Sissinghurst An Unfinished History by ( Author ) ON Sep-03-2009, Paperback
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Sissinghurst An Unfinished History (2009)
~EN HC US RPISBN: 9780007240555 bzw. 0007240554, vermutlich in Englisch, Harper Press, gebundenes Buch, gebraucht, guter Zustand, Nachdruck.
Lieferung aus: Neuseeland, Versandkosten nach: DEU.
Von Händler/Antiquariat, bookexpress.co.nz.
Harper Press. Very Good. 5.08 x 1.14 x 7.8 inches. Paperback. 2009. 390 pages. A fascinating account from award-winning author Ad am Nicolson on the history of Nicolson's own national treasure, h is family home: Sissinghurst. Sissinghurst is world famous as a place of calm and beauty, a garden slipped into the ruins of a ro se-pink Elizabethan palace. But is it entirely what its creators intended? Has its success over the last thirty years come at a pr ice? Is Sissinghurst everything it could be? The story of this pi ece of land, an estate in the Weald of Kent, is told here for the first time from the very beginning. Adam Nicolson, who now lives there, has uncovered remarkable new findings about its history a s a medieval manor and great sixteenth-century house, from the da ys of its decline as an eighteenth-century prison to a flourishin g Victorian farm and on to the creation, by his grandparents Vita Sackville-West and Harold Nicolson, of a garden in a weed-strewn wreck. Alongside his recovery of the past, Adam Nicolson wanted something else: for the land at Sissinghurst to live again, to be come the landscape of orchards, cattle, fruit and sheep he rememb ered from his boyhood.Could that living frame of a mixed farm be brought back to what had turned into monochrome fields of chemica lised wheat and oilseed rape? Against the odds, he was going to t ry. Adam Nicolson has always been a passionate writer about lands cape and buildings, but this is different. This is the place he w anted to make good again, reconnecting garden, farm and land. Mor e than just a personal biography of a place, this book is the sto ry of taking an inheritance and steering it in a new direction, j ust as an entrepreneur might take hold of a company, or just as a ll of us might want to take our dreams and make them real. From the Hardcover edition. Editorial Reviews From Publishers Weekly Starred Review. Nicolson, grandson of poet Vita Sackville-West a nd diplomat Harold Nicolson--best known, perhaps for being Virgin ia Woolf's lover--grew up in the 1960s at Sissinghurst, the ruine d castle where Sackville-West created her renowned gardens in the 1930s. The author's father Nigel gave the estate to the National Trust in 1967, and when Nicholson came back to live there after his father, Nigel, died in 2004, he embarked on a campaign to rev ive a landscape that had forgotten its past. It's through this le ns of love for its past and passion for its future that Nicholson relates the story of his quest, embedding it in a history of Sis singhurst, beginning in its origins in clay, forest, and pastures and the custom of Kent--a unique culture of self-reliant men and women who depended on the land rather than on a lord--following through its transformation into a prison for French prisoners of war in the 18th century and its 20th-century revitalization by Vi ta and Harold. Nicholson's love of language is equal to his love of the land, and his poetic prose evokes the richness of the land scape he strives to save. (May) Copyright ? Reed Business Inform ation, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --Th is text refers to the hardcover edition. Excerpt. ? Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. CHAPTER 1 Sissinghurst I have lived at Sissinghurst, onand off, for the last forty-five years. For my entire conscious life it has been what I have thought of a s home, even when living away, in London, or abroad. For all my a ttachment to other places, this has always seemed like the root. I belong to it. It is the land I have walked over, looked out ove r, driven through, smoked my first cigarette in, planted my first tree in, bicycled over, slept in, and lived in all my life. It i s where I came to understand what a tree was, what a friend was, what a hideout was, what a landscape was, how entrancing streams were as they made their way in and out of the margins of a wood, and what solitariness, nature, and love might be. If I think of a view, or of mist on an autumn morning, the way it lies in a val ley like a scarf, or the way a stream when blocked makes a reedy place upstream of the blockage, where after time willows grow in the wetness and make a dark summer tent over the bog; or the way wildflowers peak and then collapse as spring deepens into summer; if I think of geese belling across winter fields; or of being al one, or of the transition from childhood to adolescence, of the r elationship of a place to its history or its future: every one of those things, strung out across my life, like lights marking a c hannel, is tied to and founded on Sissinghurst. It is the shape o f what I am. I do not own it but it is my place. Anything else ca n only ever be an approximation to it. There is a tree in the ga rden, an oak, growing on the edge of the moat, that my sister Jul iet and I planted together when she was four and I was one. It is nearly fifty years old but, in its tree life, still in its teens . One or two of the lower branches have been pruned, to improve i ts shape, and the bark of the oak is creeping back, in pillowed, almost animal ridges, across the scars that the saw has left. But the rest of the tree--it is a strange hybrid, a sycamore oak, wh ich has oak leaves but drops sycamore seeds in the autumn, the si ngle wings helicoptering to the autumn grass--the rest of the tre e is in the first glowing moment of adulthood, no leaning in the trunk, a full head of hair, if you can say that about a tree, a k ind of bushy-brushed wholeness to it, its trunk like the trunk of a young man. It is now part of the Sissinghurst landscape, roote d, solid, essential, inevitably there, and I feel in my heart as much part of this place as that tree. My nutrients come from this soil. When I was a boy here in the 1960s, my father used to tak e us, my sisters and me, down to the stream that runs through the wood, usually after lunch in the winter, to have a boat race. We chose small, fat sticks for boats, to be thrown into the stream where it entered the wood below a marshy patch in the Dog Field. He cut long wands from the hazels for what he called hoikers--the only way, if your stick got caught in the deep trench of the str eam, that you could hoik it back into the main flow. No cheating was allowed, nor hurrying on of your stick if it happened to be d rifting in a treacle-slow section of the current. It had to be st uck and immobile before you could push it back into the race with the hoiker. The finishing line was the chestnut bridge by the ou tflow from the lake. All of us cheated when he wasn't looking. O r there were clearance weekends and bonfires, the brambles and de ad wood lopped and slashed away with billhooks and bowsaws, all p iled onto a smoky fire, the smoke finding its way out through the roof of the coppiced chestnuts as if through the thatch of a med ieval hall. He would send me down to the wood sometimes to start the fire on my own before he came to join me. Start it small, he said, but make it as big as you can. Once he raced me to Bettenha m, the neighbor farm to Sissinghurst, half a mile away, him on fo ot, me on a bike. I remember him now, stampeding down the track a head of me, uncatchable and distant, however hard I pedaled. Sis singhurst is embedded in the most explorable and boy-friendly of all landscapes, a part of Kent, no more than fifty miles south of London, called the Weald. That is an ancient Saxon or Germanic w ord meaning forest, but over the twelve or thirteen centuries sin ce the Saxons arrived here, that huge stretch of woodland has bee n cut up and largely cleared so that the Weald now is a patchwork of small woods and farms, with streams curling between them and lanes connecting one to another. It is a stretch of country that is accessible to London and its commuters but has an enormously d eep past and is still full of hidden secrets. A sense of invitati on is plastered all over it, and on summer mornings, at breakfast , on the bleached and knotty deal of the kitchen table, my father would pore with me over a two-and-a-half-inch map of it, explori ng its possibilities with our fingers: the gridlines pale blue, t he occasional contours a browny orange, the stipple of the scatte red farms, each with the blue spot of a farmyard pond. Why don't you go and see what the Hammer Brook is like here--a bridge four miles away downstream--or here, where it joins the Beult? You see where it says Roman Road there, where it goes down the contours of that hill? Or look, a Roman ford--miles away, south of Benende n, into another parish--why don't you see if you can go and find that? So I did, alone on my bike for hours and days at a time, l ooking for these places that he had made precious and important t o me. I learned to read the map, which I kept folded in my pocket . I found the Roman road dropping south through woodland beyond B enenden: he must have known it but never told me he did, a place reverberating with the past, a huge trench as straight as it shou ld be, just wobbling here and there like a piece of furniture two thousand years old, half a mile long, exactly preserved and deep ly creased into the Wealden hill. I remember it now, its runnel f illed with autumn leaves, the hornbeams and hazels on its banks, unvisited, unknown, the most wonderful and vivid antiquity I had ever seen. At the bottom of the valley, on a tiny tributary of th e Rother no more than two feet wide, trickling to the south, with ferns and moss around them, I found the smooth dark stones of th e Roman ford, scattered in the stream bed, as neglected as they h ad been since the Romans left fifteen hundred years before. I wo uld return from these expeditions, excited and exhausted, unaware of the riches I was gathering. Only now do I see this as the bes t education a child could have: the private discovery of a stretc h of country rich in buried meanings, so easily and fluently to h and, to be discovered with nothing more than a map and a bike. Se eing, I suppose, how much I loved it all, the finding of the way, the connections made in three dimensions that the map had hinted at and led one to, we started going on longer expeditions. One J une morning, early, when the world was heavy with summer and gree nness, we went for a long walk together through the flat, oak-hed ged grasslands of the Low Weald toward Biddenden. I was about ele ven and we walked from one fifteenth-century Wealden farmhouse to another, maybe twelve miles or so through the cold morning, the leaves gray with dew, the sun blinking through them, admiring the close-set studs, the pitch of the roofs designed for thatch, now tiled, the rooted richness of this country. It is not the build ings I remember, though, but a long hay meadow on the Hammer Broo k, a mile or two upstream, just the other side of Hammer Mill, wh ich we came to as we circled back to Sissinghurst and breakfast. I had never guessed that an air of perfection was not something t o be dreamt about, but could be experienced on your skin, as a li ving, seen reality. I thought then and can still imagine now that the meadow was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. One sid e of the long narrow green space, perhaps four hundred yards from end to end, all of it walled in by the fresh green of the spring time wood, followed the brook's meandering path. The other took a long straight line against the trees. We were there the morning after the farmer, Mr. Hall, had mown the grass. He had begun by f ollowing the stream in his tractor and had laid his swathes in re peated, rippling slices that mimicked the stream itself, as if th e wavy hair of the field had been combed flat but kept its wave, gleaming early that brilliant morning, like oiled braids, with th e pale stubs of the shorn grass between each mown tress, the butt ercups laid in with the grass as a summer wreath, a vision of per fection for that moment only, before Mr. Hall came back with his tractor later that morning and began to turn and stir the grass w ith his tedder into the lifted ridges in which he needed it to dr y. We did other things: my father bought a double canoe and for three days we followed the Hammer Brook from where the Bettenham track crossed it, along its winding trench to the river Beult and then on to the Medway until we reached salt water at Rochester. We did the same on the Stour from Great Chart to Sandwich, taking with us this time, in a deliberate act of matchmaking, my cousin Robert Sackville-West, so that we would become friends, as we ha ve remained for life. We walked to the North Downs across the Low Weald and then along the Pilgrim's Way. We went to see where Wil liam the Conqueror had landed and then Julius Caesar. It was as i f my father was conquering Kent for me, not the Kent of commuter modernity but an older place, one in which nature and culture wer e more intimately bound together and of which Sissinghurst itself always seemed to be the center and the exemplar. Nowhere felt d eeper or more like a vein under the skin than down in the bed of the Hammer Brook. It was an entrancing and different world, a gre en, wet womb, a place of privacy and escape. Along the banks, the alders and hazels were so thick that the wavering line... --This text refers to the hardcover edition. Review A masterpiece of r ural romanticism. -- Sunday Times Excellent. A clear-eyed pictu re . . . beautiful. -- The Guardian A wonderful book. -- Financi al Times From the Hardcover edition. --This text refers to the h ardcover edition. About the Author ADAM NICOLSON is the author o f many books on history, travel, and the environment. He is the w inner of the Somerset Maugham Award, the British Topography Prize , and the W.H. Heinemann Award. His previous books include Sea Ro om, God's Secretaries, Seamanship, Men of Honour, and Earls of Pa radise. From the Hardcover edition. --This text refers to the ha rdcover edition. .
Von Händler/Antiquariat, bookexpress.co.nz.
Harper Press. Very Good. 5.08 x 1.14 x 7.8 inches. Paperback. 2009. 390 pages. A fascinating account from award-winning author Ad am Nicolson on the history of Nicolson's own national treasure, h is family home: Sissinghurst. Sissinghurst is world famous as a place of calm and beauty, a garden slipped into the ruins of a ro se-pink Elizabethan palace. But is it entirely what its creators intended? Has its success over the last thirty years come at a pr ice? Is Sissinghurst everything it could be? The story of this pi ece of land, an estate in the Weald of Kent, is told here for the first time from the very beginning. Adam Nicolson, who now lives there, has uncovered remarkable new findings about its history a s a medieval manor and great sixteenth-century house, from the da ys of its decline as an eighteenth-century prison to a flourishin g Victorian farm and on to the creation, by his grandparents Vita Sackville-West and Harold Nicolson, of a garden in a weed-strewn wreck. Alongside his recovery of the past, Adam Nicolson wanted something else: for the land at Sissinghurst to live again, to be come the landscape of orchards, cattle, fruit and sheep he rememb ered from his boyhood.Could that living frame of a mixed farm be brought back to what had turned into monochrome fields of chemica lised wheat and oilseed rape? Against the odds, he was going to t ry. Adam Nicolson has always been a passionate writer about lands cape and buildings, but this is different. This is the place he w anted to make good again, reconnecting garden, farm and land. Mor e than just a personal biography of a place, this book is the sto ry of taking an inheritance and steering it in a new direction, j ust as an entrepreneur might take hold of a company, or just as a ll of us might want to take our dreams and make them real. From the Hardcover edition. Editorial Reviews From Publishers Weekly Starred Review. Nicolson, grandson of poet Vita Sackville-West a nd diplomat Harold Nicolson--best known, perhaps for being Virgin ia Woolf's lover--grew up in the 1960s at Sissinghurst, the ruine d castle where Sackville-West created her renowned gardens in the 1930s. The author's father Nigel gave the estate to the National Trust in 1967, and when Nicholson came back to live there after his father, Nigel, died in 2004, he embarked on a campaign to rev ive a landscape that had forgotten its past. It's through this le ns of love for its past and passion for its future that Nicholson relates the story of his quest, embedding it in a history of Sis singhurst, beginning in its origins in clay, forest, and pastures and the custom of Kent--a unique culture of self-reliant men and women who depended on the land rather than on a lord--following through its transformation into a prison for French prisoners of war in the 18th century and its 20th-century revitalization by Vi ta and Harold. Nicholson's love of language is equal to his love of the land, and his poetic prose evokes the richness of the land scape he strives to save. (May) Copyright ? Reed Business Inform ation, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --Th is text refers to the hardcover edition. Excerpt. ? Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. CHAPTER 1 Sissinghurst I have lived at Sissinghurst, onand off, for the last forty-five years. For my entire conscious life it has been what I have thought of a s home, even when living away, in London, or abroad. For all my a ttachment to other places, this has always seemed like the root. I belong to it. It is the land I have walked over, looked out ove r, driven through, smoked my first cigarette in, planted my first tree in, bicycled over, slept in, and lived in all my life. It i s where I came to understand what a tree was, what a friend was, what a hideout was, what a landscape was, how entrancing streams were as they made their way in and out of the margins of a wood, and what solitariness, nature, and love might be. If I think of a view, or of mist on an autumn morning, the way it lies in a val ley like a scarf, or the way a stream when blocked makes a reedy place upstream of the blockage, where after time willows grow in the wetness and make a dark summer tent over the bog; or the way wildflowers peak and then collapse as spring deepens into summer; if I think of geese belling across winter fields; or of being al one, or of the transition from childhood to adolescence, of the r elationship of a place to its history or its future: every one of those things, strung out across my life, like lights marking a c hannel, is tied to and founded on Sissinghurst. It is the shape o f what I am. I do not own it but it is my place. Anything else ca n only ever be an approximation to it. There is a tree in the ga rden, an oak, growing on the edge of the moat, that my sister Jul iet and I planted together when she was four and I was one. It is nearly fifty years old but, in its tree life, still in its teens . One or two of the lower branches have been pruned, to improve i ts shape, and the bark of the oak is creeping back, in pillowed, almost animal ridges, across the scars that the saw has left. But the rest of the tree--it is a strange hybrid, a sycamore oak, wh ich has oak leaves but drops sycamore seeds in the autumn, the si ngle wings helicoptering to the autumn grass--the rest of the tre e is in the first glowing moment of adulthood, no leaning in the trunk, a full head of hair, if you can say that about a tree, a k ind of bushy-brushed wholeness to it, its trunk like the trunk of a young man. It is now part of the Sissinghurst landscape, roote d, solid, essential, inevitably there, and I feel in my heart as much part of this place as that tree. My nutrients come from this soil. When I was a boy here in the 1960s, my father used to tak e us, my sisters and me, down to the stream that runs through the wood, usually after lunch in the winter, to have a boat race. We chose small, fat sticks for boats, to be thrown into the stream where it entered the wood below a marshy patch in the Dog Field. He cut long wands from the hazels for what he called hoikers--the only way, if your stick got caught in the deep trench of the str eam, that you could hoik it back into the main flow. No cheating was allowed, nor hurrying on of your stick if it happened to be d rifting in a treacle-slow section of the current. It had to be st uck and immobile before you could push it back into the race with the hoiker. The finishing line was the chestnut bridge by the ou tflow from the lake. All of us cheated when he wasn't looking. O r there were clearance weekends and bonfires, the brambles and de ad wood lopped and slashed away with billhooks and bowsaws, all p iled onto a smoky fire, the smoke finding its way out through the roof of the coppiced chestnuts as if through the thatch of a med ieval hall. He would send me down to the wood sometimes to start the fire on my own before he came to join me. Start it small, he said, but make it as big as you can. Once he raced me to Bettenha m, the neighbor farm to Sissinghurst, half a mile away, him on fo ot, me on a bike. I remember him now, stampeding down the track a head of me, uncatchable and distant, however hard I pedaled. Sis singhurst is embedded in the most explorable and boy-friendly of all landscapes, a part of Kent, no more than fifty miles south of London, called the Weald. That is an ancient Saxon or Germanic w ord meaning forest, but over the twelve or thirteen centuries sin ce the Saxons arrived here, that huge stretch of woodland has bee n cut up and largely cleared so that the Weald now is a patchwork of small woods and farms, with streams curling between them and lanes connecting one to another. It is a stretch of country that is accessible to London and its commuters but has an enormously d eep past and is still full of hidden secrets. A sense of invitati on is plastered all over it, and on summer mornings, at breakfast , on the bleached and knotty deal of the kitchen table, my father would pore with me over a two-and-a-half-inch map of it, explori ng its possibilities with our fingers: the gridlines pale blue, t he occasional contours a browny orange, the stipple of the scatte red farms, each with the blue spot of a farmyard pond. Why don't you go and see what the Hammer Brook is like here--a bridge four miles away downstream--or here, where it joins the Beult? You see where it says Roman Road there, where it goes down the contours of that hill? Or look, a Roman ford--miles away, south of Benende n, into another parish--why don't you see if you can go and find that? So I did, alone on my bike for hours and days at a time, l ooking for these places that he had made precious and important t o me. I learned to read the map, which I kept folded in my pocket . I found the Roman road dropping south through woodland beyond B enenden: he must have known it but never told me he did, a place reverberating with the past, a huge trench as straight as it shou ld be, just wobbling here and there like a piece of furniture two thousand years old, half a mile long, exactly preserved and deep ly creased into the Wealden hill. I remember it now, its runnel f illed with autumn leaves, the hornbeams and hazels on its banks, unvisited, unknown, the most wonderful and vivid antiquity I had ever seen. At the bottom of the valley, on a tiny tributary of th e Rother no more than two feet wide, trickling to the south, with ferns and moss around them, I found the smooth dark stones of th e Roman ford, scattered in the stream bed, as neglected as they h ad been since the Romans left fifteen hundred years before. I wo uld return from these expeditions, excited and exhausted, unaware of the riches I was gathering. Only now do I see this as the bes t education a child could have: the private discovery of a stretc h of country rich in buried meanings, so easily and fluently to h and, to be discovered with nothing more than a map and a bike. Se eing, I suppose, how much I loved it all, the finding of the way, the connections made in three dimensions that the map had hinted at and led one to, we started going on longer expeditions. One J une morning, early, when the world was heavy with summer and gree nness, we went for a long walk together through the flat, oak-hed ged grasslands of the Low Weald toward Biddenden. I was about ele ven and we walked from one fifteenth-century Wealden farmhouse to another, maybe twelve miles or so through the cold morning, the leaves gray with dew, the sun blinking through them, admiring the close-set studs, the pitch of the roofs designed for thatch, now tiled, the rooted richness of this country. It is not the build ings I remember, though, but a long hay meadow on the Hammer Broo k, a mile or two upstream, just the other side of Hammer Mill, wh ich we came to as we circled back to Sissinghurst and breakfast. I had never guessed that an air of perfection was not something t o be dreamt about, but could be experienced on your skin, as a li ving, seen reality. I thought then and can still imagine now that the meadow was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. One sid e of the long narrow green space, perhaps four hundred yards from end to end, all of it walled in by the fresh green of the spring time wood, followed the brook's meandering path. The other took a long straight line against the trees. We were there the morning after the farmer, Mr. Hall, had mown the grass. He had begun by f ollowing the stream in his tractor and had laid his swathes in re peated, rippling slices that mimicked the stream itself, as if th e wavy hair of the field had been combed flat but kept its wave, gleaming early that brilliant morning, like oiled braids, with th e pale stubs of the shorn grass between each mown tress, the butt ercups laid in with the grass as a summer wreath, a vision of per fection for that moment only, before Mr. Hall came back with his tractor later that morning and began to turn and stir the grass w ith his tedder into the lifted ridges in which he needed it to dr y. We did other things: my father bought a double canoe and for three days we followed the Hammer Brook from where the Bettenham track crossed it, along its winding trench to the river Beult and then on to the Medway until we reached salt water at Rochester. We did the same on the Stour from Great Chart to Sandwich, taking with us this time, in a deliberate act of matchmaking, my cousin Robert Sackville-West, so that we would become friends, as we ha ve remained for life. We walked to the North Downs across the Low Weald and then along the Pilgrim's Way. We went to see where Wil liam the Conqueror had landed and then Julius Caesar. It was as i f my father was conquering Kent for me, not the Kent of commuter modernity but an older place, one in which nature and culture wer e more intimately bound together and of which Sissinghurst itself always seemed to be the center and the exemplar. Nowhere felt d eeper or more like a vein under the skin than down in the bed of the Hammer Brook. It was an entrancing and different world, a gre en, wet womb, a place of privacy and escape. Along the banks, the alders and hazels were so thick that the wavering line... --This text refers to the hardcover edition. Review A masterpiece of r ural romanticism. -- Sunday Times Excellent. A clear-eyed pictu re . . . beautiful. -- The Guardian A wonderful book. -- Financi al Times From the Hardcover edition. --This text refers to the h ardcover edition. About the Author ADAM NICOLSON is the author o f many books on history, travel, and the environment. He is the w inner of the Somerset Maugham Award, the British Topography Prize , and the W.H. Heinemann Award. His previous books include Sea Ro om, God's Secretaries, Seamanship, Men of Honour, and Earls of Pa radise. From the Hardcover edition. --This text refers to the ha rdcover edition. .
2
Sissinghurst
EN PB NWISBN: 9780007240555 bzw. 0007240554, in Englisch, William Collins; HarperCollins, Vereinigte Staaten von Amerika, Taschenbuch, neu.
Lieferung aus: Deutschland, zzgl. Versandkosten.
A fascinating account from award-winning author Adam Nicolson of the history of Nicolson's own national treasure, his family home: Sissinghurst. Sissinghurst is world-famous as a place of calm and beauty, a garden slipped into the ruins of a rose-pink Elizabethan palace. But is it entirely what its creators intended? Has its success over the last thirty years come at a price? Is Sissinghurst everything it could be? The story of this piece of land, an estate in the Weald of Kent, is told here for the first time from the very beginning. Adam Nicolson, who now lives there, has uncovered remarkable new findings about its history as a medieval manor and great sixteenth-century house, from the days of its decline as an eighteenth-century prison to a flourishing Victorian farm and on to the creation, by his grandparents Vita Sackville-West and Harold Nicolson, of a garden in a weed-strewn wreck. Alongside his recovery of the past, Adam Nicolson wanted something else: for the land at Sissinghurst to live again, to become the landscape of orchards, cattle, fruit and sheep he remembered from his boyhood. Could that living frame of a mixed farm be brought back to what had turned into monochrome fields of chemicalised wheat and oilseed rape? Against the odds, he was going to try. This paperback edition will be fully updated to cover the first year of Adam Nicolson's endeavour to revive the estate and return it to the glories of its past. More than just a personal biography of a place, this book is the story of taking an inheritance and steering it in a new direction, just as an entrepreneur might take hold of a company, or just as all of us might want to take our dreams and make them real.
A fascinating account from award-winning author Adam Nicolson of the history of Nicolson's own national treasure, his family home: Sissinghurst. Sissinghurst is world-famous as a place of calm and beauty, a garden slipped into the ruins of a rose-pink Elizabethan palace. But is it entirely what its creators intended? Has its success over the last thirty years come at a price? Is Sissinghurst everything it could be? The story of this piece of land, an estate in the Weald of Kent, is told here for the first time from the very beginning. Adam Nicolson, who now lives there, has uncovered remarkable new findings about its history as a medieval manor and great sixteenth-century house, from the days of its decline as an eighteenth-century prison to a flourishing Victorian farm and on to the creation, by his grandparents Vita Sackville-West and Harold Nicolson, of a garden in a weed-strewn wreck. Alongside his recovery of the past, Adam Nicolson wanted something else: for the land at Sissinghurst to live again, to become the landscape of orchards, cattle, fruit and sheep he remembered from his boyhood. Could that living frame of a mixed farm be brought back to what had turned into monochrome fields of chemicalised wheat and oilseed rape? Against the odds, he was going to try. This paperback edition will be fully updated to cover the first year of Adam Nicolson's endeavour to revive the estate and return it to the glories of its past. More than just a personal biography of a place, this book is the story of taking an inheritance and steering it in a new direction, just as an entrepreneur might take hold of a company, or just as all of us might want to take our dreams and make them real.
3
Sissinghurst
EN PB NWISBN: 9780007240555 bzw. 0007240554, in Englisch, HarperCollins Publishers, Taschenbuch, neu.
Lieferung aus: Vereinigtes Königreich Großbritannien und Nordirland, Usually 24hours, zzgl. Versandkosten.
A fascinating account from award-winning author Adam Nicolson of the history of Nicolson's own national treasure, his family home: Sissinghurst. Sissinghurst is world-famous as a place of calm and beauty, a garden slipped into the ruins of a rose-pink Elizabethan palace. But is it entirely what its creators intended? Has its success over the last thirty years come at a price? Is Sissinghurst everything it could be? The story of this piece of land, an estate in the Weald of Kent, is told here for the first time from the very beginning. Adam Nicolson, who now lives there, has uncovered remarkable new findings about its history as a medieval manor and great sixteenth-century house, from the days of its decline as an eighteenth-century prison to a flourishing Victorian farm and on to the creation, by his grandparents Vita Sackville-West and Harold Nicolson, of a garden in a weed-strewn wreck. Alongside his recovery of the past, Adam Nicolson wanted something else: for the land at Sissinghurst to live again, to become the landscape of orchards, cattle, fruit and sheep he remembered from his boyhood. Could that living frame of a mixed farm be brought back to what had turned into monochrome fields of chemicalised wheat and oilseed rape? Against the odds, he was going to try. This paperback edition will be fully updated to cover the first year of Adam Nicolson's endeavour to revive the estate and return it to the glories of its past. More than just a personal biography of a place, this book is the story of taking an inheritance and steering it in a new direction, just as an entrepreneur might take hold of a company, or just as all of us might want to take our dreams and make them real.
A fascinating account from award-winning author Adam Nicolson of the history of Nicolson's own national treasure, his family home: Sissinghurst. Sissinghurst is world-famous as a place of calm and beauty, a garden slipped into the ruins of a rose-pink Elizabethan palace. But is it entirely what its creators intended? Has its success over the last thirty years come at a price? Is Sissinghurst everything it could be? The story of this piece of land, an estate in the Weald of Kent, is told here for the first time from the very beginning. Adam Nicolson, who now lives there, has uncovered remarkable new findings about its history as a medieval manor and great sixteenth-century house, from the days of its decline as an eighteenth-century prison to a flourishing Victorian farm and on to the creation, by his grandparents Vita Sackville-West and Harold Nicolson, of a garden in a weed-strewn wreck. Alongside his recovery of the past, Adam Nicolson wanted something else: for the land at Sissinghurst to live again, to become the landscape of orchards, cattle, fruit and sheep he remembered from his boyhood. Could that living frame of a mixed farm be brought back to what had turned into monochrome fields of chemicalised wheat and oilseed rape? Against the odds, he was going to try. This paperback edition will be fully updated to cover the first year of Adam Nicolson's endeavour to revive the estate and return it to the glories of its past. More than just a personal biography of a place, this book is the story of taking an inheritance and steering it in a new direction, just as an entrepreneur might take hold of a company, or just as all of us might want to take our dreams and make them real.
4
Sissinghurst
EN PB NWISBN: 9780007240555 bzw. 0007240554, in Englisch, William Collins; HarperCollins, Vereinigte Staaten von Amerika, Taschenbuch, neu.
A fascinating account from award-winning author Adam Nicolson of the history of Nicolson's own national treasure, his family home: Sissinghurst. Sissinghurst is world-famous as a place of calm and beauty, a garden slipped into the ruins of a rose-pink Elizabethan palace. But is it entirely what its creators intended? Has its success over the last thirty years come at a price? Is Sissinghurst everything it could be? The story of this piece of land, an estate in the Weald of Kent, is told here for the first time from the very beginning. Adam Nicolson, who now lives there, has uncovered remarkable new findings about its history as a medieval manor and great sixteenth-century house, from the days of its decline as an eighteenth-century prison to a flourishing Victorian farm and on to the creation, by his grandparents Vita Sackville-West and Harold Nicolson, of a garden in a weed-strewn wreck. Alongside his recovery of the past, Adam Nicolson wanted something else: for the land at Sissinghurst to live again, to become the landscape of orchards, cattle, fruit and sheep he remembered from his boyhood. Could that living frame of a mixed farm be brought back to what had turned into monochrome fields of chemicalised wheat and oilseed rape? Against the odds, he was going to try. This paperback edition will be fully updated to cover the first year of Adam Nicolson's endeavour to revive the estate and return it to the glories of its past. More than just a personal biography of a place, this book is the story of taking an inheritance and steering it in a new direction, just as an entrepreneur might take hold of a company, or just as all of us might want to take our dreams and make them real.
5
Sissinghurst
EN NWISBN: 9780007240555 bzw. 0007240554, in Englisch, HarperCollins Publishers HarperPress, neu.
Lieferung aus: Vereinigtes Königreich Großbritannien und Nordirland, zzgl. Versandkosten.
Die Beschreibung dieses Angebotes ist von geringer Qualität oder in einer Fremdsprache. Trotzdem anzeigen
Die Beschreibung dieses Angebotes ist von geringer Qualität oder in einer Fremdsprache. Trotzdem anzeigen
6
Sissinghurst: An Unfinished History
EN NWISBN: 9780007240555 bzw. 0007240554, in Englisch, William Collins; HarperCollins, Vereinigte Staaten von Amerika, neu.
Lieferung aus: Vereinigtes Königreich Großbritannien und Nordirland, zzgl. Versandkosten.
Die Beschreibung dieses Angebotes ist von geringer Qualität oder in einer Fremdsprache. Trotzdem anzeigen
Die Beschreibung dieses Angebotes ist von geringer Qualität oder in einer Fremdsprache. Trotzdem anzeigen
7
Sissinghurst: An Unfinished History (2009)
EN USISBN: 9780007240555 bzw. 0007240554, in Englisch, 400 Seiten, HarperPress, gebraucht.
Neu ab: EUR 8,99 (6 Angebote)
Gebraucht ab: EUR 0,22 (14 Angebote)
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Lieferung aus: Spanien, Normalmente se envía en el plazo de 1-2 días laborable.
Von Händler/Antiquariat, Better World Books, Ltd. UK.
Die Beschreibung dieses Angebotes ist von geringer Qualität oder in einer Fremdsprache. Trotzdem anzeigen
Von Händler/Antiquariat, Better World Books, Ltd. UK.
Die Beschreibung dieses Angebotes ist von geringer Qualität oder in einer Fremdsprache. Trotzdem anzeigen
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