Can Alice come out and play?
Peasmarsh Place is a dreary-looking old folks’ home in the village of Peasmarsh. Natch. At least, it looks dreary from the outside; it ain’t cheap, so it’s probably pretty nice inside. It does have ten acres of very impressive gardens — trees, mostly — that are open to the public two days a year, Spring and Fall.
We went yesterday. I’ve wanted to go since forever. Gardens, schmardens — the occupant in the 1860s was Charles Liddell, Alice‘s uncle. In these grounds, Alice was told some interesting stories by the Rev’d Dodgson.
At least, that’s what their marketing blah says.
Most of the trees were blown over in a hellacious storm that flattened Southern England in 1987, but there are plenty of gigantic specimens left. And interesting young trees. And spooky abandoned greenhouses with invasive whatnots pressing their leaves against dirty cracked glass. And a gorgeous Norman church next door.
And wild pigs. Apparently. After dark, they come out of the forest and roam the grounds and make themselves dangerous, so the signs said.
And, yes, I turned my ankle in a rabbit hole.
Amusing exercise: know who else lives in little Peasmarsh? Paul McCartney. Not sure where. All we know is, his house is up a drab lane of carefully deceptive boringness. Peasmarsh Place is here. Have a Google around, if you’ve a mind to.
One more thing: a link to Ace’s latest Be The Wave post. Expectations for this election have gotten so crazy out of hand, if the Republican wave isn’t HUGE a week from tomorrow, the Dems will call it a win for their side. And a mandate. With all that entails.
Please please pleeeeeeeeeease</whiny kid voice> do what you can to turn out your fambly, friends and cubiclemates on November 2.