room. This room harboured a grand piano reserved for Mr. Cobbe’s private pianist. I imagined Mr. Cobbe and his guests would gather in this room after lunch, listening to a piano performance as they basked under the sunlight that pierced through the glass dome.
Do you think that’s all about the house tour?
There were more about the original owners of Hatchlands Park in the corridor right outside the exit. Fanny was a renowned bibliophile, who created a literary circle called Bluestockings, exclusively for aristocratic women in London. As for Admiral Boscawen, he had always been a navy man since he was fourteen. The couple met through Fanny’s relatives, and it was love at first sight. This beautiful quote perfectly represents their love story:
“When you and I love each other and told it only by our eyes.”
Tragically, Admiral Boscawen died young. In grief, she sold the house and moved to London.
Food Before Home
A café was strategically near to the house, ready for hungry visitors to make their order. While waiting, I peeked at the menu written on the blackboard. There were savoury meals like mac & cheese, loaded potatoes, and grilled sandwich, or the sweeter options like cakes, ice cream, and brownies. While the boys were learning about the grilled sandwich, I grabbed a cheese scone from the pastry tray. Remember the bus ticket? It could redeem a free coffee or tea from one of the park’s cafes. Instead of the usual cup of coffee, I asked for a pot of homemade tea.
The indoor dining area had a farmhouse vibe with its minimalistic design. Old kitchen utensils such as cast-iron, bronze kettle, and pots that looked like garden buckets hung around the walls, embellishing the 18th-century kitchen vibe. Among the occupied seats, I found a vacant bar stool near to a large display shelf. The aromatic tea refreshed my mind, but I could not bring myself to enjoy the dry scone. If it was not for the tea, I could have choked on the pastry.
Who could ever miss the second-hand bookstores in National Trust bookstores? Right opposite the café was a bookstore selling pre-loved paperbacks, hardcovers, and DVDs. I had always fancied digging around for titles that could only appear in Waterstones or Goodreads. In the fiction section, I found a novel recommended by my friend Sayantika. How lucky for me to get this for 2 pounds.
We had to take the next bus back to Guildford town. Otherwise, the subsequent bus would arrive in two hours. Right opposite the shabby shelter, I could not find any tall bus stop sign except for a speed limit. The Imperial students scouted along the road, but there was no existing bus shelter or lane nearby.
“Are you sure this is the bus stop?”
“It’s on the Google Map,” I said, showing them my phone. A blue arrow pointed at the location of the bus stop, exactly at the spot where we were standing.
We waited at the roadside full of speeding cars, debating whether we should call an Uber in the middle of nowhere. Soon, the bus heading to Guildford arrived a little later than the scheduled time. We were saved.
Date of Visitation: 12th March 2023
Opening Hours: 10am-5pm (daily)
Address: East Clandon, Guildford GU4 7RT
Entrance Fee: 11 pounds per pax
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