Expressing Gratitude For The Past

His large stature coincides conveniently with his expansive personality; he has the wit of Churchill and the self-effacing buffoonery of John Cleese. Major William Peto can entertain his guests with great charm and superb stories for hours. As fortune had it, we were invited for a weekend at his Scottish estate near the village of Dumfries. His beautiful and uproarious daughter, Alice, a former intern in my firm, suggested we “train over” after the British Open, glimpse some local gardens of friends and join in what can only be described as a British “house party.”We arrived in the 18th-century sandstone village after a short rail ride through the sheep-dappled hills of central Scotland. After being whisked through the west Scottish mounds and valleys (which was quite terrifying with Major Peto at the wheel), down lanes excruciatingly narrow, and bounded by stout, Scottish walls and razor-sharp hedgerows, we arrived at Major Peto’s country home. Now, to say that Scottish weather is “mainly cold, damp, windy and gray” would be an understatement. So when Willy (as Major Peto is fondly referred to) rounded the bend of his country lane and we caught sight of his warm, yellow, Regency house, surrounded by impossibly green meadows, a sylvan pond, a country chapel and towering ancient oak trees, the residual effect of the disappointing weather conditions evaporated instantly. This effortlessly romantic, sheep-grazing estate became the perfect salve for the miserably cold climate we had been subjected to during the previous weeks while traversing the harsh terrain of St. Andrews.

Adjacent to the stone Regency farmhouse were fieldstone stables converted years ago into Major Peto’s late wife’s painting studio. Garlanded with climbing roses, surrounded by an herb garden and walled in by boxwood, this evocative stable was surmounted by a gabled dovecote where plump white doves flew in and out. Major Peto told us there used to be hundreds of doves before the hawks discovered the white feathers made them easy prey.

Under a drizzling rain, as usual, we dashed from our motorcar into the limestone, columned façade and were directly greeted by Willy’s good friend Phillipa in a charming, dusky watermelon entry foyer. A fine rosewood center table was encircled by Regency chairs and set with crystal, silver flatware, linen napkins and fine candlesticks. Phillipa had laid out the sideboard with a welcoming platter of Scottish gravlax flanked by antique china salad plates dressed with awaiting nests of watercress. Though it was noontime, the dreary sheets of rain outdoors lashed at the windowpanes, darkening the entire valley. But the sparkling, candlelit table, immersed in the room’s rich, warm color, plus our effervescent host’s hospitality, held the dark weather at a distant bay. While completely absorbed by our raconteur’s anecdotes, it took me a while to fully absorb this beautiful and uniquely appealing environment.

The dusky watermelon walls, trimmed in glossy, white woodwork, set off a marvelous set of Scottish cavalry prints of regiments that were akin to Major Peto’s own. A large, stuffed cow with a tagged ear, which was scored during a well-lubricated family outing, hung above the powder room doors. A gruff sisal hosted the elegant Regency chairs, table and a spectacular, 17th-century Dutch, inlaid, tall case clock. Surprising Scottish green plaid curtains warded off the cold damp, and Major Peto’s silverplated Royal Guard statue, a gift from the regiment, stood sentry on top of the florid, inlaid, ebony table. His mother’s baroque gold mirror, and Chinese gilded brackets supporting bronzed rearing horses, looked graphically powerful against the strong color. Altogether, the effect was quite posh with a cozy, relaxed overtone. Lit by candlelight, it was transporting!

So appealing is this Scottish country house because rich folklore and stories accompany every object. All of these ancestral artifacts were inherited or gifted and assembled with that easy British eye that appreciates what’s been handed down, who formerly owned them, the history of what cottage or castle they stood in, and how great-uncle Harry found them and used them. Though it is not a grand house, every room is used in a flexible manner. For instance, we ate not only in the kitchen, dining room and garden terrace, we also ate in the entry foyer. Every space was a celebration.

The living room is an essay in attractive design. Good paintings, well-framed and hung practically frame-to-frame, covered the walls. Well-made curtains (Ah! the English really know how to tailor curtains!) and multiple layers of lighting from lamps, picture lights, the fireplace and candles, enhanced the mood. A large bookcase with well-read tomes lines the wall, including biographies of and tributes to many of the major’s ancestors, including Harold Peto, a renowned landscape architect and designer around the early 20th century, who was Willy’s great-uncle. Deep, stuffed upholstery, Persian carpets, plump pillows and a fine mantel displaying antique porcelain, silver trophy cups, photos and invitations round out the casual comfortable effect. Willy’s late wife’s grandmother was a gifted artist, and many of the paintings on the walls were found in her attic after her passing. The living room contained so much clever beauty that one hardly noticed the big black TV sitting out in the middle. One of my favorite rooms was the powder room, perhaps because it was the most eccentric room. It was embellished with loads of visual stimuli, including vintage golf clubs, outdoor hunting gear, crossed sabers, marvelously funny family photos, awards, and letters, making the powder room, along with the cloakroom and mudroom, an “Aladdin’s grotto” of the Peto family history.

Whenever you visit the Scottish countryside, you must accept that farming, shooting, gathering, riding and hunting are paramount to their lifestyle. My dinner partner one evening recounted how he kept his rifle by the kitchen window for deer. Earlier that morning, still dressed in his nightshirt as he walked through the kitchen to bring a cup of tea upstairs to his waiting wife, he spied a deer. He shot it dead from the pantry window, slipped on his wellies, stepped outside, gutted the deer, hung it up to season, and then returned to take the tea up to his wife in his now blood-stained shirt. His wife, impatient for her tea, never even noticed the blood-soaked garment, simply that he had taken an unusually long time to bring her tea.

This rural, outdoor life does not mean that the civilized world of chintz bedrooms, silver flatware, china dishes and good paintings is abandoned. To the contrary, they embrace each other—Garden & Gun Magazine proves that! Above all, the style is not stuffy and along with this healthy attitude toward the rural life, the English and Scottish show gratitude to previous generations by respecting and preserving what is handed down. Be it a mirror, a bed, a chair, a table, or a candlestick, they manage to find a wonderful, adored spot for their heirlooms. Part of their skill is assembling differing objects into a jumbled, comfortable collage. They do not, as John Saladino puts it, “tear down houses and put up particle board palaces.”

This gratitude toward one’s past and one’s environment is so affecting and quite profound. As opposed to an all-too-American attitude of “Out with the old and in with the new,” the British, to quote David Brooks, “treasure the way they have been fashioned by their parents and ancestors, grateful for the evolved world they live in.” Though the Scottish live forthrightly in the present, they allow the present to walk thankfully hand-in-hand with the past.