Swings & Roundabouts

Summertime in Chennai used to be the days of mangoes (raw and ripe) and vadams. Those were the days when the 3 weeks of kathiri veyyil were the only time the sun beat down on the good people mercilessly. Rest of the time, the folks of Chennai were just left to perspire freely and go about their daily business. But most of May was ruled by the dreaded kathiri and children were generally kept under lock and key.

These kathiri days were ideal for the maami past-time of making vadams and vathals. This laborious process would start around daybreak, with the biggest pressure cooker in the household given a spit and polish and put to use. Copious amount of raw materials, enough to make vathal and vadam for most of the population of the Western world, would be dumped into this cavernous vessel and cooked over a slow fire. Once the koozh reached the desired glutinous consistency, it would be hefted upstairs by the family Bheem-boy, after a significant portion was reserved for Tiffin.

After the initial prep, the paatis and maamis of the household would gather around the plastic sheet and start spinning koozh patterns on it. Kids of the family would be given the important jobs of weighting the sheets down with huge bricks, guarding the vathal from thieving crows and bringing back tasters of half-dried vathals on demand to various members of the family.

At the time of the following incident, I was a wee thing of three summers* and as such, was exempt from guard duty. While the women folk were hard at making vadam, I tried to break land speed records by going faster and faster around everything. My gran, the harbinger of doom, kept cautioning me to cease and desist. ‘Keezhe vizhundida pore dee!’ (mind you don’t take a toss) but of course I paid her no heed. Within a few minutes though, there was a loud yell and an almighty crash.

Deciding to step it up a notch, I tried to move faster but my delicate balance could not keep pace and I fell headlong into freshly laid vathal, just as Grandma Doom predicted. This concoction, laced heavily as it was with fresh green chilies, wasted no time in permeating into my epidermis and within a few moments, I was on fire. After running around like a headless chicken, I was grabbed forcefully and dunked in cold water repeatedly till I stopped shouting and the chillies stopped eating my flesh.

It was a while before I was present for the vathal making ceremony.

A few years later, sibling and I were dispatched to the Other Gran’s household for a small portion of summer. As we did not have much to do with ourselves, apart from twiddle thumbs, we generally tried to get out of these compulsory visits. But senior counsel prevailed and dispatched we were. This summer too was no exception. After exhausting the supply of books, we decided to explore the building block. As the children of the flats were playing downstairs, we went the opposite way. Other Gran, being not very au fait with the rules of kid-dom, repeatedly appealed to us to make friends with the children. But as the sibling and I were cool beyond comprehension, we would never demean ourselves by stooping to others’ levels and extend hands of friendship. Thus, we pottered about the joint by ourselves.

Once we finished examining minutely the perimeters of the terrace, we wondered what to do next. Playing tag was the next order of play. I was (and am) generally rubbish at all things sporty while the sibling excelled in most things. He proceeded to run like greased lighting while I huffed and puffed in the distance. Suddenly though, it seemed like he put on the breaks and started moving in slow motion. Even as I watched amazed, he proceeded to give the impression of walking under water. When I eventually reached him, I discovered the reason – brother had stepped on some old granny’s morning work of javvarisi vadam. The old dear might have well been the one we passed on our way upstairs as the steam was still rising on the ones sibling hadn’t stepped on. In trying to get out of his sticky mess, he proceeded to moonwalk all over the plastic sheet, unpeeling himself only after demolishing every single vadam.

This gag cracked us both speechless. After we had finished creasing ourselves, we proceeded downstairs, while sibling left huge javvarisi footprints on the stairs. It rather looked like Bigfoot made of koozh had made his way down. Narration of our mornings activities did not bring forth peals of laughter from the grandparents. Other Gran, modeled along the lines of Wooster’s Aunt Agatha, proceeded to chew bits off us. Our explanations of how the clear plastic with its blobs of goo was camouflaged against the dirty floor was to no avail.

She frogmarched us to the OAP neighbour’s house, to our lasting chagrin (and possibly scarring us for life!) and berated us soundly in front of that shocked lady. We thought the old dear was going to faint when she saw her morning’s work laid to waste thus. I can still hear her anguished splutters and the Other Gran’s outraged squawks.

It seems such a shame that the annual vathal season isn’t practiced with the former gusto anymore. A quintessential part of Chennai life, they provided us with hours of mirth and joy that no Playstation or amusement park could ever give.

Media and its love of sensationalism is well known. Celebrities sell papers, as we are told repeatedly. But this week, British media took this statement to new levels.

The past week, parts of England have been buffeted by high winds and heavy rains and quite a lot of people have lost their homes, property and some, even their lives. When GMTV was reporting this dismal state of affairs in the Midlands, they cut short the report rather rudely to LA, where jailbird Paris Hilton was sprung early from the clink, thanks to good behavior. This, of course, made the good people of Britain splutter into their morning cuppa and lodge complaints against this behaviour in great numbers. The programme issued an apology in this morning’s episode.

Radio station heart (106.2 FM) pulled a similar stunt yesterday as well. The news report ran somewhat like this ‘… today’s top news: socialite Paris Hilton is freed from jail. Oh and by the way, three people lost their lives in Sheffield’. Outraged squawks could be heard across the South East.

Whilst I agree that no one wants to shell out good money to read everyday stories of your Average Joe, I still think the media should display a little more empathy and a little less TRP love. The flooding is going on in our own backyard, fellow Brits are suffering and why are we bothered about a spoiled brat of a rich American kid and when she’s let out of the slammer ?

The Hippocratic Oath, according to Wikipedia, “…is an oath traditionally taken by physicians pertaining to the ethical practice of medicine.” As even us non-medical professionals know, thanks to a decade of ER and such, upholding the Oath is of vital importance to a physician. Though segments of the original Greek words have been modified to suit the modern times, the essence of it remains the same. To do no harm to those who come in search of a cure.

I guess this is where the good doctors K Murugesan and his wife, M Gandhimathay slipped. In their eagerness to be the proud parents of a Guinness Records certified ‘World’s Youngest Surgeon’, they veered off their Oath-sworn path and well into the path of controversy. By allowing their 15-year-old son, Dileepan Raj, to perform a c-section on one of their patients, they have caused moral and ethical outrage within the medical community and across the general populace. As doctors, their duty is towards the welfare of their patient – in this case, a pregnant mother and her unborn infant. How can they put that aside and entertain thoughts of world records and such at this stage?

Not stopping at operating on that poor woman, 27-year-old Neela, the doctorsparents decided to go further and let the whole world and its wife know what a pistol they have for a son. They filmed the operation (oh the ignominy of it!) and premiered it at the Indian Medical Association’s meeting on May 6. When the assembled brethren didn’t gasp in wonder but in dismay at this, Dr Murugesan quipped, and I quote, “If a 10-year-old can drive a car and a 15-year-old can become a doctor in the US, what is wrong if my son, though not qualified, performs a surgery?”

Let’s see if we can tell the good doctor what is wrong. Googling for the Hippocratic Oath netted me the gems the doctors have forgotten:

1. To keep the good of the patient as the highest priority - Strike one – having an unskilled boy, perform a complex operation as a caesarean-section, thereby risking not one but two lives is a big no no. I cannot imagine anyone feeling better at the thought of having the proud parents hovering over their son’s hands and guiding them.

2. Never to do deliberate harm to anyone for anyone else’s interest – it wasn’t in anyone else’s interest but their own, so that they could see their son’s name on the Guinness Book of World Records. That they didn’t cause GBH to the mother or the baby is a blessing. So, strike two!

3. To practice and prescribe to the best of my ability for the good of my patients, and to try to avoid harming them – The mother of them all, ‘for the good of my patients’, has been wiped off the memory banks of the culprits. Strike three!

Three strikes, doc – you’re out!

IMA’s less than enthusiastic response and the resulting fallout possibly triggered a late reaction in his brain and Doc Murugesan back pedalled furiously to keep self and wife out of disbarment and further negative publicity. He has denied that the offspring actually took the scalpel in his own bare hands and cut open a woman’s belly. Apparently, the boy just watched, while his dad did the deed. Maybe. But what about his claim to the Kumudam Reporter that his boy has been performing such operations from the time he was 12?

With the IMA urging disbarment and the local Health Minister promising ‘tough action’ if the whole incident could be proven, the future seems a bit sticky for the doctors. But no one can get their hands on a copy of the offending video – maybe the doctors came to their senses and burned the evidence. I, for one, hope that someone locks these offending individuals up and throw away the key. What sort of a doctor, what sort of a person does such a thing?

Growing ear hair to get your name on the record books is one thing; wilfully endangering a person’s lives is a different kettle of fish. I say, punish these idiots and make an example out of them. Maybe that will deter other idiots from trying to create such vile records, like the nut who tried to make waves by performing 50 hernia operations in 24 hours.

I have an idea for a world record – the doctor who actually put the welfare of his patients above other vainglorious pursuits. How about that? Any takers?

The first and only time (so far!) I visited Taj Mahal was also the first and only family trip I took along with my parents and the sibling. I had just finished my Class X Board exams and was feeling like I had conquered K2. Wandering around the streets of Delhi in the mad May heat is something I wouldn’t recommend to anybody but the madcaps that we were, we did it anyway! The day we landed in Agra was one of the hottest days of that summer and I could feel the leftover grey matter getting fried.

The first sight of the Taj Mahal was indescribable. I had goosebumps on my arm and felt the hair at the back of neck stand up. I couldn’t believe that in front of me was the Taj Mahal, one of the Wonders of the World, a love icon, standing in that very same spot from the Mughal times.

I have, since then, seen other Wonders like the Leaning Tower of Pisa and the Eiffel Tower but none infused me with the same sense of awe like that first sight of the Taj. This majestic building, standing impressive and somehow lonely, standing all by itself amidst this vast expanse of land stirred something deep within me.

Having grown up reading about Shah Jahan and his testament to his love for his wife, how it took hundreds of men, years and years to complete it. And of course, we’ve also read about how he allegedly blinded the labourers so that they could never build anything half as grand elsewhere. All of which made for some fantastic build-up and the Taj lived up to every bit of the hype – and then some!

As the sun was blazing overhead by the time we reached the monument, the white marble was hot enough to fry eggs. So we didn’t get to do a gentle stroll around it, taking pictures hither and admiring the friezes thither. It was more of a mad dash from one shady spot to another, even as your feet tingled in the contrasting temperatures. And jostle twenty others as we fought for the vantage point to get that particular shot.

Once we came back into the gardens, sandal-ed feet and all, we were hailed by the special photographers milling around us. They promised to get that popular pic of the Taj, wherein you make it seem like you are lifting the impressive monument off its feet by holding to the tip of its dome. My momentary fascination with this vanished when I realised I had to stand there like an idiot, with my right arm sticking up top to complete the effect. Though I balked at this, many people stood so like lemons, though the resultant image made up for it, I suppose.

I have only seen the Taj in pictures and on the telly since and it is my dream to see the Taj at night, to see the marbled structure gleam in the moonlight. I keep telling myself that I’d do it one day, show my son the magic and hopefully see the same awe written on his face.

Living now, amidst the British, I have found that it is the first thing that pops into any firang’s head the minute they hear the word ‘India’. Though the country has a great many icons, the Taj Mahal is our biggest and brightest. Without it as the gateway, the myriad treasures of our country will be lost on the world’s population.

On 7.7.07, a brand new set of Seven Wonders of the World is going to be selected out of 21 worthies. The Sydney Opera House, Petra, the Pyramid at Chichen Itza are some of the icons shortlisted, apart from the Taj Mahal, Eiffel Tower, Statue of Liberty etc. Not many Indians have heard of this because, as usual, our insipid government hasn’t jumped at the chance to promote this great icon, the one thing that put India on a world traveller’s map. Other countries are vying with one another to get the coveted ‘Wonder of the World’ tag for their treasure. Why isn’t our Tourism industry lifting a finger? As always, it is up to us, the aam junta, to show to the world what a treasure we have in the Taj Mahal. So please, fellow desi bloggers, pass the world – blog about your feelings about the Taj Mahal. And please vote for the Taj! Let the world know it fully deserves to be known as a Wonder of the World.

Have you wondered where your English language is from? As in, the type of language you speak is it English, American, Australian or any other. I never questioned the source of mine till very recently. From school, I learnt the English left over from the colonial days. Spelt armour, valour, colour etc with a u, waTer with a ‘t’ and not a ‘d’ well, you get my drift. But thanks to STAR TV and Hollywood, I also learnt some Americanisms along the way I knew about Route 66, pronounced schedule as skedjool, route as rout and could generally follow the plot of an American movie without subtitles.

When I moved to UK, I did not feel out of place as after all, I have been learning English all my life! Till the day I blurted out loud at work ‘where’s the F in lieutenant?’ and caused a mini uproar (‘please don’t swear ….’, ‘I beg your pardon’) of sorts. After my team mates had stopped wetting themselves, they set up educating me in the ways of the world. So I learnt to say ‘leftinent’ and ‘shedule’ and words of similar ilk.

You would think, having grown up learning Colonial English, I would have no problems fitting in with the Brits. Right? Wrong! I was under that mistaken impression till I switched on the telly and sat through day-time TV. I did not understand a word and had to fumble along, aided by that marvellous invention called Teletext! I ended up begging people’s pardons every other minute, asking them to repeat what they said. Of course, they couldn’t understand what I was going on about, when in my eagerness to sound less desi, I tried mimicking the accent oft-heard on STAR TV and ended sounding like Buffy gone bad.

For starters, there was the accents – hundreds of them. Geoff Boycott’s ‘crickeet’ and ‘wickeet’ had me in splits when I used to watch the game but now, when I had a lady asking me if the boos would be along soon, it took me a long time to get her. Even after six years, I still get thrown by the odd word: had an interviewer on the phone today (I work for a social research firm) asking me for what sounded like ‘used diaries’ and I was perplexed at the request. Used diaries? Whatever for, went I, till the bulb went on in my brain a good few minutes later, when I realised he was asking me for some ‘youth diaries’!

That is when I came to realise what a minefield the varied British accent is. Most Eastenders seemed to have lost or misplaced the hard ‘t’ that is found in almost every word. If it comes at the end of the word, well that’s easy enough to understand but when faced with a request to get someone some ‘wa-er’, what can one do but blink? Most people in Essex also seem to forget to pronounce ‘th’ as it must, choosing instead to go with the wildly popular ‘f’. Thereby, one sees blokes answering to Arfur or wish someone a ‘happy birfday’. P almost killed us the time he sang about the three Kings and assorted junta who went to Beflehem to see the baby Jesus. We also get a ‘fank you’ for a good deed, even when it is ’nuffink’.

The English, much like the Australians, have this habit of shortening things into something that bears no resemblance to the original word. Thus, sandwiches become sarnies, potato patties become tatties, pinafore is a pinny, the list is positively endless. This is before we even venture into the murky waters of Cockney rhyming slang. ‘Don’t you tell porkies’, admonishes a character in EastEnders. It was a while before I twigged (porky pie ~ lie; hence porkies = lies) – phew! Thus, I have found that I was taking the Michael, Bob was my uncle and on one memorable occasion, urged to ask for the William (the bill!). Who says the Brits have no sense of humour?

All in all, I have often felt the language I was taught all my life in India bears not much resemblance to the one I have been learning the past six years. The advantage is, I can truly say I learn new things every day!

The past weekend was a veritable treat for my little man – we decided to take a weekend break along with his favourite cousin. From what we could see, they both loved it.

At first P was a bit flummoxed by the name – he thought it meant a pool of some sort and urged me to pack his swimming trunks and not forget his swimming goggles so he ‘can see under water’. No amount of explaining helped so we let him run with it.

When we ended up at the Pleasure Beach amusement park, the name caused another bit of consternation as he thought we were taking him to the beach! He wasn’t very pleased to realise that the beach was still so near yet so far away. But a typical adrenaline junkie, he went on as many rides as his lack of height would allow.
On Sunday, we went atop the Blackpool Tower and he amazed us both by not displaying an iota of fear when faced with the ‘Walk of Faith’ challenge. It is this expanse of glass in embedded in the balcony 360 feet above ground and one can see straight down as it is clear glass! I thought I was brave to stand here; he sat down and tried to peer as much as possible into the distance!

We polished the day off with a donkey ride on the beach. Riding a donkey named Betty, P was thrilled to bits! He now wants me to print the pic I top of his astride Betty so he could show off to his mates!

When I was in college, I used to dream of studying at Magdelene College, Cambridge. Along with my mate, I used to pore over the British Council literature, IELTS forms and spin dreams of ‘when we get to Magdelene…’. Of course none of them materialised but I was certainly left with a dream of atleast visiting the college to get a feel of it.

Luckily enough, Cambridge isn’t too far from Brentwood and on one late summer morning, we set off quite early and found ourselves on the motorway without too many speed demons spoiling our pleasure. Thanks to the light traffic, we reached our destination well before 10.00 AM and after parking our car in the monstrously expensive parking lot, we set about exploring the town.

In my family, getting lost is a pre-requisite and it is how we explore new and exciting places. Letting ourselves loose in the pre-congestion charged London, we drove round and round this old city and ooh-ed and aah-ed over the various beautiful buildings. Cambridge was no exception – within minutes of exiting the car park, we were lost and walked around like a bunch of drunks in the middle of a desert before we ended, quite by chance, at the marketplace. The stalls were full of old books (which I made a beeline for), lovely fruits and vegetables from nearby farms as well as, incongrously, hot bhajis and samosas! After breakfasting on a hot samosa followed by fresh strawberries and cream, we set about trying to see what this old city was all about.

After reading the map correctly for once, we reached River Cam and the punting starting point well before the place got inundated by tourists. Choosing ourselves a lovely punt and a gorgeous French punter, we set off on a slow and relaxed note. The area surrounding this end of River Cam was really beautiful – lush, green, Weeping Willows lined the banks on either side followed by a profusion of gorse bushes on the park, on the opposite side. The bridge overhead was devoid of vehicular traffic and all in all, it was a pleasantly serene air that enveloped us.

King’s College and Chapel

Slowly, we glided past the colleges. Called The Backs, as they back onto the river, St John’s College, Queen’s College, King’s, Trinity, Trinity Hall and Clare, looked so beautiful with their sweeping lawns and sprawling grounds. Tales of Kings and Queens of yore, as well as of wars and scheming courtiers were narrated by Jacques, our punter. Looking across the expanse of King’s college, I could almost hear the distant cannons of the First World War. The chapel of King’s College, when it came into view, was gloriously regal – apparently, the stained glass window panes were preserved carefully during the Wars to protect them from becoming casualties and one is thankful of all that hard work, as the windows look amazing.

St John’s frontage – where Harry says ‘UP’ to his broom!

The front of St John’s was covered in flaming red ivy and seemed oddly familiar. When I queried him, Jacques told us that it was there, in the front lawns, that a scene from the first Harry Potter movie was shot – precisely, the scene where Harry first learns to fly on a broom. The building is called a Wedding Cake, apparently, as it looks somewhat like a lavishly tiered wedding cake. We also passed the Bridge of Sighs, modelled along the lines of the one in venice.

Mathematical BridgeOne thing to be said re the punters/guides – no one told us to take what they say with a pinch of salt. Like a pair of lemons, we swallowed his spiel and found it was all tosh when we arrived home and Googled for it. For example, he told us this wonderful story of the Mathematical Bridge – how it was built without the use of any nails or other fasteners and according to the lore, how some college boys decide to take it apart after a night of drunken merriment, found to their dismay that they couldn’t do so and had to resort to the use of nails and screws, much like the rest of us lesser mortals. All hogwash, says the authentic Cambridge guide.

Magdalene Street We finished up at Magdalene College corner, where the original Cam Bridge was. (Bridge across the river Cam – hence Cambridge, says Jacques.) I spent more than a few minutes gazing at the building, thinking ‘if only….’.

Once back on terra firma, we explored the rest of the town on foot. There are so many colleges around you, chock full of history, you literally don’t know what to go for. For a small fee, one can experience the pleasure of wandering through the buildings and grounds of these colleges. As it was the closest I could ever come to actually be inside a Cambridge University college, I felt £5 was a small price to pay and happily parted with it so I could wander about King’s College and its awesome chapel. According to the University rules, if one wishes to get married in this sumptuous Chapel, either the bride or the groom must have been a student of King’s! What an exclusive place!

Trinity CollegeAcross town, in Trinity, we were pointed in the direction of the rooms once inhabited by Sir Isaac Newton. Just outside the windows, on the front lawn, was a scrawny apple tree said to be the offspring of the apple tree that was instrumental to the whole theory of gravity. Whether it was fact or just another urban legend, I couldn’t help feeling buzzed about standing there, next to the great grand child of the tree that helped formulate one of the fundamental theories of life.

Newton’s apple tree with his old rooms in the backgroundThe town is rather quaint and apart from the numerous University buildings, has vast expanses of beautifully laid out parks, swimming pools, a well-appointed theatre and a great many other things to interest the average tourist. Situated around 50 miles from London, Cambridge is so full of history that walking around the colleges, on the grounds where monarchs and great inventors once walked, one feels oddly humbled. If you are ever in this neck of the woods, do add Cambridge to your tour itenerary. It is definately a trip well worth in memories. One word of caution though – the parking fee is rather steep; so if you are driving to the place, you could do well to park it in one of the Park & Ride areas and taking the buses into town. Then you are free to spend as much time as you like ambling away, rather than worry about the parking fee awaiting your pleasure on your return!

Happiness is…

a beautiful sunrise

a babbling brook

summer rain

a friend’s voice on the telephone

hot tea with samosa on a rainy day

Mohd Rafi’s songs

Sachin’s century!

Happiness is

the smile on my little one’s face!

There’s a WHO report floated about the place that states that India has the highest number of AIDS sufferers in the world. One in seven Indians are HIV-positive, reads another scary report. But the one thing everyone is harping on now, is the smackeroo Richard Gere planted on Shilpa Shetty’s cheeks. The media went to town with it; so did some idiots who decided to make a bonfire out of some effigies in honour of the occasion; la Shetty managed to get more than a few sound bytes in Indian and British media while quite a few bloggers made their feelings known on their blogs for all the world to see. That pesky little thing called AIDS awareness, the actual reason why Gere was in India had, by now, slipped out of most people’s minds completely.

But there was something happening quietly in the background, that has made me sit up and take notice. Hopefully, this will make people realise what a bunch of silly fools we are and get down to the matters at hand instead.

I am talking about the launch of the Condom Bar, in Chandigarh. What a brilliant idea! Here, at last, is some positive action. Instead of taking the usual route of sweeping things under the carpet and pretending nothing is amiss, here are some people who are actively looking to counteract the rising levels of HIV in the country. And I, for one, salute them and their spirit.

The Condom Bar is a novel initiative to increase AIDS awareness in the country. It is a proper bar, serving drinks and what nots but instead of stopping there, it also does its bit in helping promote the use of condom to its patrons. Firmly believing in going the extra mile, it also has place mats offering some well-meaning advice blurbs like “Enjoy safely” and “Don’t just get on. Get it on! Protect yourself, protect others”. Instead of the useless chunk of mint you’d find in the saucers along with loose change, at the Condom Bar, you would find a few colourful condoms instead.

What is most commendable about this venture is that this is wholly government backed. Chandigarh Industrial & Tourism Corporation (Citco) is the driving force behind this enterprise and in order to keep the place affordable and accessible to the aam junta, the bar is doing to be run as a “non-profit operation with low-priced drinks and wholesome vegetarian food at cost prices.” I am well impressed! The idea that the local government is tackling this awful issue of steadily increasing HIV victims in an informed and progressive way is refreshing and real welcome.

According to news reports, the club was opened by Pooja Thakur, a young mother and president of a voluntary counselling group for people living with HIV and AIDS. When the whole world is going hammer and tongs at amassing wealth, it is rather humbling to hear the club owner say, “Our earnings will be the awareness and the message we will help spread”.

I am all for new and novel ways of finding solutions to problems. A few weeks back I saw a programme on the telly where the host Davina McCall was walking about the streets of Amsterdam’s Red Light district and talking to teachers there about sex education. Why? Because teen pregnancy is on the rise in Britain and everyone wants to figure out a way to curb that.

Likewise, HIV and AIDS are on a steady incline and the more we see innovative initiatives such as the Condom bar and the better chance we have at combating such issues. I hope they succeed and we are able to see Condom Clubs across the country, promoting safe sex and AIDS awareness.

The sun shone brightly in the blue, cloudless sky. Birds were twittering, there was a slight breeze that cooled our brows and it was lushly green as far as our eyes could see. As I stood next to the lapping water, I so wished I could just lay down here, for ever and never be taken away from this beautiful vista surrounding me.

I was at Hever Castle, in Kent, England, childhood home of Anne Boleyn, the mother of Queen Elizabeth I. I can honestly say that it was one of the most beautiful places I have ever been in. Whichever direction I turned, there were picture postcard perfect scenes. Tall, shadowy trees, stood whispering through the skies. Despite the screaming children and the milling families, there was a sense of calm and serenity in the air.

The castle started its life as an ordinary farmhouse in 1270 AD. When its owner, Geoffrey Bullen (Anne’s great grandfather), was made the Lord Mayor of London, the house was upgraded to a manor house, as befitted a Lord Mayor. From 1505, the castle was the home of Sir Thomas Boleyn, the 1st Earl of Wiltshire and 1st Earl of Ormonde and Anne’s father. Though it is unclear if Anne was born here, there are loads of references to suggest that Anne, along with her siblings Mary and George, spent her childhood years here. Upon her death, the castle became the property of her husband, King Henry VIII, who gave it to his fourth wife, Anne of Cleves, as a part of her divorce settlement.

Tudor Village
The castle then changed hands a few times, fell into disrepair and was finally bought by the rich American family of William Waldorf Astor. When Astor moved to England, he bought the dilapidated castle and upgraded it to an extremely high standard. He constructed the famous “Tudor Village” to accommodate guests and built the gardens and the lake.

The current owners bought the castle in 1983 and opened it up to the general public. There are some magnificient 16th century portraits on display, as well as Anne Boleyn’s prayer books and some scenes from her life. The main draw, however, are the splendid gardens. Astor expanded the existing garden to include the Italian Garden, to house his collection of Italian sculptures. There is also a beautiful Rose Garden, touted to house more than 3,000 plants. Astor also got the lake constructed, which took 748 labourers to dig and two whole years before it was ready. The latest owners are credited with the Millennium Fountain and the hugely popular Water Maze.

Water Maze
Situated around 30 miles from London, this is a local favourite. On a clear sunny day, it makes for a fantastic picnic spot. With acres of flowers, boating facilities on the lake and three mazes, the castle offers something for every member of the family. Entrance is priced at a modest £10.40 and is well worth every penny.