Regents Park


I enter though the gate opposite the Diorama and walk the outer circle. Great swathes of green lawn, edged with ancient trees provide an unreal setting for the Football and Rugby games that are afoot.

The land was originally designed as a summer palace for the Prince Regent in 1811 by John Nash, but he gave up on his grand plans, now only the park and the great processional route of Regents Street remain. By 1835 it was open to the public, so by the wit of a decadent Prince the park was saved.

As I cross York Bridge London changes to another world. The music of the Royal Engineers belting out Souza from the bandstand on the lake and the Imam from the gilded dome of the Regents Park Mosque begins his venerations.

Oy Mate, Any Ciabatta?
A bun would be nice

Any cake?

The ducks and geese hurtle towards me at breakneck speed. They sneer at the whole meal bread I have so carefully selected.

What! Do I look like I need the roughage?
This one's always the same - brown bread. What was that stuff we got from the French geezer?
Chocolate Croissants.

Two swans march up and stand in front of me with all the understated aggression of a pair of East End bouncers.

Morning Gov’ner

A small duck makes a grab at the bread and gets flicked away by a twist of the swan’s neck, they stare at the poor unfortunate until he wilts and wanders away.

Further along, two squirrels are mountaineering over a Japanese lady, who has now realised to her cost that these bundles of fun are actually urban terrorists, so she tosses her peanuts to the ground and a melee of grey fur erupts.

Around the corner, the Garden Café is set amid lush tropical plants, London now seems a million miles away and tourists sit in stunned silence, not quite believing their luck.

I wander on. The cricketers' whites, bright against the lush green lawns, the thump of leather on willow counter pointed by the lions roaring from the zoo. In the Japanese garden the miniature maples, all shades from red and gold to green and white defend the ancient arcing bridge whilst Mandarin ducks glide arrogantly across the still waters.

Queen Mary’s Rose garden is traditionally segmented and stuffed to over flowing with scents of East. Gardens such as these, in our tradition were dedicated to the Mother of Christ; the seeds used to make rosaries, but before, the Rose was sacred to the Goddess Diana and before that, in Egypt, to the Goddess Isis.

Time has stopped an Arab family in white flowing desert robes pause like me, to smell the perfumed air.

The Avenue gardens have been restored to their original splendour, the complex Victorian planting from a world gone by. Skate boarders hurtle past where formally Ladies would promenade.

These hundred acres of magical land, almost unchanged in two hundred years are ours forever.


Timmi Milsom February 2010

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 25.02.2010

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