The Russian Baroness and the Cat

Doesn’t that sound like a great title for a fairytale?

Once upon a time, there was a Russian Baroness (we’ll call her Natasha) who loved cats. She wanted to have a very special, friendly cat with green slanted eyes and a smooth coat, so she mated two of her favourite cats and came up with a new breed.
This breed became more popular, and people started refining different strains, but these people weren’t always very nice. They were unkind to Natasha, and soon she wasn’t able to be involved in all of the cat breeding events and activities that she had helped to begin.

Natasha died, but two of her friends (one of whom is my brother’s ma-in-law) decided to honour her by starting an association for the cats that she had created. They breed, hold cat shows, use the royal colours of purple and silver to represent her, and insist that all their organisation’s activities are conducted in a spirit of friendship, with no politicking or backbiting.

This meant that on Saturday, I spent the morning and afternoon in woolavington village hall, helping my brother make bacon sarnies, sausage baps, cheese rolls and cups of tea, and serving them with Victoria sponge to a bunch of cat fanciers in lavender. Lady B. walked in with a bright purple sweatshirt with sequinned pictures of Siamese cats on it. “Tasteful, I thought,” she remarked.

It was rather fun. I’ve got no personal interest in pedigree cats – my policy on animals being that I like and get on well with most of the ones not in the rat family (which includes gerbils, guinea pigs, spiders, and chihuahuas wearing jackets), but I prefer them to be outside catching mice or other members of said rat family. However, it is people who are enthused about something are usually interesting (I might exempt star trek from that), and the kitties were really cute and not the rat-like kinds that have had most of their fur bred out of them. In the end, most hobbies are a good excuse to bring people together to drink tea and socialise, and I’m always in favour of that.



And here is one of the cats.













Fertile Fortunes

Fertile Fortunes is the name of a book my dad got me last Christmas. It’s a good Sunday dip-into book, and tells the story, with pictures, of Tyntesfield, the former home of Lord Wraxall (Wraxall’s a nearby village).

The family made their money by discovering a market for guano – bird droppings from South America that made great fertiliser. They used the money first to pay off some family debts before thinking about building a house, but when they did – wow.

Lord W. died six years ago leaving no heir, and the National Trust was able to buy the estate and begin restoration. I believe it just opened a year ago, and there’s still plenty to do – the kitchens are piled high with old things, and we passed through a room where a man had just finished polishing a chandelier and looked quite happy about it. He agreed that it’s an Aladdin’s cave of interesting pieces.

The house is beautifully decorated in a comfortable Edwardian style. Apparently, the family like to keep up with the times, so last century they covered up all the fussy Victorian stencilling with stretched silk wall coverings. There are interesting little curios everywhere, like an incredibly ornate carved ivory chest (from before we knew ivory was evil). They also have a bit of an art collection, including a Rubens and a Stoebels (sp??). One of the last built parts, said to be very close to Lord W’s heart, was a beautiful little chapel where the family and staff had Sunday services.

My favourite aspect, though, was the grounds. I believe they have about 500 acres, and they’ve been beautifully landscaped – it’s a painting with trees and flowers as the media.

There are formal gardens close to the house – clipped yew topiaries, variegated and dark holly hedges ringed by almost black purple tulips, red-gold wallflowers, yellow snapdragons, and vivid pink tulips. The walls have white and apricot honeysuckle and light purple wisteria all over them, so the place smells gorgeous as well.

Then you look out over the grounds, and it’s breathtaking. Oaks next to copper beeches, next to wild cherry blossom in bloom, deep pink rhododendrons, all against these sweeping green expanses that must have been quite lovely to begin with.

There’s a popular English poem with the line “England’s the one place I know where men with splendid hearts may go.” A trifle overblown, perhaps, but looking over this place, and seeing what vision, taste (and money) can accomplish, you get the impression that the W. family were splendid men indeed. It’s very refreshing to visit an amazing place like this that wasn’t built on the backs of slaves, or from tobacco, baby seal clubbing, or some other heinous but lucrative business of yore.