A fox, browsing in the dead beech leaves for the trail of a rabbit, stops still. Raises its head, ears pricked, paw raised, before turning and fleeing. The owls halt their night-time chorus, lifting as silent pale ghosts from the branches to find another patch of woodland. A small herd of deer scatters more noisily, crashing through the undergrowth in its haste to get away.
Something is moving through the trees now, disturbing the normal night-time harmony. Shadows with form, with substance. Rustling through the leaves, treading upon the woodland floor, snapping twig and bracken.
Deep in the woods they gather. The same clearing they have always used; and their forebears before them, since the legends began. A strange flock. Black-robed, beast-headed. Born of the unknown depths of the wood: an image from a medieval woodcut, a dark folktale to frighten badly behaved children. In the modern world, a world of busyness, of speed and connection, they make no sense. But here among the trees, hidden from moonlight and starlight, it is as if the modern world is the fairy tale: other and strange.
A short distance away, the old man sits in his study in the woods: a converted cabin surrounded by ancient trees.
The door is ajar to the elements. Now that darkness has fallen there's a chill to the air. It creeps in at the open door, it rifles through the papers on the desk.
In front of him is a single feather, its black down ruffled by the breeze.
The old man doesn't pay it any attention.
He doesn't pay it any attention because he is dead.
IT’S OPENING NIGHT OF THE Manor, the “new jewel of the Dorset coastline.” The drama is all out front: soaring ocean views, emerald lawns stretching to the cliff edge, the Owen Dacre–designed infinity pool. But on this side, the landward side, there’s another world. A bristle of dense ancient forest behind the main building, which guests can access via a series of gravel paths that wind between the “Woodland Hutches.” One of these is mine.
I close the door. Follow the sound of music and laughter through the purple twilight to the welcome drinks, which are taking place on the very edge of the trees. I step into a chic take on a woodland grotto. Hundreds of lanterns hang from branches. An actual harpist plays. Antique rugs and huge scatter cushions have been strewn about the forest floor with bohemian abandon. I sit down on one, gulp back a “Woodland Spirit” cocktail—“a dash of locally harvested birch bitters and rosemary infused gin.”
My fellow guests loll around, chatty and giddy with the anticipation of a weekend in the sun beside the sea with nothing to do but eat, drink, swim, and make merry. Many of them seem to know one another: wandering about shrieking as they bump into old friends, some reclining on the rugs and calling to acquaintances to join them. The vibe is relaxed, albeit spiced with a faint note of social competition.
No one needs the ultra-soft woolen blankets provided because—though the sun is setting—it’s still warm enough to wear only a single layer of linen (there’s a lot of linen). The first flare of the impending heatwave.
In the middle of the scene, like a fairy queen—like Titania on her woodland throne—sits the owner of The Manor. Francesca Meadows. Radiant in a pale rose, off-shoulder fantasia of washed silk, hair rippling down her back, face aglow with candlelight.
The culmination of a dream: that’s what she said in the article. I’m so excited to share this place with everyone. Well, everyone who can afford it, anyway. But who’s quibbling?
I look around me. I suppose it’s all pretty idyllic if you’re part of a couple or larger group, if you’ve come here for a weekend of escaping the city. Maybe it’s just me for whom it doesn’t feel quite so mellow and chummy.