In Oatlands Park Is Pleasure

On this 73rd anniversary of Denton’s death, it feels long overdue to tell you about my last Denton adventure earlier this year. I visited Oatlands Park hotel, where Denton stayed with his father and brothers during the summer of 1930, forming base camp for In Youth Is Pleasure. Still family-owned (well, four families own it) the hotel is situated a mile or so from Weybridge train station. I presented myself there on one of the hottest days of 2021, eager to locate the parts of the hotel described in ‘In Youth Is Pleasure’, and to avail myself of a delicious lunch in four-star surroundings. Oh, the things I do for Denton!

Unusually (and delightfully) I was accompanied on this research outing by a dear friend. Greg has always been intensely interested in my Denton research expeditions, and as lunch in a four-star hotel was part of the experience, he was in! We were early for our lunch booking, so we walked around the grounds to work up an appetite. I particularly wanted to see the pet cemetery and the location of the grotto, which was demolished in 1948. Mindful of the luck I had in finding so much of Broadstairs remaining as Denton would have known it, I hoped my luck would hold in Oatlands Park. 

The hotel… stood in charming parkland, with terraced gardens and lawns sloping down to a little artificial lake almost entirely surrounded by huge overgrown brambles. Only the lake and its banks were neglected; the rest of the grounds, with the fountain, the grotto, the cottage orné, and the elaborate pets’ cemetery were kept in very trim order.

Well, my luck didn’t hold. Comparing the 1914 Ordnance Survey map with the present day shows how much the parkland has shrunk over the last century. The artificial lake is long gone, as is the fountain, grotto, cottage orné and pets’ cemetery. These delightfully unique, quirky features have been lost to urbanisation, a primary school and housing estate now occupying the site where they stood. However, the grotto remains immortalised in the name of the road that once bordered Oatlands Park’s grounds, and there’s a full account of it in the International Grotto Directory. 

Happily, the headstones from the pet cemetery are now arranged in a respectful, protected circle around a sycamore tree next to the terrace. Sadly, they’re impossible to read. I was looking forward to photographing some of the more idiosyncratic inscriptions (“Here lies PUCE, my sweet Cat. Murdered June 5th 1831”), but they’ve worn away to the degree that only the odd letter here and there is visible.

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So, let me show you around the interior. The entrance to Oatlands Park is no longer through the tall stone gate pillars, but the cars still come into a broad sweep of lawn. Denton remarks that “fine cedars were dotted about before the house in a haphazard pattern, making it clear that some of their number had died from old age.” There are still mature cedars dotted about, including possibly the most mature cedar in England. 

Something of a living Gaia, Greg suggested that we put our hand against the cedar tree opposite the hotel entrance to tune in and pick up Denton vibes. Totally something Denton would have done – the boy who licked a boat’s window frame to experience his surroundings as fully as possible would happily commune with a cedar tree.  And, whilst I was pressing the ancient, desiccated bark against my palms, Denton arrived. Standing in solemn, arboreal reverence, feeling slightly foolish, I spotted a pigeon huddled on the grass. To this urbanite, it seemed odd, as London pigeons are generally either strutting busily or perched well above ground. Looking closer, the pigeon had a broken wing and leg, and didn’t seem terribly happy. Across the way, an extremely well-dressed woman was speaking urgently and authoritatively into her phone, whilst her companion stood guard over the injured bird. “She’s phoning the local vet”, she explained.

How marvellously Denton. I’m not sure it would have made it into a story, but I’m pretty certain an injured pigeon would have been the subject of existential musing in his journal, or at least a couple of lines of poetry. 

It was time for lunch. We escaped thankfully into the air-conditioned coolness of the reception. Denton records that

…the central courtyard was glassed over to make a huge tea lounge…

It’s not huge by today’s standards, but it’s certainly beautiful. Now an extension of the bar and reception, it’s a comfortable place for a natter over a cuppa.

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En route to the dining room, we passed the main staircase where Orvil hurried on his first day to run outside and explore the grounds of the hotel before dinner. The balcony overlooking the reception area is most likely the place where Denton looked down into the court, as there’s no view into the court from the top of the stairs.

He found his way down the passage to the head of the broad stairs. Below him in the court he saw groups of people sitting in armchairs. They wore that very sad look of people who have nothing to do before they dress for dinner.

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When he realises he’s late for dinner, he rushes back and tidies up as best he can before finding his way to the glass doors of the dining room.

He heard dishes clinking and the hum of talk. ‘Will I ever find them in this huge room?’ he asked himself.

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In that same huge dining room, over a glass of pre-lunch champagne, we indulged in some Denton-esque people-watching. There was a little hubbub outside – two women dressed in wedding outfits unsuccessfully navigated the deep gravel path towards the restaurant terrace, doubly hampered by high heels and trying to simultaneously light cigarettes for each other. On the terrace, two beautiful young men gazed adoringly into each other’s eyes, clearly having very recently said “I do”. Once the bridesmaids tottered onto the terrace in their ruined heels, the wedding party made its way onto the lawn and out of sight for lakeside photographs. Exchanging nods of satisfaction, Greg and I stopped staring and gave ourselves up to enjoying an excellent lunch.

After lunch, we met with Hannah, the very helpful Marketing manager of Oatlands Park, who had lots of photographs, news cuttings and vintage menus to browse before showing us around the hotel. We first visited the ballroom. Hannah showed us a very old picture of it looking distinctly art deco, with a small stage, but there’s no date on the picture. However, Orvil describes the sprung floor for the dancers, and this photo shows a carpeted ballroom, without the heavy green and black polka-dotted curtains that Orvil despised so much.

The new ballroom wing jutted out from one side of the old house. It was built of genteel-coloured brick that could not be called red. Its dinky little lead casements, by contrast, made the tall thin sashes look more beautiful than ever.

Approached down a corridor of gorgeous wooden panelling, nothing appears to remain of the original ballroom decor or the whitewashed corridor with the musicians’ cloakroom. Slightly relieved that there was no need to conscientiously imagine (or recreate!) Denton’s naked self-flagellation in a long-vanished cloakroom, we retraced our steps from the ballroom to climb a smaller staircase next to the lift. Presumably this was the staircase that made Denton realise “for the first time, that he had a strong prejudice against lifts, that he never used them when he was alone”. Like the main staircase, it’s beautiful.

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On the second floor, Hannah showed us a lovely little bedroom overlooking the stable yard, from where Denton borrowed a bright blue bike. The stables are currently being refurbished to become a spa, which is an excellent reason to return to Oatlands Park as far as I’m concerned.

The old stable-yard seemed full of chauffeurs, whistling, shouting, smoking, as they hosed or polished their cars.

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Curiously, Denton didn’t mention the rumoured ghost of Oatlands Park. It’s perhaps unsurprising that such a self-obsessed adolescent didn’t pick up on ghostly gossip, but the first story he ever wrote was about a ghost. His vivid imagination could easily have revelled in the supernatural possibilities of staying in a haunted hotel. The Grey Lady is reputedly the ghost of a maid who threw herself off the bell tower after an argument with her fiancé. This wing of the hotel is closed for refurbishment, so we weren’t able to visit, but I was intrigued by the story, and you can read more about it here if you are too.

After several hours of soaking up the Oatlands Park atmosphere, it was time to leave. Once again, I’d been extraordinarily lucky. We had visited at the same time of year as Denton, and seen much of the hotel (if not the grounds) as he would have seen it. Gazing up at the glass roof over reception, deciphering the pet cemetery headstones, dining in the same dining room – once again, I felt privileged to have shared that experience with him.

I’ll next be turning my attention to Denton’s final resting place. A couple of readers have asked if I know anything about it, and there are varying theories about what happened to Denton’s ashes. Watch this space…