The Pink Pigeons of Faringdon
In transitioning west across the South of England, we spent two nights in western Oxfordshire, which served as a convenient base to visit some sites that interested me. We were not far from the market town of Faringdon. You do not have to spend very long in the town until you notice that their symbol seems to be a pink pigeon. You see it on signage, flyers in shop windows, local athletic teams sport it on the back of their tee-shirts. Obviously, there is a story here somewhere. And like so many good stories, my take on it begins with Patrick Leigh Fermor.
Paddy was one of the great storytellers of all time—to dismiss his keen insights as simply travel writing is to miss the mark. He was born with no great advantages in life, other than an abiding curiosity and interest in people and places, coupled with an inordinate dose of natural charm. But curiosity and charm will get you far in life, and no one took this further than Patrick Leigh Fermor. He seemed to be the favored guest for those quintessential English country house fortnights, or at least long weekends, from Chatsworth on down.
Somerset Maugham, in a bit of huff, dismissed him as a “middle class gigolo for upper class women.” This is a bit harsh, but not without an element of truth. But none of the women ever had a harsh word to say about him, and he maintain a cordial, if not voluminous correspondence with all of them until the end of their lives. Some of the most poignant were with the love of his youth, Princess Balasha Cantacuzene, trapped in Ceausescu’s Romania some forty years after their affair.
I keep a copy of Patrick Leigh Fermor: A Life in Letters, next to my favorite chair; a book that can be opened to any page and enjoyed. And so, several months ago, I was reading Paddy’s 1961 letter to Enrica “Ricki” Hutson (much younger fourth wife of director John Huston). At that time, he was ensconced at a Georgian pile—Faringdon Hall—as the houseguest of Robert Heber-Percy. Leigh Fermor reported that the drinking before dinner had been “fast and furious,” followed by champagne, brandy and peaches. Towards midnight, at least some of the guests stripped off their clothes, as one does, and raced down the front lawn to have a midnight skinny-dip in the pond. Beyond that, as Paddy notes, nothing untoward happened.
The account perked my interest enough to do a little research on the house and its owners. Faringdon Hall had been the home of Gerald Hugh Tyrwhitt-Wilson, 14th Baron Berners (1883-1950). He was the model for Nancy Mitford’s “Lord Merlin” in The Pursuit of Love. Lord Berners was a composer, artist, poet, aesthete, and first-class eccentric. His dogs on the estate wore pearl necklaces (but from Woolworth’s). He once had Pamela Betjemen’s horse to tea. Other white horses were posed for portraits. He was given to driving around the local byways wearing a pigs-head mask. And, to top it all off, he dyed the estate pigeons in vibrant colors; hence Faringdon’s adoption of the pink pigeon motif.
In 1932, at age 49, Lord Berners took in the aforementioned Robert Heber-Percy, 28 years his junior. Heber-Percy, nicknamed the “Wild Boy” was widely attributed to be the most handsome man in England, by men as well as women. From that date on, the two lived together as a couple. This did not prevent Heber-Percy from suddenly taking a wife in 1942, and fathering a daughter (pictured above) in 1943. The four of them lived together at Faringdon Hall for a while, but by 1947 the wife and daughter had moved on. Lord Berners died in 1950, leaving his entire estate to the “Wild Boy.”
Heber-Percy was an unconventional “lord of the manor.” He rose early in the morning and worked in the fields with his tenants, and it was said that he never increased the rents on any of his estates. By the time of Leigh-Fermor’s visit in 1961, he had installed his own “wild boy,” a chap named Hugh Cruddus. He lived on until 1987, leaving everything to a granddaughter.
Soon after Heber-Percy joined Berners at Faringdon, the latter started building a “folly” in honor of his protegee’s 21st birthday; the last such built in England. The definition of an English folly is a “costly, generally nonfunctional building that was erected to enhance a natural landscape.” The Faringdon Folly certainly fits that description. It is 100 ft. in height, with the Belvedere Room atop. At the time, Heber-Percy quipped that he would have just as soon had a horse. Lord Berners opened it to the public in 1935, and in his unique sense of humor, posted a sign warning “Those who commit suicide from this tower do so at their own risk.”
The landscape it enhances is a solitary hill just north of town, offering spectacular views in all directions. A hillfort was erected here in ancient days. Good Queen Matilda had a 12-century castle at this site, only to be destroyed by Bad King Stephen. Oliver Cromwell captured the hill as a base to raid against the royalists in Oxford, as well as supposedly trying to blast the steeple off the Faringdon church below, thus killing a few royalists (I put nothing past him.)
The hill had always been bald. Several attempts at foresting were attempted, but were not successful until the 1780s, when owner James Pye hand-carried seedlings to the hilltop to plant. So we enjoy the present lovely forest due to the wisdom of this heroic man, who would never live long enough to walk in the shade of the trees he planted. At the time, locals called it Pye’s Folly.
In 1919, the local town council was poised to harvest timber when it was saved at the last moment by Lord Berners. The town originally opposed the construction of the Folly, as well. But all that is forgotten now, as the town realizes the “branding” potential of it all: Lord Berners, the Folly, and of course, pink pigeons. The local gin company utilizes a silhouette of the tower rising above the trees on its labeling. Perhaps intentionally, and maybe appropriately under the circumstances, the image is somewhat phallic, you might say. But no matter, before he died, Heber-Percy established a trust to manage the property for the public’s benefit. There are no signs pointing the way to the Folly. There is no parking lot or the intrusive busyness that can mar a popular destination. You have to know where you are going. But intrepid souls seek it out, with local footpaths culminating and circling the hilltop. Many just come to sit quietly and lose themselves in contemplation.
I included Faringdon in my itinerary specifically to see the Folly. It is just the sort of quirky thing I enjoy seeking out. Afterwards, I remembered that it was the writings of Patrick Leigh Fermor that had started me down this particular rabbit hole —as they has done before and I hope will do in the future. His good friend, Sir Steven Runciman, has done the same, as has their younger compatriot and friend, Bruce Chatwin. All three of these writers loom large in my imagination and view of life itself. Interestingly, all were, to varying degrees, great friends of Orthodoxy—but this is merely a bonus, not the reason I follow them.
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