The sign on the gate states “Private. No access.” We ignore it and follow a path past a Georgian manor house, its white walls glowing pink in the early evening light. It appears to be empty but as we tiptoe past the large sash windows, I have the uneasy sensation of trespassing. To the far side of the house is a latticed wooden gate, which has been left off the latch.
The lawn and flowerbeds in front of the house are neatly manicured, but on the other side of the gate is something altogether wilder. We set off down a narrow path that descends steeply through a lush valley spiked with palm trees and soaring Monterey pines. There’s the sound of trickling water from a waterfall and the leaves of flame-coloured crocosmia tickle our legs as we brush past. At every twist in the path there are new wonders: towering tree ferns, a grove of bamboo 10 metres high, a swathe of rampant hydrangeas with flower heads the size of footballs in every shade of lilac and blue. It’s like a sub-tropical Secret Garden on steroids, and we’ve got it all to ourselves.
