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 ARNCLUITH,
or Baron's Cleugh as it used to be, and should be still called, is in
the same densely-peopled, clangorous, tram-ridden, smoke-shaded district
as Dalzell, lying scarcely outside the mining and manufacturing town of
Hamilton, as Dalzell does outside Motherwell. But the seclusion of one
is as perfect as that of the other, owing to the precipitous nature of
the glen where it is built and the luxuriant greenwood which clothes the
cliffs on each side of the Avon. Like Dalzell also in this, that it owes
its erection to a Hamilton, namely, John of Broomhill, ancestor of the
present Lord Belhaven, who built the triple dwelling house in 1583.
Dorothy Wordsworth dismissed it in a sentence, devoting pages to
describe the oppressive splendour of Hamilton Palace on the other side
of the high road; but it is certain that neither she nor her husband can
have penetrated this delectable pleasaunce, for no poet might view
unmoved such a felicitous fusion of art with nature. In good truth the
approaches to
Barncluith are the
reverse of promising. You turn off the tram line to the east of the
town, and follow for half a mile or so what was once a country lane, but
is now a partly-built line of small villas or large cottage dwellings.
Great trees have been uprooted to make way for these, the roadway is
worn into deep ruts in the course of transition into a common street,
along which you proceed until, with dramatic suddenness, the scene
changes. The way parts in two, passing on either side of a row of the
weirdest sycamores you ever saw. Stretching their immense arms across
both roads, these half dozen venerable giants remind one of the
fantastic growths in Salvator Rosa's impossible forests. The right-hand
road leads up to the gateway which admits to Hamilton High Parks, where
the wild white cattle still browse beneath the gnarled oaks of Cadzow
Forest; the one to the left descends to another gate, within which round
a narrow plateau of closely-mown sward, stand at different elevations
the three houses which form the mansion of Barncluith. One is puzzled to
understand why there should be three, instead of but one, nor have I met
anybody who could explain the mystery; howbeit, the resulting effect is
picturesque in the highest degree.
"Barneluith," says Mr.
Neil Munro, "is of all the ancient dwellings in that romantic
neighbourhood the one which should most bewitch the angler; it was so
obviously built for peace and an artistic eye and the propinquity of
good fishing, while all the others were built for war."
But you will hasten
forward to view the garden—not that modern arrangement of parterres
which occupies the further end of the plateau, which, indeed, is bright
enough with roses and summer flowers within a girdling yew hedge,
fantastically carved according to the archaic craft of toxidendry, but
that other garden to the west of the house where the ground falls sheer
to the sparkling Avon two hundred feet below, whereof Mr. R. S. Lorimer
has written-
"Barneluith is quite
unlike anything else : a detailed description can convey but little idea
of its charm. It is the most romantic little garden in Scotland. Lying
on one side of a great wooded valley, it is a veritable hanging garden.
Four or five terraces, one above the other, sticking on the side of a
cliff the general angle of which is about 55 degrees. Two little summer
houses, great trees of scented box, and the flowers gathered here you
feel sure would be, not a bouquet, but a posy —such an atmosphere about
the place. In the twilight or the moonlight destinies might be
determined in this garden."
The risk would not be
less, methinks, at high noon, for there are alleys here and shaded
bowers where Sol at his meridian can never do more than temper the green
gloaming. It is not a garden wherein children could be turned loose to
play, for the terraces are narrow—little more than dizzy ledges—with no
guardian rail or breastwork to break or prevent a fall. The great extent
of buttressed walls, with narrow borders at the foot, offer the most
fascinating field for the enthusiast in horticulture. At present ivy
runs riot over far too much of the wall-space, which might be occupied
by an extensive collection of the choicest flowering shrubs. The borders
also, effectively as they are stored with familiar things, such as
rockets, stocks, poppies, wall-flower and ferns, present the most
tempting variety of aspects to meet the requirements of every kind of
hardy subject. This most enviable demesne has lately passed into the
hands of a new owner (or at least occupier) for whom a most absorbing
occupation lies await, if he has any turn for it, in improving these
terraces into one of the most remarkable gardens in existence,
horticulturally, as it is already architecturally.
For the rest, these
terraces are a fantasia of clipped yew and box. One heed not grudge the
labour spent on this somewhat barbarous form of decoration, albeit one
may prefer a tree in the form which God has prescribed for it to one
hewn laboriously into the shape of a peacock or a tea-pot. Nevertheless,
there is time and money spent here upon what one cannot but regard as
misdirected industry. For instance, the whole length of one of these
terraces is occupied by no less than forty little square beds in the
Dutch manner, each with its box edging, each enclosed with a gravel
path. Weeding these paths and clipping this box must absorb a
considerable amount of attention, without a corresponding spectacular
result; for the effect would be far finer were these toy beds thrown
into one long border, filled with the flowers of all seasons. They are
designed, of course, for the separate cultivation of masterpieces of the
florist's skill, and, if employed in that way, would form a distinct and
attractive feature; but devoted as they are merely for the display of
common flowers, the effect is meaningless and irritating.
The delights of this
garden are greatly enhanced by the lovely views up and down the winding
Avon, and across to the rich woodland on the further shore. And over all
reigns that sense of seclusion and repose which cannot fail to appeal to
the hard-wrought man of affairs as strongly as to the habitual loiterer. |
