Wadhurst Park exists; a place out of time.
A singular house atop stepped, green terraces encompassed by wooded Sussex hills.
Warm, magical summer evenings; amber lights streaming through sheets of crystal onto tall, Moorish columns and tented canopy.
The murmur of dinner guest conversations from the drawing room;
Tiny tea lights glinting in the vastness of the orangery, reflected in cool marble floors.
Shadowy, secret places; Bright sunlit skies refracted in an ornamental pond, where orfe dart ‘neath green lily pads.
Silver birch and willow draping fragile fingers against vaulted roofs;
Whilst older denizens tower over remnants of a Gothic past.
Walled gardens, somnolent with the lazy hum of insects over fallen fruit;
The tinkle of water tumbling from the leaden lips of a Roman God, like voices of faery.
And far away, deer grazing by a lake, and all about, and farther yet, the woods and pastures of England.

Glenn Adams