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Wednesday 12 August 2026 11:23:41 GMT
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On meeting Mulberry House in 2015 we The wisteria leaves tinkled lightly in the May breeze and the scent of freshly cut grass drew me onto the porch. I surveyed the garden (which was a bitten-off-more- than-you-can-chew type affair). It was a mixed bag. Knee high grass and thickets of thorns of which Brambly Hedge would be proud. There was some good stuff. The wisteria’s gnarly bones climbed the warm brick facade to picture frame each window and I slipped through a curtain of vine to enter the cool, green quiet of a pergola with a round table right out of King Arthur’s fables. I had the heady sensation of being on holiday, when time stands still and instead of power walking London streets, you meander slowly, holding someone’s hand. I meandered then, around the facade of the house thinking, “this is a bit of alright actually”, and there, standing stock still, black eyes locked on mine, was a deer. Her ears twitched, I caught my breath and my south west London heart was stolen. Whatever this was, I wanted a part of this magic.
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