Stars Gazing

We finally made it to Huntingfield today, and it was everything I expected and more. We began in the pub, the Huntingfield Arms where, at the risk of sounding like Jay Rayner, I had a traditional roast beef lunch with all the trimmings including eye-watering home-made horseradish sauce, washed down with a pint of Adnams and Ruth the vegetarian opted for the beetroot bourguignon and same bevy. I brought Hugo's bed and tucked it behind my chair where he curled up and watched everyone through one sleepy eye. People couldn't get over him. "What a beautiful little greyhound," said one man who went on to rave about him and try to draw us into conversation all through lunch even though we were deeply engrossed in an engaging and thoroughly scandalous bit of social analysis, or gossip as baser people might call it. Others joined in with him, and we allowed ourselves to be interrupted, Ruth the sometime caretaker taking as much pride in the praise as me. "I couldn't bring my dog to somewhere like this as he certainly wouldn't be so well-behaved," said one stout matron who looked as if she might try to snatch him, and her friends all agreed so heartily with her that we wondered what on earth her dog could be like.

Lunch eaten, goodbyes said to Hugo, we set off for the church around half a mile away. I wish I'd brought my camera. The church, the old school built by the Reverend Holland and the rectory were all there as imagined but more so, almost like a film set I'd wandered onto. I've always been a bit star struck. As a cub reporter on the North London Herald group of newspapers I was sent to review a musical put on by a local college, The Threepenny Opera I seem to remember. The next day I happened to be in town when I spotted some of the players from the night before. I could scarcely believe that they were walking the same pavement as me. And it felt the same when we entered the church and gazed up at the ceiling decorated so exuberantly by Mildred Holland all those years ago. She really did accomplish this Herculean task, to such beautiful effect, lying on her back on high scaffolding in the freezing cold for seven long years. It really was an amazing feat, much more spectacular than that of Michaelangelo centuries before because he at least had the bright Roman light, and the warmth of the sun to make his job less punishing. I wish I had known Mildred. I'd have been inspired by her and if nothing else might have performed routine household duties on a regular basis. The work is stunning and I could have gazed all afternoon but we finally ran out of pound coins to operate the bright lights.

Next we walked through the churchyard to look at the rectory, now called Holland House, and there were the clipped yews, the stables over which she had her studio, and the attic windows she stared out of when she was feeling lonely. New owners bought and renovated the house nearly fifteen years ago, and it now boasts the sort of comforts - central heating, soft carpets, draught-proof double-glazed windows - that would have warmed and cheered her poor arthritic body. We took the path through the woods behind the house, and followed the stream for several miles before ending up back in the village. The track was thickly covered in bright dry autumn leaves, and while Hugo happily pottered along ahead of us, sniffing and listening but never running off, we kicked and scattered the leaves like kids. I've loaned out my copy of The Huntingfield Paintress so couldn't identify the particular old cottages and shops, though we found the blacksmiths. But I'll be back. There'll be no more trips to the sea for my visitors in future. It's to Huntingfield we shall go and I shall tell them the remarkable story of Mildred Holland who defied Victorian conventions, donned a paid of man's trousers and set about bringing the beauty of the Baroque to a simple Suffolk village church. Amen to that.