So what do you do when its Liladay without Lila? How is that possible? It’s like Brexit; makes no sense on any level and there’s no solution. But she’s in Greece and we’re not, so something’s gotta give. So we went to the countryside where, allegedly, most of the country lives, but in reality there’s no-one there. It’s empty.

We set off first to get bulbs. Of the garden variety. Because some bastard just dumped 4 tons of earth on my fucking garden! Oh, it was the gardener. Apparently we ‘needed’ it. As you do. So we need bulbs. That’s some kind of gardener’s rule. Dump earth; plant bulbs. Flowers die in a few weeks but bulbs… do nothing for months, then BURST into flower… then die in a few weeks. It’s like a deferred death, and we’d all take that.

We went to Cruz Hill, where God planted all the best (read: cheapest by miles) garden centres. And we were headed in that ‘general direction’ at the junction of the A10 and the M25, Essex/Hertfordshire borderland. Where also lives, another act of God, the Tottenham Hotspur training ground. But they don’t sell bulbs.

So fully bulbed up, we headed off to the main event, heading yet further in the wilderness down lovely little windy roads. What a pleasure driving can be on a sunny day when you’re not doing it in London. Couldn’t live in such a place if my life depended on it, but its great for spinning wheels.

And thus a while later we arrived at the house of the late, great, Henry Moore. Britain’s finest 20th century sculptor. See if you name one of his competitors without google. It lives (unlike Henry, alas) in a titchy Hamlet, near a minute village, close to the thriving metropolis of Bishops Stortford. And there our Henry didst his sculpting. Well, from 1940. Before that he did it London when the Luftwaffe bombed his house which affected its viability as a studio.

It’s a lovely house, but a fantabulous studio. 72 acre garden that’s, unsurprisingly, filled with Henry Moore sculptures. Yet not ‘filled’. Spaced out. Relaxed. You stroll, you wander, you stumble across ‘reclining lady’ even though it looks like a crab with a tennis racquet. The biggest fucking crab with a tennis racquet you’ve ever seen. Or ‘pair of ovals’ as you see here. And they are without question ovals.

Mel and I love sculptures. But only if they’re really big and preferably metal. So Henry Moore is the man for us. In fact we suffer from sculpture garden envy as we only have a couple and they’re not that big.

Its a really great place. Little cafe, nice toilets (very important when you travel with my wife, though if you do I WANNA KNOW WHY????) and just a wonderful setting with lots of sheep. And just an hour away from civilisation. As we know it.

Happy Friday

A xxxx