Preservation Nation

There are predictable ways to tell you’re getting older: You marvel at the cost of things you barely blinked at before or start to say cringe-worthy things along the lines of, “My! How tall you are!”, suddenly sounding like the wolf in The Tale of Little Red Riding Hood. Not surprisingly, after a decade and a half of capturing my trans-Atlantic reunions first on 35mm, later on hordes of unsorted digital shots, my pilgrimages now resemble one of those flipbooks with hand-drawn characters that animate as you flick your way through the pages. A decade or two ago, trips home hinged critically on meeting up with old friends in hip bars, dimly lit Soho restaurants, or newly minted club nights, the preserve of those in the know, long before they became popular and chav-ridden. Now, with children in tow, the meet-ups are increasingly likely to occur in the daytime, as family-themed affairs. You kill two birds with one stone by getting a couple of friends together and letting the collective progeny entertain each other. And the presence of a husband or two is viewed as a coup.

The most recent pilgrimage was no different except our grown up plans were now the subject of our parents’ mirth and titillation. And in the middle stood the source: The National Trust. I can’t tell you how many childhood school trips, family days-out or other minivan-oriented excursions have ended up some British National Trust site or another. Unusually, in our bolshy mid-teens, my girlfriends and I would ask to be dropped off at Cliveden House, former home of Lord and Lady Astor, on sunny weekend afternoons. Although I can vouch for the Trust’s excellent afternoon teas, our interest was more closely allied with an opportunity to stroll the gardens smoking the stale Silk Cuts stashed in my knock-off Givenchy handbag. Given the perfumed body spray applied as a mask, I can’t fathom why my mother didn’t ask why we smelled like a bordello at pick up. I’ll be all over it if my daughter pulls a similar stunt.

In one hot, sunny, pre-Royal Wedding week at home, we managed to fit in two trips to Cliveden, one to Hughenden Manor, and another to Wisley, although that’s technically part of the Royal Horticultural Society. We almost made it to Poulsden Lacey, and Waddesden and Chartwell were mentally on the cards. As our mothers laughed at the civilized hours of our social plans, the man at Cliveden’s ticket entrance was not impressed that I wasn’t carrying a US National Trust card which would have garnered free entry via a reciprocal program. You live and learn.

So I felt a little sheepish about all the stately homes and grounds socializing missing from my life stateside until I redeemed myself with the realization that my memberships had merely expired and the long, harsh winter had all but wiped my memory clean of sunny days out and grassy lawns. I’d been a card-carrying (decal-driving) member of NYS Parks for some years, taking in some of the truly beautiful areas in the Capital Region, Adirondacks and Berkshires. Moreover, I had joined the Berkshire Botanical Society, part of the American Horticultural Society. On top of all that, I had officially joined the Massachusetts Trustees of Reservations during a visit to Naumkeag in Stockbridge, MA, on a – vindication! – mother/child joint play-date. Even if I first read about Naumkeag in a Sunday Times travel piece that my mother sent me from London; at least I could say I was a frequent visitor at the Red Lion Inn.

Discussing this, I met surprise at the existence of an American counterpart to the National Trust. (Like a distant aunt, many Brits are guilty of keeping the US forever young in our aging minds.) In a kneejerk reaction (based on the way it’s okay to comment on your own mother but woe betide someone else who chimes in), I extolled the assets of my adopted home, specifically upstate since the city needs zero help. Stick a fork in a map of Columbia County or the Berkshires and it’s easy to rattle off an extraordinary list of historic names from President van Buren to authors Herman Melville and Edith Wharton, and estates like Clermont, Livingston and Olana that predate any rockstar’s single-name predilection.

Nonetheless, I worried that I was slacking and the time spent choosing glorious British grounds to rendez-vous had to be matched in New York upon my return. In the short week that I’ve been back, I’ve managed to renew our expired memberships, check events calendars, and start plotting a course for the summer. That's if we can just get a break from that British-style rain.