We return to Packwood House just a few weeks after our last visit. This time we've come to see the House decorated as it would have been for Christmas 1918 at the end of the First World War.
The simplicity of the decoration stands in sharp contrast to the excess of modern-day Christmas. It stands as a poignant reminder of when duty, service and honour stared in the face of the apocalyptic horror of trench warfare.
Outside,
the Kitchen Garden is empty save for a solitary volunteer tending to a border. She too
departs leaving us to contemplate the ethereal beauty of nature as it begins its
winter rest.
There's a special magic to late autumn. The leaves are faded glories, stark thorny under-structures now revealed beneath. A mist clings to the last vestiges of greenery, verdant moss claiming its place on old pock-marked brick-work.
We're at Packwood House walking through the kitchen garden. Guarded by a sole scare-crow and a plant-pot seraph it yields rich treasure. The garish clash of kale leaves, the delicate filigree scent of the far-wall herb section.
The house is shrouded in mist too. A memorial of lit poppies in a side room reminds us of the dull muddied murder of the First World War. Even more poignant, the diaries of George Ash, the original restorer of Packwood House, have been copied and blown up into stiffened sheets of paper. Molded into a series of model barrage balloons they are a fitting tribute to George's service as a war-time pilot.
We walk in silence. Guests in this special place and time.
