Apr 15, 20235 min read

Strawberry Hill with No Strawberries

strawberry hill house — Strawberry Hill House

I thought Strawberry Hill in London Borough would sell strawberries, but there was a white gothic house instead. The house was just a few minutes’ walk from the local railway station, concealed among the residential houses. The trail of red tulips and yellow and white daffodils guided me to the entrance of this historical house.

Life of A Georgian Second-Gen Official

The house once belonged to Horace Walpole, son of the first British Prime Minister. During the Georgian times, Twickenham was the English version of Beverly Hills. Walpole bought the land to realise his dream Gothic home. Aside from his official job as a tax collector (which he had an underling doing the job for him), he spent most of his time renovating his house. Soon, the house became a popular tourist attraction in the 18th century.

Another reason was his immense collection of foreign objects. One of them was a large Chinese porcelain he called a fishbowl, which Walpole kept two goldfish. He also had a pet cat, and it soon drowned in the deep basin. His poet friend, Thomas Gray, composed a poem in memory of the cat. The title goes: Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes.

Walpole loved his English gothic castle. Many parts of the house took inspirations from English castles and cathedrals, as well as European gothic architecture. The house was dimly lit, with the only light source was from the clover-shaped skylight, to create a tomb-like effect. Along the ivory white stairs were tiny goat sculptures, and each did not resemble the other. Visitors could not touch the wallpapers in the house, as they were the handwork from Mr. Walpole and his servants. Most of them were floral themed, but there were wallpapers in plain colours. Walpole loved the colour blue, as seen from two of his bedrooms. From his third-floor bedroom, he could look at the River Thames and Richmond Park out of his elaborated stain-glass windows. Today, the view was blocked by residential houses and shrubs.

“Walpole could have been more famous if he were born in today’s time,” I told to a curator after she introduced the second-floor bedroom.

“He would,” she said. “There was no social media back then, and his fame only revolved among London elites.”

I wish I have Walpole’s library. His large white Gothic bookshelves encircling the large third-floor room, with books arranged in alphabetical manner. The top bookcase could be opened to access the collections on the higher shelves. The pointy arches guided the visitors to look at the mural on the ceiling depicting his ancestors in medieval armour and his family’s emblem, including those affiliated with the Walpole family. There were only two portraits above the shelves: Walpole’s mother and grandfather. A curator theorised there might be more portraits around the library, but they could be stored away during the house restoration process. The curator showed us an illustration of Walpole writing his new gothic horror fiction with his pet dog laying on his feet. His fascination with gothic horror led him to write several gothic fictions, which he became one of the earliest gothic writers before the craze in the next century.

To support his literary career, Walpole created the Strawberry Hill Press to publish books and pamphlets for himself and his friends. The small publishing house was born in a cottage next to the house, then it moved a little further away. A small room on the third floor showed how printing in the 18th-century was like. The first step was picking the desired alphabetical and numeral wooden blocks from a large compartment drawer. Then, the worker would carefully place these blocks onto a stick to form a line on the page before assembling them onto a larger frame. Once the blocks were inked, the frame would be lined onto a paper. The final, longer process was hanging the papers onto a clothesline and waiting for the ink to dry out completely. This was why books were reserved for the rich people before the age of industrialised printing presses.

Social gathering was an important feature among the aristocrats, which Walpole entertained his guests in his long red gallery full of oil paintings and velvet red cushions. He had no children but adored his nieces. Several replica portraits of the girls can be found around the hall. Towards at the end of the hall was a round drawing room, where Walpole’s guests withdrew themselves from the crowd and wine. The mint-coloured room was dark, but I still could see the gold quaquaversal ornate ceiling.

One gallery was reserved for the Schroder Collection, which displayed objects that were considered as ‘exotic’ during the Renaissance and Baroque period. Many believed that they had magical abilities to protect themselves from poison. They called it ‘exotic’, as the materials were uncommon to European lands, such as China porcelain, coconut, conch shells, and ivory elephant tusks. The artisans would add gold or silver mount with Greco-Roman or folklore motif to shape it into a drinking cup.

To Twickenham

Instead of having lunch in the house’s café, I was craving for Greek food. Twickenham was just a thirteen minute walk from the house.

Near to Thames sat Radnor Gardens, a small retreat full of willows. Right opposite was a small section of the massive Richmond Park, which I could spot some dog walkers and couples with a baby pram. In the small garden, a couple rested on a bench as they watched the ducks swam in pairs and a man was struggling to restrain his overexcited dog. Was this the same view that Walpole saw whenever he wrote his letters or fictional works?

Along the way were hotels and restaurants dedicated to the English poet Alexander Pope, who once lived in Twickenham. They served burgers and hotdogs on the premise, but my stomach was not in the mood. Walking with a hungry stomach was never a good idea, but my feet dragged me to the busy town centre where the only Greek food was a little further up from the area’s WHSmith.

Finally, some delicious chicken wrap.

Eel Pie Island with No Eels

The afternoon was sunny, and I regretted wearing my winter jacket. UK weather nowadays was moody: one day the scorching sun would proudly shine, the next day the wind mercilessly blew freeing chilly winds and followed by rain which dampen the ground. After lunch, I walked around the streets of Twickenham for this rare opportunity to enjoy the warmth.

I headed to the river close to the town shops, where people would either stay at the banks or cross the bridge to Eel Pie Island. The river island got its name from a pie that used to serve on the island’s inn. After some research on the Internet, the pie looks unappetising. I sat on a vacant bench, savouring the serene view of the swimming ducks and the houses on the island. How smart I was to bring my watercolour paper, so I sketched the blue and white Twickenham Rowing Club in front of my eyes. I shall give it colours once I return to Guildford.