‘The Bristol Mirror’, Friday 30th June 1939, reported:
Glorious Gardens and lake of the Stourhead Estate in Wiltshire, which will be bequeathed to the nation through the National Trust. Until Yesterday it was feared that part of the estate would have to be sold for use as an aerodrome.
Wilts Haven of Peace Unbroken.
Some of the happiest people in England live today at Stourton, Wiltshire, famous show place of the West.
For a place that has distilled through the centuries will not be shattered after all by the roar of low-flying bombing ‘planes. The pretty little village will not be invaded by aircraft workers.
No petrol lorries will pound along the narrow road between hedges of honeysuckle and briar roses, and, the ugly little red brick houses which it was feared would sprout among the thatched cottages, will never take root.
Most important of all, the glorious estate of Stourhead will not be sold. Its owner, Sir Henry Hoare, will keep his promise to bequeath it to the nation through the National Trust.
Sir Henry, it will be remembered said he would withdraw his offer to present the mansion house and the 2,700 acre estate to the nation if the Air Ministry compelled him to sell 300 acres of the estate for a training aerodrome.
But yesterday came the announcement that the Air Ministry had altered their minds. No aerodrome would be built at Stourhead.
Sir Henry and the National Trust had won.
And the men and women who depend on the district’s rich agricultural land for their livelihood are jubilant.
“THE VERIEST SCHOOL OF PEACE”
I chose a summer day to go to Stourhead (writes a “Press and Mirror” reporter) and I found “the veriest school of peace in gardens which John Wesley described as “exceeding the most celebrated in England”.
Standing on a knoll where the lawn slopes down to a placid lake, I saw rhododendrons still blooming against a backcloth of conifers and beeches, and across the water sailed a swan with five cygnets in tow.
Behind me the ornate Bristol Cross dating from the fourteenth century, and brought to Stourhead to be cared for in 1760-odd, dreamed of happenings tragic and gay, that have taken place in its shadow, and the parish church lay among trees beyond like a drowsy watch-dog.
There was sound about me, and there was movement to, the soughing of a breeze among branches, the quiver of grasses and the occasional fall of a flower petal, the rhapsody of larks and a cavatina by the crickets.
For this is the texture of life at Stourhead, and a duckling trapped and tangled in the reeds makes drama enough for any one day.
“Peaceful, isn’t it?” said a voice at my side. And russet-checked Mrs. Hollis, wife of the forester of Stourhead, smiled.
Mrs. Hollis is a remarkable woman. She knows every detail of the history of Stourhead; she knows the name of every shrub and tree and flower. One feels thatb even the birds would come to her if she called them.
Mrs. Hollis talked about the grounds, how they were laid out in the 18th century, when Italian landscape gardening was popular; how rhododendrons are blooming there from January to July; and how Turner, the artist, used the paddock since given his name as a background for some of his paintings.
And then she was silent for a moment.
“It’s all so unspoilt now,” she said. “It would have been sacrilege to bring an aerodrome down here.”
“We’re happy with just the sounds of nature around us. We don’t want noisy aeroplanes above us day and night.”
And we stood by a bank of foxgloves and watched the sun scintillate on the silver poplar on the island, and were glad that the scene would never change.
How can one find words to describe the wonders of that morning at Stourhead? The slim Corinthian columns of the Pantheon at Rome . . . . the coolness and the silence inside, light peeping through the cupola . . . the cold stare of the statues of Rysbrack . . . . the sturdy Adam wine coolers . . . .
The Grotto, built of lava from Vesuvius . . . the perennial stream of purest water . . . the lead-carved nymph . . . . the inspired lines of Alexander Pope carved in the marble near the recess . . . .
All Amazing And Unique.
It was all unique, amazing.
It was with regret that I reached the church again.
And then I set off to discover what the rest of Stourton thinks of aerodromes.
Mr. George Hollis, the forester, who expressed his views on the subject clearly and forcibly, went with me.
“Some people have described this as a distressed area now,” he said. “It’s nothing of the kind. But I reckon that if an aerodrome came here all the farmers would have to shut up shop, because labour is hard enough to get as it is. We can’t stand any competition of that sort.”
“Besides, this armament business can’t go on for ever, and once it collapses we should have a “distressed’ area here then all right, with ranks of houses specially built for the aircraft workers who would then be unemployed. I am very glad the Air Ministry have decided against it.”
At 95 Fordswater, as picturesque a thatched cottage as I have seen, I blazed a trail between currant bushes and found 83-year-old Mrs. W. Virgo dozing in the sun by her front door.
Mrs. Virgo, who is Stourton’s oldest inhabitant, has also hated to think that aeroplanes might frighten the finches from her garden.
“We wouldn’t have liked it very much, I’m afraid,” she said.
Father Paul Brookfield, priest at the little Roman Catholic Church, stalked about his garden, which he has made into a pleasant quiet little haven.
“I always felt that the wishes of Sir Henry and Lady Hoare should be considered,” he declared. “They have after all, given their heir to their country – their only son was killed during the War – and Sir Henry has offered the nation his inheritance as well.”
Relics Of Bristol’s History.
The aerodrome would have stretched, literally, to Father Paul’s garden gate.
But the man who was most relieved at the outcome was Mr. George Young, tenant farmer of Bonham Farm, whose fertile fields are on the actual site which was proposed for the aerodrome.
Mr. Young, who only took over the farm at the end of last September, told me that he had just spent £1,000 on equipment to bring his milk up to accredited standard.
Some of the finest cattle in the neighbourhood were being led into the milking shed as Mr. Young, in his white coat and cap, a pail in his hand, talked of the welcome news.
Bristol is particularly interested in Stourhead. Not only does our ancient High Cross – already mentioned – find a home there in the care of Sir Henry Hoare, but another Bristol relic, St. Peter’s Cross, stands in the grounds and covers the six sources of the Stour. When it was in Bristol, prior to 1755, this cross stood over the well of St. Edith, near St. Peter’s Church.
Both these objects of immense antiquarian interest, have been restored at considerable cost by Sir Henry, and Bristolians are glad that the dignity and unrivalled charm of their surroundings will remain undisturbed.
Stourhead is a retreat from the noisy world which must never be spoiled.