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Merry Hall Trilogy #1
Merry Hall
First in a trilogy, Merry Hall is the account of the restoration of a house and garden in post-war England. Though Mr. Nichols's horticultural undertaking is serious, his writing is high-spirited, riotously funny, and, at times, deliciously malicious.
320 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1951
28 people are currently reading
2145 people want to read
About the author
Beverley Nichols
102 books149 followersJohn Beverley Nichols (born September 9, 1898 in Bower Ashton, Bristol, died September 15, 1983 in Kingston, London), was an English writer, playwright, actor, novelist and composer. He went to school at Marlborough College, and went to Balliol College, Oxford University, and was President of the Oxford Union and editor of Isis.
Between his first novel, Prelude, published in 1920, and Twilight in 1982, he wrote more than 60 books and plays on topics such as travel, politics, religion, cats, novels, mysteries, and children's stories, authoring six novels, five detective mysteries, four children's stories, six plays, and no fewer than six autobiographies.
Nichols is perhaps best remembered as a writer for Woman's Own and for his gardening books, the first of which Down the Garden Path, was illustrated — as were many of his books — by Rex Whistler. This bestseller — which has had 32 editions and has been in print almost continuously since 1932 — was the first of his trilogy about Allways, his Tudor thatched cottage in Glatton, Cambridgeshire. A later trilogy written between 1951 and 1956 documents his travails renovating Merry Hall (Meadowstream), a Georgian manor house in Agates Lane, Ashtead, Surrey, where Nichols lived from 1946 to 1956. These books often feature his gifted but laconic gardener "Oldfield". Nichols's final trilogy is referred to as "The Sudbrook Trilogy" (1963–1969) and concerns his late 18th-century attached cottage at Ham, (near Richmond), Surrey.
Nichols was a prolific author who wrote on a wide range of topics. He ghostwrote Dame Nellie Melba’s "autobiography" Memories and Melodies (1925), and in 1966 he wrote A Case of Human Bondage about the marriage and divorce of William Somerset Maugham and Gwendoline Maud Syrie Barnardo, which was highly critical of Maugham. Father Figure, which appeared in 1972 and in which he described how he had tried to murder his alcoholic and abusive father, caused a great uproar and several people asked for his prosecution. His autobiographies usually feature Arthur R. Gaskin who was Nichols’ manservant from 1924 until Gaskin's death from cirrhosis in 1966. Nichols made one appearance on film - in 1931 he appeared in Glamour, directed by Seymour Hicks and Harry Hughes, playing the part of the Hon. Richard Wells.
Nichols' long-term partner was Cyril Butcher. He died in 1983 from complications after a fall.
Between his first novel, Prelude, published in 1920, and Twilight in 1982, he wrote more than 60 books and plays on topics such as travel, politics, religion, cats, novels, mysteries, and children's stories, authoring six novels, five detective mysteries, four children's stories, six plays, and no fewer than six autobiographies.
Nichols is perhaps best remembered as a writer for Woman's Own and for his gardening books, the first of which Down the Garden Path, was illustrated — as were many of his books — by Rex Whistler. This bestseller — which has had 32 editions and has been in print almost continuously since 1932 — was the first of his trilogy about Allways, his Tudor thatched cottage in Glatton, Cambridgeshire. A later trilogy written between 1951 and 1956 documents his travails renovating Merry Hall (Meadowstream), a Georgian manor house in Agates Lane, Ashtead, Surrey, where Nichols lived from 1946 to 1956. These books often feature his gifted but laconic gardener "Oldfield". Nichols's final trilogy is referred to as "The Sudbrook Trilogy" (1963–1969) and concerns his late 18th-century attached cottage at Ham, (near Richmond), Surrey.
Nichols was a prolific author who wrote on a wide range of topics. He ghostwrote Dame Nellie Melba’s "autobiography" Memories and Melodies (1925), and in 1966 he wrote A Case of Human Bondage about the marriage and divorce of William Somerset Maugham and Gwendoline Maud Syrie Barnardo, which was highly critical of Maugham. Father Figure, which appeared in 1972 and in which he described how he had tried to murder his alcoholic and abusive father, caused a great uproar and several people asked for his prosecution. His autobiographies usually feature Arthur R. Gaskin who was Nichols’ manservant from 1924 until Gaskin's death from cirrhosis in 1966. Nichols made one appearance on film - in 1931 he appeared in Glamour, directed by Seymour Hicks and Harry Hughes, playing the part of the Hon. Richard Wells.
Nichols' long-term partner was Cyril Butcher. He died in 1983 from complications after a fall.
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January 23, 2024Beverley Nichols is - or was - an irredeemable and unrepentant snob. He tries hard in his stories to suggest otherwise, but there can be no doubt about it. He's an arse; an arrogant arse - the type of entitled, elitist arse that nightmares are made of, and which currently haunts Rishi Sunak's Westminster cabinet. He's everything that's ever been wrong with Britain. So I give up. My dalliance with Nichols (a man who had been on my radar for eleven years) ends after 111 pages.
October 3, 2019
"I have never yet met a boring bonfire, nor failed to find some plausible excuse for making one."
"Begonias are not flowers, they are a state of mind, and a regrettable state into the bargain."
Described by some reviewers as P G. Wodehouse writing a gardening book, (though I think more like Evelyn Waugh). Hates begonias, loves bonfires and Siamese Cats. I was always going to love this, and I did.
"Begonias are not flowers, they are a state of mind, and a regrettable state into the bargain."
Described by some reviewers as P G. Wodehouse writing a gardening book, (though I think more like Evelyn Waugh). Hates begonias, loves bonfires and Siamese Cats. I was always going to love this, and I did.
March 13, 2018
Social media is often decried, and fairly, as being unrealistic and fostering narcissism. However, just as beauty is in the eye of the beholder, social media is in the hand of the user. As a reader and bibliophile, social media has enriched my life immeasurably by introducing me to books and fellow book lovers and entire universes I would never have encountered on my own.
Beverley Nichols is a prime example. I read a review of Merry Hall here on Goodreads and immediately ordered a copy from Amazon (another late 20th-21st century phenomenon).
Merry Hall is an absolutely charming book about an Englishman of the Old School and his quest to create the perfect garden.
The book opens with his search, during the year after the end of World War II, for a home – actually, for a garden that happens to includes a house. He finds the perfect property, and although the house is far too large for a single man, he buys it. As the story progresses, we hear a little bit about the house but mostly, the house serves merely as a frame for the garden.
Now, I don't have, and likely never shall have, a fabulous garden such as Nichols describes. For one thing, I live in the wrong part of the world. Oklahoma winters are too cold to grow tropical or subtropical plants; summers are far too hot and dry to sustain the temperate beauties that thrive in English gardens. I'm currently trying - so far unsuccessfully - to grow lavender, which is perhaps my favorite herb. I had a very successful garden this year, mostly because we were blessed with a record amount of rainfall during August, which is normally as arid as the Sahara. For the first time, I kept a sort of diary (in the Notes app) of what plants did well and what I want more of next year.
As I have bored all my friends and acquaintances in repeated tellings, my husband and I visited England this year for the first time. Lavender grows everywhere. We visited a number of gardens, the most famous of which included the Botanical Gardens in Oxford, Stourhead, and Kew, and a handful of less famous ones. Perhaps my favourite was the private garden surrounding the cottage in which we stayed in Kew, Richmond. We came to know it intimately, since it was high summer, and daylight lasts until 10pm or even later. One evening, we sat and watched a small mouse climb in the raspberry canes to find and nibble on the ripe berries. I marveled at a Rosemary plant whose central trunk was as big as my forearm, and felt ashamed of my own puny plants at home. I was somewhat consoled by the thought that with so much sunlight and regular rain, it's no wonder the entire country is one big garden.
Nichols also talks about his love for cats. The Siamese is named One and an ordinary, but beautiful black cat was Four. He relates that he intended to have a hundred cats before he died and despaired of thinking of names for them, hence the numbers. Two and Three, who were also Siamese, contracted a cat flu as kittens and both died.
Nichols was not indiscriminately enamoured of women, however. In many reviews, Nichols is derided for his misogyny, which is defined as "dislike of, contempt for, or ingrained prejudice against women". I don't think he fits the definition of misogynist; he clearly admired some women. Some, however, he just as clearly found to be a trial and he writes very humourously about two neighborhood ladies that he refers to as Miss Emily and Our Rose.
I realize it may seem that I have wandered far afield in reviewing this book, but I think I have captured the spirit. (Nichols would definitely have enjoyed the mouse-in- the-raspberries story.) In short, this book will be a delight to anyone who: (a) loves gardens; (b) is an Anglophile; and/or (c) loves cats.
Beverley Nichols is a prime example. I read a review of Merry Hall here on Goodreads and immediately ordered a copy from Amazon (another late 20th-21st century phenomenon).
Merry Hall is an absolutely charming book about an Englishman of the Old School and his quest to create the perfect garden.
... one must move on to the eighteenth century, and if one has any sense, stay there. There comes a time, or there should come a time, in the life of every civilized man, when he realizes that the eighteenth century said the last word worth saying in absolutely everything connected with the domestic arts. Sometimes this realization comes by chance; he may be standing in a Georgian doorway, and the sun may shine on it, and he may look up and suddenly perceive that he is standing in a frame that is as perfect as a melody by Mozart.
The book opens with his search, during the year after the end of World War II, for a home – actually, for a garden that happens to includes a house. He finds the perfect property, and although the house is far too large for a single man, he buys it. As the story progresses, we hear a little bit about the house but mostly, the house serves merely as a frame for the garden.
Now, I don't have, and likely never shall have, a fabulous garden such as Nichols describes. For one thing, I live in the wrong part of the world. Oklahoma winters are too cold to grow tropical or subtropical plants; summers are far too hot and dry to sustain the temperate beauties that thrive in English gardens. I'm currently trying - so far unsuccessfully - to grow lavender, which is perhaps my favorite herb. I had a very successful garden this year, mostly because we were blessed with a record amount of rainfall during August, which is normally as arid as the Sahara. For the first time, I kept a sort of diary (in the Notes app) of what plants did well and what I want more of next year.
As I have bored all my friends and acquaintances in repeated tellings, my husband and I visited England this year for the first time. Lavender grows everywhere. We visited a number of gardens, the most famous of which included the Botanical Gardens in Oxford, Stourhead, and Kew, and a handful of less famous ones. Perhaps my favourite was the private garden surrounding the cottage in which we stayed in Kew, Richmond. We came to know it intimately, since it was high summer, and daylight lasts until 10pm or even later. One evening, we sat and watched a small mouse climb in the raspberry canes to find and nibble on the ripe berries. I marveled at a Rosemary plant whose central trunk was as big as my forearm, and felt ashamed of my own puny plants at home. I was somewhat consoled by the thought that with so much sunlight and regular rain, it's no wonder the entire country is one big garden.
Nichols also talks about his love for cats. The Siamese is named One and an ordinary, but beautiful black cat was Four. He relates that he intended to have a hundred cats before he died and despaired of thinking of names for them, hence the numbers. Two and Three, who were also Siamese, contracted a cat flu as kittens and both died.
Nichols was not indiscriminately enamoured of women, however. In many reviews, Nichols is derided for his misogyny, which is defined as "dislike of, contempt for, or ingrained prejudice against women". I don't think he fits the definition of misogynist; he clearly admired some women. Some, however, he just as clearly found to be a trial and he writes very humourously about two neighborhood ladies that he refers to as Miss Emily and Our Rose.
I realize it may seem that I have wandered far afield in reviewing this book, but I think I have captured the spirit. (Nichols would definitely have enjoyed the mouse-in- the-raspberries story.) In short, this book will be a delight to anyone who: (a) loves gardens; (b) is an Anglophile; and/or (c) loves cats.
January 31, 2010
Babies, as all bachelors will agree, should not be allowed at large unless they are heavily draped, and fitted with various appliances for absorbing sound and moisture. If young married persons persist in their selfish pursuit of populating the planet, they should be compelled to bear the consequences. They should be shut behind high walls, clutching the terrible bundles which they have brought into the world, and when they emerge into society, if they insist on bringing these bundles with them, they should see that they are properly cloaked, muted, sealed up and, above all, dry. They should not wave them about in the streets to the alarm of sensitive persons who are used to the company of Siamese cats.
March 22, 2022
Every bit as good as I'd hoped! Yes, the author was a certifiable curmudgeon, but his story of buying a Georgian manor house and restoring the gardens was a delight. Excellent garden plant knowledge imparted with humor.
March 11, 2009
Ah Beverly Nichols! There is no sweeter tonic for the green thumb under cold weather oppression. A volume of Nichols, a warm cup of tea and a stack of seed catalogs will keep away any chill and keep the mental gloom from encroaching while you wait for the drifts to melt and leave you the nice black soil again. Merry Hall is the first book in his series about his very British gardening adventures as he fixes up and generally spiffifies the manor he bought outside London. So dreamy! I have to say that the very bachelor comments he makes about women and babies were rather below the belt but, as a gardener and a writer he's charming enough to be almost forgiven.
May 31, 2015
Put me in post WWII London suburbs, add a manor house needing repair, a crusty old gardener, some siamese cats, one or two gossipy village socialites, and an author with the humor of PG Wodehouse and I'm truly happy.
July 19, 2011
Very hard to rate Beverly Nichols. I give it 2.5*, and yet...for writing about the love of plants and gardening, he really deserves a lot more credit. He's a bit of a crank, a misogynist, impetuous, opinionated, gets inordinately upset over the noises from the farm next to him, and yet writes with such passion and tenderness about flowers and garden design. His description of "Oldfield" the gardener is so appreciative of the wisdom of the 70 year old plantsman as to be almost approaching awe. The chapter "Flowers and the Woman" Nichols tells the story of how he gets the idea to recreate a favorite painting of flowers in a Grecian urn (by Joseph Nigg) in real life, and finds that he is missing 3 of the flowers he needs to complete it. He then spends years looking for those three. Just a taste his neverending pursuit of the living beauty in nature. He can be funny too. The first few paragraphs of the book are a good example of this:
"For a garden is a mistress, and gardening is a blend of all the arts, and if it is not the death of me, sooner or later, I shall be much surprised. A pleasant sort of death, I venture to suggest, which runs in the family. One of my grandfathers died of a clump of *iris stylosa*; it enticed him from a sick bed on an angry evening in January, luring him through the snow-drifts with its blue and silver flames; he died of double pneumonia a few days later. It was probably worth it."
It wasn't a thriller, but I liked it. I would read more.
***Oh my! Just read through the Wikipedia article on Nichols - apparently Nichol's man Gaskin, who is mentioned many times in the book, worked for Nichols until his death - his first name was Reginald. The thing is, P.G. Wodehouse once revealed that Jeeves' first name was Reginald ?!! Draw your own conclusions. Now I'm going to *have* to read more!
"For a garden is a mistress, and gardening is a blend of all the arts, and if it is not the death of me, sooner or later, I shall be much surprised. A pleasant sort of death, I venture to suggest, which runs in the family. One of my grandfathers died of a clump of *iris stylosa*; it enticed him from a sick bed on an angry evening in January, luring him through the snow-drifts with its blue and silver flames; he died of double pneumonia a few days later. It was probably worth it."
It wasn't a thriller, but I liked it. I would read more.
***Oh my! Just read through the Wikipedia article on Nichols - apparently Nichol's man Gaskin, who is mentioned many times in the book, worked for Nichols until his death - his first name was Reginald. The thing is, P.G. Wodehouse once revealed that Jeeves' first name was Reginald ?!! Draw your own conclusions. Now I'm going to *have* to read more!
December 30, 2015
A cross between E. F. Benson and P. G. Wodehouse, Beverley Nichols (a man) takes us on the adventures of moving into his new home, Merry Hall, in the English countryside. Along the way we meet his gardener, odd neighbors, his cats "One" and "Four," and his spot on observances of all. The last few chapters were a bit more technical for my liking, lots about the plants and flowers in his garden--I wanted to hear more about his meetings with Miss Rose and Miss Kemp and the exasperation that ensued! This was lots of fun and lots of laughs. Nichols is a new author to me and he has lots of books, so I plan on seeking out more!
July 31, 2023
“This book - as you may by now have gathered - is
not really a book at all; it is only a long walk round a garden, in winter and summer, in rain and in sunshine; and if it bores you to walk round gardens you will long ago have chucked it aside.”
Sounds delightful eh? About 50 pages in, I thought this would be a five star book! After all, there is nothing I love more than strolling gardens. But it continued for probably 200 pages too long. The beginning was great, lots of anecdotes about funny English countryside neighbors and pet cats and stubborn old housekeepers. I got quite bored by the end, so I skimmed the final pages—something I don’t do often! Thus- three stars!
not really a book at all; it is only a long walk round a garden, in winter and summer, in rain and in sunshine; and if it bores you to walk round gardens you will long ago have chucked it aside.”
Sounds delightful eh? About 50 pages in, I thought this would be a five star book! After all, there is nothing I love more than strolling gardens. But it continued for probably 200 pages too long. The beginning was great, lots of anecdotes about funny English countryside neighbors and pet cats and stubborn old housekeepers. I got quite bored by the end, so I skimmed the final pages—something I don’t do often! Thus- three stars!
September 1, 2023
Beverley Nichols was a Personality in midcentury Britain. As journalist who risked and nearly lost his life as a foreign correspondent in World War II, he earned his greatest fame and affection as a writer about gardens. Merry Hall tells the story of the Georgian house he bought just after the war and his work restoring (or creating) the garden there.
It does not do to read Nichols through a classist lens. Though he disclaims, he clearly has a fair degree of wealth and is resolutely blind to the ways it sets him apart from others. And in the wistfully aspirational world of the postwar years in Britain, his readers were doubtless eager to share that blindness.
Nichols employs a deceptively confessional style that conceals more than it reveals. He has a gift for humorous raconteurism that makes the reader a co-conspirator, but only in a public-facing way. An example from page 1 demonstrates the tactic: he confides that gardening will probably be the death of him, but
a pleasant sort of death, I venture to suggest, which runs in the family. One of my grandfathers died of a clump of iris stylosa; it enticed him from a sick bed on an angry evening in January, luring him through the snow-drifts with its blue and silver flames; he died of double pneumonia a few days later. It was probably worth it.
Nichols specializes in wit with a sting, what today we might call “bitchiness.” A surprising amount of his humor comes at the expense of the characters who populate the pages, all based on real-life originals. He pretends to direct the same wit against himself, but tends to be kinder toward himself than toward others. It is entertaining to read about the twee posturings of Rose till you realize that most of his contemporary readers would have known whom he was skewering (and till you realize that he has a fair amount of twee in his own nature). Part of the fun seems to lie in readers being able to penetrate the thin scrim of fictionalizing and be on the inside of the unkindness. It made me feel bad to enjoy myself—as well as nervous; one felt always the peril of disagreeing with his pronouncements on taste. He often visits Crowther’s, a real purveyor then and now of garden ornaments, and mentions enough other actual places to allow the reader to fix the location of Merry Hall pretty precisely. All this gives the story an air of memoir; it makes one feel one has been invited to tea and offered confidences. But it also made me feel that if I accepted the invitation, I would find myself picked apart and mocked behind my back in the next book.
I did enjoy myself as he recounted the challenges and rewards of carving a garden out of a tangled mess. The garden at Merry Hall was not just a wilderness; it was a wilderness overlaid with horrendous Victorian taste overlaid once again with wilderness. So there was plenty of undoing amid all the doing. Nichols’s love for gardens and gardening is genuine enough, and if you’re a garden lover you’ll enjoy this aspect of the book.
This edition is a facsimile reproduction of the original Jonathan Cape publication, and it serves as a poignant reminder of the beauties of books past. There are lovely line drawings and ornaments by William MacLaren, and the new publisher, Timber Press, has invested in a hard cover and pretty good paper, but the result is a ghost of a book that must have been a sensuous pleasure to pick up and read back in the day. Much better than the cheap paperback reprints with scanned text that abound these days, but still a source of sadness for biblio-sentimentalists like me.
It does not do to read Nichols through a classist lens. Though he disclaims, he clearly has a fair degree of wealth and is resolutely blind to the ways it sets him apart from others. And in the wistfully aspirational world of the postwar years in Britain, his readers were doubtless eager to share that blindness.
Nichols employs a deceptively confessional style that conceals more than it reveals. He has a gift for humorous raconteurism that makes the reader a co-conspirator, but only in a public-facing way. An example from page 1 demonstrates the tactic: he confides that gardening will probably be the death of him, but
a pleasant sort of death, I venture to suggest, which runs in the family. One of my grandfathers died of a clump of iris stylosa; it enticed him from a sick bed on an angry evening in January, luring him through the snow-drifts with its blue and silver flames; he died of double pneumonia a few days later. It was probably worth it.
Nichols specializes in wit with a sting, what today we might call “bitchiness.” A surprising amount of his humor comes at the expense of the characters who populate the pages, all based on real-life originals. He pretends to direct the same wit against himself, but tends to be kinder toward himself than toward others. It is entertaining to read about the twee posturings of Rose till you realize that most of his contemporary readers would have known whom he was skewering (and till you realize that he has a fair amount of twee in his own nature). Part of the fun seems to lie in readers being able to penetrate the thin scrim of fictionalizing and be on the inside of the unkindness. It made me feel bad to enjoy myself—as well as nervous; one felt always the peril of disagreeing with his pronouncements on taste. He often visits Crowther’s, a real purveyor then and now of garden ornaments, and mentions enough other actual places to allow the reader to fix the location of Merry Hall pretty precisely. All this gives the story an air of memoir; it makes one feel one has been invited to tea and offered confidences. But it also made me feel that if I accepted the invitation, I would find myself picked apart and mocked behind my back in the next book.
I did enjoy myself as he recounted the challenges and rewards of carving a garden out of a tangled mess. The garden at Merry Hall was not just a wilderness; it was a wilderness overlaid with horrendous Victorian taste overlaid once again with wilderness. So there was plenty of undoing amid all the doing. Nichols’s love for gardens and gardening is genuine enough, and if you’re a garden lover you’ll enjoy this aspect of the book.
This edition is a facsimile reproduction of the original Jonathan Cape publication, and it serves as a poignant reminder of the beauties of books past. There are lovely line drawings and ornaments by William MacLaren, and the new publisher, Timber Press, has invested in a hard cover and pretty good paper, but the result is a ghost of a book that must have been a sensuous pleasure to pick up and read back in the day. Much better than the cheap paperback reprints with scanned text that abound these days, but still a source of sadness for biblio-sentimentalists like me.
June 10, 2021
4.5 stars. Will write more in the morning.
Well, it's been a month since I finished this so I better write a review. First, let me say how difficult it is to obtain a copy of this book without spending many dollars for a secondhand copy. I seem to be attracted to out-of-print books, that my library doesn't carry, and GR people have given jolly reviews. I become a bit obsessive about finding a copy (and of course it's the first of a trilogy...). Fortunately, I found four of Nichols' books for the price of one.
This was a delight for reading before bedtime. I love to garden, wish I had Oldfield, and a stronger back. Even though I garden in a very different climate than Mr. Nichols, I could identify with him and his gardening escapades. I thought this was well written and delightful. I look forward to reading some of his other books. If you like gardening, country houses, and cats; I think you would like this book.
Well, it's been a month since I finished this so I better write a review. First, let me say how difficult it is to obtain a copy of this book without spending many dollars for a secondhand copy. I seem to be attracted to out-of-print books, that my library doesn't carry, and GR people have given jolly reviews. I become a bit obsessive about finding a copy (and of course it's the first of a trilogy...). Fortunately, I found four of Nichols' books for the price of one.
This was a delight for reading before bedtime. I love to garden, wish I had Oldfield, and a stronger back. Even though I garden in a very different climate than Mr. Nichols, I could identify with him and his gardening escapades. I thought this was well written and delightful. I look forward to reading some of his other books. If you like gardening, country houses, and cats; I think you would like this book.
August 27, 2016
A beauty of a book for gardeners. Nichols's prose is comfortable, clever, and very humorous, in a dry and mildly sarcastic way. Above all, Nichols lavishes on the reader a heartfelt enthusiasm for all things garden.
The author does have his own opinions, writing from his point of view as a British bachelor in the early/mid 20th century. Easily passed muster for me, so quite harmless.
Anyone who has puttered about with soil, seeds, bulbs, and such will want to soak in and savor this telling of the re-creation of the gardens of Merry Hall.
The author does have his own opinions, writing from his point of view as a British bachelor in the early/mid 20th century. Easily passed muster for me, so quite harmless.
Anyone who has puttered about with soil, seeds, bulbs, and such will want to soak in and savor this telling of the re-creation of the gardens of Merry Hall.
November 5, 2018
Within these pages are the delightful stories, witticisms, and sarcastic thoughts of the Mr. Beverley Nichols. I romanced the flowers right alongside him. “Our Rose” and Miss Emily made me giggle. The haunting of Mr. Stebbings was ever so humorous as told through Oldfield. And one must not forget his man Gaskin. The ever unfolding stream of flowers, trees, and vines was like a cascade burst of beauty. When I got to the end, the index of plant names was prepared by a fellow North Carolinian. I am in good company with the author and his readers.
August 26, 2021
4.5 Delightful! Can't wait to read the second volume
January 4, 2019
It is always a glorious treat to begin one's new year with a five star read! And this one was all that I hoped for and more. I am excited to get to the sequels at some point this year. Mr. Nichols' sense of humor is sharp and delicious and his writing skills superb. Everyone has their passion and their way of hearing from God or the Universe or whatever higher power you believe in and for Mr. Nichols that higher power speaks to him through flowers and that is an awfully lovely way to communicate. I am going to record some quotes below but it was terribly difficult to narrow it down and not just record the entire book over again!
"It is only to the gardener that Time is a friend, giving each year more than he steals."
"Some fall in love with women; some fall in love with art; some fall in love with death. I fall in love with gardens, which is much the same as falling in love with all three at once."
"If you walk down the lane so that you see this exquisite duel of color against sombre background of the copper beech, you will feel that life is very much worth living, and that you really had a very bright idea when you decided to be born."
"That's a wonderful thing, the dew. I reckon there's a power in dew. It's gentle like, but there's a power in it." -Oldfield the gardener
"This book - as you may by now have gathered - is not really a book at all; it is only a long walk round a garden, in winter and summer, in rain and in sunshine; and if it bores you to walk round gardens you will long ago have chucked it aside."
"Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in Night
God said, Let Newton be - and all was light." -Alexander Pope
"For though it is true that only God can make a tree, they are to me an eternal reminder that man, if he wishes, can often lend God a helping hand."
"It is tragic," Marius said to me once, "that we are only born with one voice. Imagine how delicious it would be to be able to sing contrapuntally. One would be torn with delight."
"But what is one to do? It is all extraordinarily difficult, and one should have been born a cow."
"It was either us or the ants. But how has one any right to wring one's hands over the folly and wickedness of the atomic bomb when one is personally and annually responsible for the death of millions of highly intelligent and industrious little creatures? Does it make sense? It does not."
"When the irises had been dug up off that mountainside above Nazareth - no easy business - I hurried back to the town. I lost my way in the side streets, and found myself walking towards a rough stone fountain from which there flowed as stream of diamond-clear water, icy cold. I thought it would be as well to sprinkle the roots of the iris with this water, for the earth around them was parched and hot. As I was doing so I suddenly realized that this was Mary's Well, the only well in Nazareth, which must have been used by the mother of Our Lord. Not could have been used, but MUST have been. 'Now I know that my irises will live,' I said to myself. 'Now I know that they will flower again.' And they did."
"It is only to the gardener that Time is a friend, giving each year more than he steals."
"Some fall in love with women; some fall in love with art; some fall in love with death. I fall in love with gardens, which is much the same as falling in love with all three at once."
"If you walk down the lane so that you see this exquisite duel of color against sombre background of the copper beech, you will feel that life is very much worth living, and that you really had a very bright idea when you decided to be born."
"That's a wonderful thing, the dew. I reckon there's a power in dew. It's gentle like, but there's a power in it." -Oldfield the gardener
"This book - as you may by now have gathered - is not really a book at all; it is only a long walk round a garden, in winter and summer, in rain and in sunshine; and if it bores you to walk round gardens you will long ago have chucked it aside."
"Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in Night
God said, Let Newton be - and all was light." -Alexander Pope
"For though it is true that only God can make a tree, they are to me an eternal reminder that man, if he wishes, can often lend God a helping hand."
"It is tragic," Marius said to me once, "that we are only born with one voice. Imagine how delicious it would be to be able to sing contrapuntally. One would be torn with delight."
"But what is one to do? It is all extraordinarily difficult, and one should have been born a cow."
"It was either us or the ants. But how has one any right to wring one's hands over the folly and wickedness of the atomic bomb when one is personally and annually responsible for the death of millions of highly intelligent and industrious little creatures? Does it make sense? It does not."
"When the irises had been dug up off that mountainside above Nazareth - no easy business - I hurried back to the town. I lost my way in the side streets, and found myself walking towards a rough stone fountain from which there flowed as stream of diamond-clear water, icy cold. I thought it would be as well to sprinkle the roots of the iris with this water, for the earth around them was parched and hot. As I was doing so I suddenly realized that this was Mary's Well, the only well in Nazareth, which must have been used by the mother of Our Lord. Not could have been used, but MUST have been. 'Now I know that my irises will live,' I said to myself. 'Now I know that they will flower again.' And they did."
May 20, 2018
I grew up on a farm surrounded by growing things, from vegetables to perennial borders. I love gardening and nature and reading, so I've wanted to read this gardening classic for decades. Finally, thanks to ILL I was able to get a copy and I started to read with a bit of trepidation. What if I was disappointed? I needn't have worried. The opening sentences had me smiling: "Some fall in love with women; some fall in love with art; some fall in love with death. I fall in love with gardens, which is much the same as falling in love with all three at once."
I tried so hard to savor this lovely book, but every time I picked it up I got lost in it, smiling and thinking of gardens I have known and couldn't stop reading. Full of plans and plants and eccentric people, I just loved every page. "It is only to the gardener that Time is a friend, giving each year more than he steals."
If you love reading about plants and nature and gardens you'll probably love this poetic musing. "This book - as you may by now have gathered - is not really a book at all; it is only a long walk round a garden, in winter and summer, in rain and in sunshine; and if it bores you to walk round gardens you will long ago have chucked it aside. So neither of us need worry." Not only did I not chuck this aside, I've now decided I have to have a copy of my own. A lovely hardback copy that I can carry around and read outside when nothing particular needs to be done in the garden. And I can't wait to track down the rest of the series. It's a pity this gardening gem has gone out of print in the US.
I tried so hard to savor this lovely book, but every time I picked it up I got lost in it, smiling and thinking of gardens I have known and couldn't stop reading. Full of plans and plants and eccentric people, I just loved every page. "It is only to the gardener that Time is a friend, giving each year more than he steals."
If you love reading about plants and nature and gardens you'll probably love this poetic musing. "This book - as you may by now have gathered - is not really a book at all; it is only a long walk round a garden, in winter and summer, in rain and in sunshine; and if it bores you to walk round gardens you will long ago have chucked it aside. So neither of us need worry." Not only did I not chuck this aside, I've now decided I have to have a copy of my own. A lovely hardback copy that I can carry around and read outside when nothing particular needs to be done in the garden. And I can't wait to track down the rest of the series. It's a pity this gardening gem has gone out of print in the US.
February 3, 2017
This book had me looking up plants and flowers and trees, and grieving that I live in zone 8. I still plan to try to plant some of the plants he mentioned.
It's also a humorous book. His casual biblical references reminded me of P.G. Wodehouse. I'm hoping the other two books in the trilogy are good.
It's also a humorous book. His casual biblical references reminded me of P.G. Wodehouse. I'm hoping the other two books in the trilogy are good.
November 27, 2021
The only seasonal tie-in for this book is the title, Merry Hall, and that name comes with the estate. Or perhaps, if you like a bit of Scrooge in your holiday, Beverly Nichols' curmudgeonly character certainly qualifies.
He's opinionated: "Begonias are not flowers, they are a state of mind, and a regrettable state into the bargain."
Judgmental: “Long experience has taught me that people who do not like geraniums have something morally unsound about them"
And an avid gardener: “For a garden is a mistress.... and if it is not the death of me, sooner or later, I shall be much surprised.”
This is the story of the restoration of a house and garden in England. More accurately, the restoration of a garden with a house attached. It's sort of The Secret Garden for grown-ups as Nichols battles overgrown shrubs, stagnant ponds, weeds and rubble to recover the promise of beauty. He neglects repairs to the house and failing appliances because he's found the perfect urns. The ones which bring just the right touch of grace to his pillars, welcoming visitors with color and charm. I can relate to the search for that which brings you joy. I hope for an urn myself this Christmas, and hope you get one too.
He's opinionated: "Begonias are not flowers, they are a state of mind, and a regrettable state into the bargain."
Judgmental: “Long experience has taught me that people who do not like geraniums have something morally unsound about them"
And an avid gardener: “For a garden is a mistress.... and if it is not the death of me, sooner or later, I shall be much surprised.”
This is the story of the restoration of a house and garden in England. More accurately, the restoration of a garden with a house attached. It's sort of The Secret Garden for grown-ups as Nichols battles overgrown shrubs, stagnant ponds, weeds and rubble to recover the promise of beauty. He neglects repairs to the house and failing appliances because he's found the perfect urns. The ones which bring just the right touch of grace to his pillars, welcoming visitors with color and charm. I can relate to the search for that which brings you joy. I hope for an urn myself this Christmas, and hope you get one too.
July 27, 2010
Merry Hall is a marvelous reminiscence of how the author purchased and restored a British country mansion and garden just after World War II. The tone is chatty and informal, and the writing is often hilarious, particularly when Nichols is cattily pointing up the failings of the characters who move in and out of his narrative (like Our Rose, a pretentious, artsy maker of flower arrangements). At the same time, his descriptions of his garden and his plants are lovely and poetic, and I quickly became fond of him, his cats, his old gardener Oldfield, and his other friends.
February 11, 2024
I loved this lighthearted, mostly-true memoir (some names changed to protect the innocent) of an English journalist reviving the house and gardens of a quirky, old manor house with the help of his ever-patient manservant and the slightly-crabby expert gardener he convinces to stay on at the house. Beverley Nichols was unknown to me prior to a friend sharing about him, and I am so glad to have tracked down a few of his books. As a narrator, he makes his strong opinions known and is slightly snobbish and impulsive, but his love of plants is the driving force behind the book and that love shines clear and bright from every page. I was happy to find a kindred spirit in my gardening loves (trees and Winter flowers), and my only request would have been more of the highly entertaining supporting cast.
February 25, 2015
I have read this book a number of times and it has become an old friend. Sadly, the life that Beverly Nichols describes is a life no longer available. The great homes of England and the rural life supported by a small household staff and many village laborers, has gone. Reading the description of the kitchen garden, the greenhouse and orchard creates a picture of a desirable lifestyle that cannot be supported anymore. But you feel the need to recreate SOMETHING from what you have read of his garden...even if it is a small pool of water with a figure standing by...admiring the view. When he talks of planting hundreds of trees you can only imagine the amount of space a five acre garden represents. On to the second book of this three book series. Nice way to spend a very cold, snowy February.
August 24, 2017
I was hoping for an unaffectedly entertaining book, but unaffected is the last adjective I'd apply to Beverley Nichols' style. Arch, yes, and much of the waspish humour has a studied air, but he evidently enjoyed it; his flights of snobbery and misogyny, only partly in jest I suspect, also become irritating although not surprising- they are to be found in other writers of his period and background.
The description of the garden, the scope of Nichols' ambition for it and his obsessive determination to achieve perfection, drive the book forward and are so extraordinary that I (and even BN himself sometimes) could forget stylistic mannerisms. The evolution of overgrown acres into the beautiful place it became is fascinating. It's a pity that modern colour photography was not around at the time of publication to capture its glory.
The description of the garden, the scope of Nichols' ambition for it and his obsessive determination to achieve perfection, drive the book forward and are so extraordinary that I (and even BN himself sometimes) could forget stylistic mannerisms. The evolution of overgrown acres into the beautiful place it became is fascinating. It's a pity that modern colour photography was not around at the time of publication to capture its glory.
April 13, 2012
Hm. Well. Let me be the 90th person to say that parts of this book have become so politically incorrect, it's downright jarring! But then, Nichols is so wry, so playful, so unabashedly pretentious, you can't really take anything he says too personally. At least, I couldn't. I was utterly charmed.
In the book's introduction, he's quoted as saying that writing his garden books was "like arranging a bunch of mixed flowers, here a story, here a winding paragraph, here a purple passage, and suddenly there was a book." How do you not love that? It's delightful!
In the book's introduction, he's quoted as saying that writing his garden books was "like arranging a bunch of mixed flowers, here a story, here a winding paragraph, here a purple passage, and suddenly there was a book." How do you not love that? It's delightful!
January 16, 2019
Quite a lark. The prose is arrestingly good - meaning you stop and re-read entire paragraphs - or get out of bed and say to whoever happens to be in the house: "listen to this." It's just after the second world war and Nichols has purchased a run down Georgian house with gardens - these are his adventures renovating both. His writing is filled to overflowing with wit and campy comments. This was a pleasure.
April 16, 2022
Yet another book by Beverley Nichols that I thoroughly enjoyed. I missed the crowd from the Allways trilogy, but Gaskin, Oldfiled and Marius are entertaining and endearing new additions to Nichols’ life.
January 13, 2009
My previous entry on my "how to live" bookshelf (Hojoki: Visions of a Torn World)was written by a Buddhist ascetic who, having witnessed the horrors of war, political upheaval, and natural disaster, retreated to a ten by ten-foot cabin in the mountains. It may seem inconsistent, then, that the author of my next entry is a bon vivant rhapsodizing about his country estate. But why should there be a single answer to the question of how to live? Shouldn't the answer depend at least partially upon one's circumstances? Perhaps the ten-foot hut is an appropriate answer for a man of disappointed fortune, while the country estate is appropriate for a man with a private income. In any case, they both offered helpful insights to me as I try to make sense out of my own existence.
After reading both books, I'm not really sure they are as inconsistent as they first appeared, anyway. Once one strips away some of the Nichols' florid affectations, it is easy to see that both authors are keenly interested in beauty and its effects. Both revere nature and have mixed feelings about the consequences of civilization. And, if I have understood what I’ve read, I'd guess they would both see the question of how to live as a matter of proportion. When faced with human misery on a scale not only beyond their ability to remedy but nearly beyond their ability to comprehend, both authors responded by cultivating small, personal interests. Where they would differ, I think, is that while the Buddhist ascetic might have seen these interests has a temporary respite from inevitable suffering, Nichols sees them as a lasting source of happiness and pleasure. Well, I suppose he could afford to.
Certainly, his views of household economy were extravagant: “If you have only just enough money to buy a bed, a chair, a table and a soup-plate,” he advises, “You should buy none of these squalid objects; you should immediately pay the first installment on a Steinway grand. Why? Because the aforesaid squalidities are essentials, and essentials have a peculiar way, somehow or other, of providing for themselves.” Dorothy Parker said it more concisely (“Take care the luxuries and the necessities will take care of themselves.”) and I suspect they are both cribbing from some Greek philosopher, but I think they are right…to a point. If one is not in actual danger of starving or homelessness then, yes, by all means make pleasure a priority. You will have happier memories--and you will be better remembered--for having done a reckless thing in pursuit of excellence, but what consolation can be derived from a bed that eventually sagged, a chair that now badly needs to be upholstered, or a table with a wobbly leg? Pianos are not immune from decay, but broken-down splendor is still splendid and even the memory of a repossessed Steinway grand is better than no piano ever. If we can live at all, then we should try to live for that which makes life worth living. That’s what I think he is saying and I agree, although I also think if one hasn’t any soup, hankering after soup-plates isn’t going to improve matters.
Nichol’s views on this, and nearly everything else, may seem flippant, but he takes a serious pleasure in triviality. He advocates spending one’s passions on inconsequential matters, such as interior decorating or the question of the feasibility of the feline latchkey, but he advocates doing so with the same attention and care that conventional moralists might reserve for more noble pursuits. Consider, for example, how Nichols spent literally years trying to recreate, in life, a bouquet of flowers depicted in a painting—years which spanned World War II. He glosses over the war as an interruption to his silly game and yet what a comfort the game proved to be while he was ill, lying on a stretcher in India, while working as a war correspondent, where he finally found the last flower bulb to complete his living painting. That is the nice thing about small, personal, and eccentric pleasures: they can be cultivated nearly anywhere, right in the face of unspeakable enormities.
Cultivating triviality isn’t the only perversity Nichols advocates. In gardening, at least, he says more gratitude and pleasure comes from cultivating runts and ‘hard cases’ rather than prize specimens. In life, he cultivates his enemies. I enjoyed each appearance of “Miss Emily” and “Our Rose” in Merry Hall because, although they plagued and pained him, Nichols obviously enjoyed writing about them. In his philosophy, gentle rivalries, even mild irritation softened by familiarity and good-will, heighten pleasure. “I like it,” he writes, “This mimic battle by the fireside. It is one of the ‘encores’ that give to life a pattern and a sense of continuity.”
Although I am shelving this book in the category of advice about how to live, I don’t always think it offers good advice. Sometimes, Nichols seems overly fussy and fastidious, laying down the law on a minor matter of style or taste and using infractions of his highly personal code to condemn entire characters. When he does this, he seems to me to have lost a helpful sense of proportion. I do it, too, and I’m trying to understand why. The best I figure is that just because we have reached the limits of our range of moral effectiveness it doesn’t necessarily follow that we have used up all our energy for moral reform. Stymied by what we cannot even fool ourselves into thinking we can effect, we double back and begin to fill-in the bits of our daily lives with moral niceness—equating preferences with moral standards—so that issues of taste, etiquette, and style become substitutes for moral action. This is the negative side of Nichols’ philosophy of small personal pleasures.
On the other hand, sometimes a matter of taste or style really can betray disagreeable underlying values. This was apparent in Nichol's comic account of how he came to possess an avocado tree in his greenhouse: “One day I went to a dinner in London of quite exceptional dreariness; it was something to do with Planning for the Welfare State; and from the moment the hors d’oeuvres were put before us it was apparent that whatever else the Planners might be able to do they could not plan a dinner.” Nichols was saved from the tedium when served an avocado and he distracted himself through the rest of the boring dinner by determining the best way to secret the pit away undiscovered.
Once again, Nichols is well-served by his sense of proportion. The quality of a dinner is a gauge to the quality of government planning. Personal discomfort is a precursor to a national crisis. There is part of me that says if Nichols could perceive the problem he has a responsibility to do something about it. (In Marcia’s vocabulary: “Amount!” as a verb.) The part of me that enjoyed this book would like to point out that whatever Nichols did or did not do, it could hardly have had much impact upon the post-war economy of Britain. Besides, he did plant a tree and wrote a book, giving pleasure to himself and untold numbers of others. That is not the same thing as doing nothing.
This edition of the book contains charming illustrations by William McLaren.
After reading both books, I'm not really sure they are as inconsistent as they first appeared, anyway. Once one strips away some of the Nichols' florid affectations, it is easy to see that both authors are keenly interested in beauty and its effects. Both revere nature and have mixed feelings about the consequences of civilization. And, if I have understood what I’ve read, I'd guess they would both see the question of how to live as a matter of proportion. When faced with human misery on a scale not only beyond their ability to remedy but nearly beyond their ability to comprehend, both authors responded by cultivating small, personal interests. Where they would differ, I think, is that while the Buddhist ascetic might have seen these interests has a temporary respite from inevitable suffering, Nichols sees them as a lasting source of happiness and pleasure. Well, I suppose he could afford to.
Certainly, his views of household economy were extravagant: “If you have only just enough money to buy a bed, a chair, a table and a soup-plate,” he advises, “You should buy none of these squalid objects; you should immediately pay the first installment on a Steinway grand. Why? Because the aforesaid squalidities are essentials, and essentials have a peculiar way, somehow or other, of providing for themselves.” Dorothy Parker said it more concisely (“Take care the luxuries and the necessities will take care of themselves.”) and I suspect they are both cribbing from some Greek philosopher, but I think they are right…to a point. If one is not in actual danger of starving or homelessness then, yes, by all means make pleasure a priority. You will have happier memories--and you will be better remembered--for having done a reckless thing in pursuit of excellence, but what consolation can be derived from a bed that eventually sagged, a chair that now badly needs to be upholstered, or a table with a wobbly leg? Pianos are not immune from decay, but broken-down splendor is still splendid and even the memory of a repossessed Steinway grand is better than no piano ever. If we can live at all, then we should try to live for that which makes life worth living. That’s what I think he is saying and I agree, although I also think if one hasn’t any soup, hankering after soup-plates isn’t going to improve matters.
Nichol’s views on this, and nearly everything else, may seem flippant, but he takes a serious pleasure in triviality. He advocates spending one’s passions on inconsequential matters, such as interior decorating or the question of the feasibility of the feline latchkey, but he advocates doing so with the same attention and care that conventional moralists might reserve for more noble pursuits. Consider, for example, how Nichols spent literally years trying to recreate, in life, a bouquet of flowers depicted in a painting—years which spanned World War II. He glosses over the war as an interruption to his silly game and yet what a comfort the game proved to be while he was ill, lying on a stretcher in India, while working as a war correspondent, where he finally found the last flower bulb to complete his living painting. That is the nice thing about small, personal, and eccentric pleasures: they can be cultivated nearly anywhere, right in the face of unspeakable enormities.
Cultivating triviality isn’t the only perversity Nichols advocates. In gardening, at least, he says more gratitude and pleasure comes from cultivating runts and ‘hard cases’ rather than prize specimens. In life, he cultivates his enemies. I enjoyed each appearance of “Miss Emily” and “Our Rose” in Merry Hall because, although they plagued and pained him, Nichols obviously enjoyed writing about them. In his philosophy, gentle rivalries, even mild irritation softened by familiarity and good-will, heighten pleasure. “I like it,” he writes, “This mimic battle by the fireside. It is one of the ‘encores’ that give to life a pattern and a sense of continuity.”
Although I am shelving this book in the category of advice about how to live, I don’t always think it offers good advice. Sometimes, Nichols seems overly fussy and fastidious, laying down the law on a minor matter of style or taste and using infractions of his highly personal code to condemn entire characters. When he does this, he seems to me to have lost a helpful sense of proportion. I do it, too, and I’m trying to understand why. The best I figure is that just because we have reached the limits of our range of moral effectiveness it doesn’t necessarily follow that we have used up all our energy for moral reform. Stymied by what we cannot even fool ourselves into thinking we can effect, we double back and begin to fill-in the bits of our daily lives with moral niceness—equating preferences with moral standards—so that issues of taste, etiquette, and style become substitutes for moral action. This is the negative side of Nichols’ philosophy of small personal pleasures.
On the other hand, sometimes a matter of taste or style really can betray disagreeable underlying values. This was apparent in Nichol's comic account of how he came to possess an avocado tree in his greenhouse: “One day I went to a dinner in London of quite exceptional dreariness; it was something to do with Planning for the Welfare State; and from the moment the hors d’oeuvres were put before us it was apparent that whatever else the Planners might be able to do they could not plan a dinner.” Nichols was saved from the tedium when served an avocado and he distracted himself through the rest of the boring dinner by determining the best way to secret the pit away undiscovered.
Once again, Nichols is well-served by his sense of proportion. The quality of a dinner is a gauge to the quality of government planning. Personal discomfort is a precursor to a national crisis. There is part of me that says if Nichols could perceive the problem he has a responsibility to do something about it. (In Marcia’s vocabulary: “Amount!” as a verb.) The part of me that enjoyed this book would like to point out that whatever Nichols did or did not do, it could hardly have had much impact upon the post-war economy of Britain. Besides, he did plant a tree and wrote a book, giving pleasure to himself and untold numbers of others. That is not the same thing as doing nothing.
This edition of the book contains charming illustrations by William McLaren.
December 3, 2024
Merry Hall is a new all time favorite book, and a very enthusiastic 5 stars! I had a good feeling about it the second I held it in my hands, because I noticed there was a smooth groove where many thumbs had been, turning pages, and that is a sure sign that a book has been loved by the masses. It couldn’t have been better! Merry Hall was published in 1951, and takes place in post-war England. If P.G. Wodehouse was to have written a nonfiction book about his experience with gardening, this would be the book!
Although people who love gardening will recognize many of the plants and trees referenced in Merry Hall, you don’t actually need to know anything about gardening to enjoy this one. Beverley Nichols is hilariously snarky, and he had me continuously pausing to cackle. I loved the cast of characters he encounters and captures in minute detail; from his talented but curmudgeonly gardener Oldfield, to his two nosy neighbors Miss Emily and “Our Rose.” Also, the way he writes about his cats “One” and “Four” is a true delight, and so accurate to how cats are.
Even amidst the snarky tone of Merry Hall, the deep admiration he has for nature shines through - there are moments in here that are genuinely beautiful and touching. Apparently Nichols wrote a whole bunch of these books, so I’m definitely planning on reading every single one!
Although people who love gardening will recognize many of the plants and trees referenced in Merry Hall, you don’t actually need to know anything about gardening to enjoy this one. Beverley Nichols is hilariously snarky, and he had me continuously pausing to cackle. I loved the cast of characters he encounters and captures in minute detail; from his talented but curmudgeonly gardener Oldfield, to his two nosy neighbors Miss Emily and “Our Rose.” Also, the way he writes about his cats “One” and “Four” is a true delight, and so accurate to how cats are.
Even amidst the snarky tone of Merry Hall, the deep admiration he has for nature shines through - there are moments in here that are genuinely beautiful and touching. Apparently Nichols wrote a whole bunch of these books, so I’m definitely planning on reading every single one!
July 18, 2021
Mi sono divertita un mondo a leggere i siparietti comici con la vicina invadente e ostinata e col giardiniere scontroso e diffidente. E poi notti alcoliche con gli amici, progetti di ambiziose fontane e un'improvvisa ossessione per le urne ornamentali...
Un libro arioso e rigenerante come può esserlo una passeggiata in un bel giardino. Pagine che celebrano l'importanza del prendersi cura della natura che ci circonda, la pazienza di veder crescere ciò che si è piantato con tanto amore e l'orgoglio di vedere il risultato.
Quando nel '46 Nichols acquista la diroccata Merry Hall l'Inghilterra è in piena fase di ricostruzione dopo la guerra. Lui sta cercando un posto tranquillo e lontano dalla città dove rifugiarsi e scrivere i suoi articoli. Ma ciò che gli preme più di tutto è che la casa abbia un giardino in condizioni a dir poco disperate al quale potersi dedicare anima e corpo. Sa che prendersi cura di un giardino equivale a prendersi cura di se stessi, perchè la natura è dispensatrice di attimi di bellezza, armonia e pace.
"Se la vostra aspettativa di vita è, per esempio, di 35 anni avete la possibilità di piantare almeno altri tre boschi prima di morire, e questa è forse una delle consapevolezze più confortanti che possa avere un essere umano."
Un libro arioso e rigenerante come può esserlo una passeggiata in un bel giardino. Pagine che celebrano l'importanza del prendersi cura della natura che ci circonda, la pazienza di veder crescere ciò che si è piantato con tanto amore e l'orgoglio di vedere il risultato.
Quando nel '46 Nichols acquista la diroccata Merry Hall l'Inghilterra è in piena fase di ricostruzione dopo la guerra. Lui sta cercando un posto tranquillo e lontano dalla città dove rifugiarsi e scrivere i suoi articoli. Ma ciò che gli preme più di tutto è che la casa abbia un giardino in condizioni a dir poco disperate al quale potersi dedicare anima e corpo. Sa che prendersi cura di un giardino equivale a prendersi cura di se stessi, perchè la natura è dispensatrice di attimi di bellezza, armonia e pace.
"Se la vostra aspettativa di vita è, per esempio, di 35 anni avete la possibilità di piantare almeno altri tre boschi prima di morire, e questa è forse una delle consapevolezze più confortanti che possa avere un essere umano."
January 26, 2023
Libro scorrevole, leggero, rilassante ed impregnato del caratteristico humor inglese.
Lo scrittore Nichols ci racconta dell'acquisto e della trasformazione subita dalla sua residenza nel Surrey: Merry Hall. In particolare racconta del giardino della casa, dei fiori e piante che lo abbelliscono.
L'unica nota negativa è data dal disprezzo non troppo celato che l'autore ha per le donne e per i neonati. Le frasi taglienti con cui li descrive superano il confine dell'ironia e questo mi ha fatto abbassare la valutazione.
Lo scrittore Nichols ci racconta dell'acquisto e della trasformazione subita dalla sua residenza nel Surrey: Merry Hall. In particolare racconta del giardino della casa, dei fiori e piante che lo abbelliscono.
L'unica nota negativa è data dal disprezzo non troppo celato che l'autore ha per le donne e per i neonati. Le frasi taglienti con cui li descrive superano il confine dell'ironia e questo mi ha fatto abbassare la valutazione.
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