Shaded by Royalty (And Escorted Out)

by Jonathan van Bilsen

I have stayed at Selsdon Park Hotel, in Surrey, more than once before, and enjoyed the beautiful surroundings, steeped in history.

The manor traces its roots back to around 800 AD, though the current structure reflects centuries of additions and alterations. Henry VIII acquired the estate because of its proximity, barely twenty minutes, to Hever Castle, the childhood home of Anne Boleyn. Convenience, even in Tudor times, appears to have mattered. On my third visit, the staff informed me I would be sleeping in the very rooms Henry himself had occupied. It was presented as an upgrade. I accepted, though I was not entirely convinced the king would have approved of the arrangement.

My first stay, at this grand manor house, had been in mid-March, and the weather was spectacular. I had work to complete and positioned myself on the patio: laptop open, sleeves rolled up, basking in conditions better suited to the Mediterranean than Surrey.

A waitress approached and asked if I would care for a drink. I inquired about something local. She suggested Pimm’s, the gin-based, fruit-infused concoction which appears to be England’s answer to summer. Despite previous visits to the country, I had somehow missed this cultural staple. It arrived chilled and bright and was refreshing… almost too refreshing. By late afternoon, a second glass seemed entirely reasonable.

As the sun shifted and the warmth intensified, I considered retreating indoors. Instead, I noticed a vast oak tree dominating the lawn. It was partially encircled by a low wooden fence which appeared to have been abandoned halfway through its duty. The shade was inviting and I relocated, settled against the trunk, and decided this was a far superior office. I do remember wondering why the fence was only halfway around the tree.

Approximately twenty minutes later, raised voices interrupted my contemplation. A security guard was advancing rapidly across the lawn, calling out with a level of urgency usually reserved for fire alarms. As he approached, he instructed me; firmly, I might add, to stand and leave the area immediately.

Puzzled, I complied and asked what I had done.

The oak, he informed me, had been planted by Queen Elizabeth I. It was considered significant: sacred, even. No one was permitted to approach it.

I glanced at the half-finished fence and suggested, if exclusivity was the objective, a completed barrier or perhaps a sign might improve communication. He did not appear receptive to my architectural feedback. That evening, I retired to Henry VIII’s suite. The room carried the quiet weight of centuries. I did not encounter the former monarch, nor any spectral commentary on my afternoon indiscretion. Still, I slept lightly. If Henry had indeed paced those corridors, I suspected he might have taken a dim view of a Canadian visitor leaning casually against his daughter’s commemorative oak. That certainly was not part of the plan.

Jonathan van Bilsen is a television host, award winning photographer, published author, columnist and keynote speaker. Follow his escapades at photosNtravel.com