By Train

My father was a railroad man and I grew up traveling by train. The romance of this form of transportation was not lost on me. Even as a little girl, I knew the cavernous halls of the towering terminal station held special, unique wonders and I loved it all with such a passion. With ceilings so high they might as well have been sky itself... mesmerizing echoes of the varied voices of porters, travelers, ticket takers... mingling aromas of coffee, leather, diesel - the colours, the movement, the sounds, the smells- to me it was all a whirling blur of excitement and delight. How well I remember descending those crowded staircases that led down to the train platforms where deafening, almost frightening, noise met glorious anticipation in waiting for my train to arrive. And then... “Do you see it??" Around the curving track, here it came, thrillingly loud, colossal, slowly screaming to a halt at my feet. The fairy tale arrival of a magic carpet could not have been more wonderful. I remember the feel of the soft wool blankets the porter would tuck around my shoulders on cold days as well as my nervy apprehension when moving from one car to another as I made my way for hot chocolate in the dining carriage, with the raucous wind whipping round me and the inevitable childish worry....what if I fall???? Trains have the luxury of traveling through countryside unseen by roadways and winter trips were often spent with my nose pressed against cold window glass as I counted grey squirrel nests in tall, naked trees, while summer excursions gently swayed along through ever lengthening tunnels of green. Is it any wonder so many novels feature train travel? Is there any more evocative mode of transportation known to man?
Sadly, passenger trains have all but disappeared in this country. But happily, they still remain in force in the United Kingdom, where traveling by train is one of the joys of my visits there. The last long journey I made by train was a nighttime trip from Inverness to Edinburgh,
And oh, it did not disappoint.

Walking Through Autumn

Like most dogs of his furry lineage, Edward is utterly repelled by the thought of wet feet. On a soggy day, he is bound and determined to remain indoors and when forced into a necessary foray into the back garden he will high step comically along the stone pathway in an often futile attempt to remain dry-pawed. One can clearly see his mood begin to cloud when the skies do. But in all other weather, he adores nothing more than heading out with me for a long walk. In the hot summer, when the days become mossy and oppressive, those walks are frequently enjoyed late at night. After dark, when the swelter has abated a bit and the shrill crescendos of the cicadas can be heard sawing loudly through the pine trees, we become moving, moonlit shadows as we take our slower strolls through the waning heat. Our winter walks are often experienced at our fastest pace, as the cold is a friend to Edward, of course. When the temperature falls, his normally jaunty step is transformed to a run of pure joy, with some jumps and scampers thrown in for good measure, while I, bundled up like a toddler, try valiantly to hold up my end of the leash. But, autumn. Is there any season better suited to long walks with a furry dog than autumn? Overnight it seems, Mother Nature has lit her trees with fire, each one more magnificent than the last, like forest jewelry, more fine and precious than deserved. The air is cleaner, crisper; it enters the body like a cool honeyed tonic and we take great drinks of it as we meander along beneath a sky the very definition of blue. Having spent many a long day just this way as a little girl, nothing makes me feel happier, healthier, or more appreciative of life than walking briskly beside a beloved dog on a most salubrious day. And from the way Edward often looks up at me as we go along, smiling his big happy smile, he obviously feels the same.

From childhood, perhaps you remember this poem by Winifred Welles :

Dogs and Weather

I’d like a different dog For every kind of weather -
A narrow greyhound for a fog,
A wolfhound strange and white,
With a tail like a silver feather
To run with in the night,
When snow is still, and winter stars are bright.

In the fall I’d like to see
In answer to my whistle,
A golden spaniel look at me.
But best of all for rain
A terrier, hairy as a thistle,
To trot with fine disdain
Beside me down the soaked, sweet-smelling lane.

Let Us Now Praise Witty Men

In this increasingly homogenized world of target audiences and common denominators, someone in possession of true individuality is a rare bird indeed. I was reminded of this fact one Thursday morning a couple of weeks ago when, over my coffee and strawberries, I opened my favorite section of the Times and spied a wonderful article on one of my decorating heroes, Keith Irvine. Now 80 years old, Mr. Irvine’s penchant for original thought and singular taste has not diminished one wee bit. If anything, as happily often occurs with age, it has only intensified, this being evidenced by his sharp pronouncements on topics ranging from the imperiousness of Sister Parish to the tentacles of Crate and Barrel. Mentored by the best, with talent to spare, the Scotsman Irvine combined what he learned with who he was and proceeded to concoct designs that were ever consistent in their beauty and their comfort; enchanting, inviting, and imminently livable rooms. In reading this entertaining interview with the man himself, and recalling all the pictures I had seen of his amazing work over the years, I recognized afresh an essential ingredient that is shared by all creations that I find most inspiring in the art of interior design, or in the art of life, for that matter. That most crucial element is Wit. For me, a room cannot sparkle without it. It is of no consequence the cost of the fabrics, the importance the paintings, or the provenance of the bibelots - when a room is devoid of wit it sits as lifeless and dull as a physician’s waiting room on a sunless day.

Many years ago, when I was just beginning to be fearless, I saw a magazine photo that effected me greatly. It was of a sitting room at Gipsy House, the home of the late author Roald Dahl.
Dahl had hung an immense and flamboyantly opulent mirror on the pale peach wall of the tiny room; a mirror which touched both ceiling and floor and straddled a ceiling beam to boot. Needless to say, it totally dominated the room, and I found it entrancing. With a beribboned bouquet of dried flowers tucked along one side and an emerald green tote bag hanging from the nose of a carved dolphin on the other, it was a wink to the seriousness that can sometimes exist in design. It was completely charming. It was witty.

While intelligence can be present without wit, and sadly often is, wit simply cannot breathe without intelligence. Wit springs from, and thrives on, intelligence. Think Austen or Rowling, Hepburn or Vreeland, Leonard Cohen or The Beatles. Think Keith Irvine. Intelligence plus wit so often equals magic. Perhaps that is why the most sought after dinner guests, the longest married couples, and yes, the most creative decorators seem to possess that bit of a sidelong glance at gravity, that crinkly sprinkle of amusement that just makes everything, in art and in life, better.
Wit.
Keith Irvine has it, has always had it.
Long may he reign.


“No matter how much restriction civilization imposes on the individual, he nevertheless finds some way to circumvent it. Wit is the best safety valve modern man has evolved; the more civilization, the more repression, the more need there is for wit."”
Sigmund Freud


If you are unfamiliar with the work of Keith Irvine,
a wonderful book was published last year that I would recommend.
It is entitled Keith Irvine-A Life in Decoration, and was written by his wife, Chippy.