My Highland Fling

We arrive at Gargunnock House on August 6th. The car crunches along the gravel driveway and when the elegant façade finally comes into view between a clump of trees, even the kids go silent. There's an intense drama about the place that pulls you in -- think "Gosford Park" meets "Wuthering Heights." I've been coming here since 1996 and it still gets me every time.

(Gargunnock House, Scotland. Available for rent here.)

The housekeeper has hidden the front door key for us and we go into the massive entry hall, our steps echoing across the worn flagstone floors.

The children dash up the staircase and promptly vanish into the labyrinthine recesses of the house. We aren't alarmed. Periodic peals of laughter float down from another floor letting us know they're more than okay.

I go straight to the dining room and fling open the windows overlooking the kitchen garden. The air smells like woodsmoke, wet stone, freshly turned earth and flowering buds, and I'm in heaven.

The dining room is empty and still. The superstitious side of me swears that the long-dead faces on the wall are glancing around expectantly for stirrings of life.

Could they have peeked into their immediate future, they would have seen this:

In the living room, the rose-colored George Smith sofas and gold velvet curtains lend a theatrical air to the room. The stage is set and awaits its players.

Within hours, we are cozily ensconced in front of a crackling fire surrounded by books, puzzles, games and other 19th century pursuits.

The chef de cuisine (i.e. my husband) is in the midst of a culinary orchestra of chopping, cutting, slicing and dicing.

Piero's dinner is simple, honest and kid-friendly, with fresh, rustic ingredients that hit the spot. In the words of my idol, Nigel Slater, "Right food, right place, right time."

That evening, I wander into a sitting room to pay a private visit to the late Miss Viola Stirling, the last owner of Gargunnock House. Over the fireplace, there is a painting of her as a young girl being taught the finer points of gamekeeping by her father. I am so grateful to be back in her home.

Our days soon settle into a comfortable routine. We make no attempt to head off our jet lag; instead, unhurried breakfasts at 11am eventually evolve into leisurely mid-afternoon hikes. There is only one rule: Wellies are mandatory.

Gargunnock House is nestled amid acres of Arcadian pasture and, thanks to the UK's public rights of way rules for ramblers, nearly all paths less traveled are open to exploration.

In this enchanted land, streams are meant to be forged...

...and fences are meant to be scaled.

Have you ever seen such contented sheep in your life?

Here we are, minus the men (who are training their lenses on us). The goal for this hike is the top of that hill in the distance.

Our backpacks are stocked with sandwiches, cheese, apples and Hob Nobs. We are a ragtag team of deliriously happy adventurers.

My friend Hillary picks the perfect spot for a picnic.

The children ask if they can climb to a nearby waterfall. "Go! Run! Explore!" I tell them. The words have a novel taste to them and I realize that the phrase doesn't come trippingly off my lips back in Los Angeles.

When at long last we reach the peak, a blue-and-white surprise awaits.

And then another: a picture postcard view of our very own manor, its mellow stone walls magically spotlit by the sun.

Back at the house, we devour freshly-baked scones with butter, clotted cream and three varieties of Fortnum and Mason jam that I've brought up from London.

It's a different world here. In Hollywood, we're plain ol' Piero and Lisa and Luca. But here we're the McGiramontis: the Laird, his bonnie wife and their wee bairn.

On our next-to-last day, we succumb to the allure of the nearby William Wallace Monument.

Standing beneath it in the shadows, the forbidding toothy peaks look eerily similar to Tolkien's tower in Mordor.

We climb 246 very narrow stone steps. Encountering someone coming down when you're going up requires a firm grasp of navigational geometry. "Hmmm...if I put this part here, can you possibly fit that part there?"

At the top, we are greeted by a view so stunning it nearly knocks us flat.

I mean that literally. The wind is gusting so fiercely that it's nigh impossible to stand up straight. Luca and his friends seek shelter with Piero.

Our week-long stay at the house comes and goes in a flash, the way it always does when your greatest wish is that time would stop and you could exist in this space, in this time, with these people, forevermore.

Before we know it, it's time to take our boots off. Unfortunately, bursting suitcases mean that most of us end up having to leave them for future guests.

(I said most of us. Do you honestly think I could leave mine after they'd been embedded with the romance of the moss and the moors and the heather? I wrapped those babies in a plastic sack and wrestled my suitcase until it finally gave in.)

Back in Los Angeles, someone asks me what it is exactly about Scotland that I love so much. "It's the hairier version of England," I reply. My friend laughs. But it's true, and I say that with a love for England that defies boundaries.

Compared to the glorious clipped gardens of England, Scotland is unkempt and shaggy and bristly. It has more unpredictable weather, more untamed moors, more rugged hills, more unbridled romance, more sheep, more peat, more moss...well, you get the picture.

I found two very moving odes to Scotland by poet Jeannette Simpson. I extract liberally from them below.

I have seen your highlands and your glens

and felt a recognition I did not expect.

I long to be back on your soil to stay

even though I have people and things here who need me.

No, you are not the land of my birth,

But you are the land of who I am.

Soles with Soul

I've been challenged by the lovely Helena Halme over at her eponymous blog to show off seven pairs of my favorite shoes. After much deliberation, I've made my picks. Here they are, along with the reasons why I love them so:

1.

I bought these sequinned leather shoes in Jaipur, India a couple of years ago from a little boy who relentlessly followed me down the street. "Shoes for three hundred rupees!" he cried (about six dollars). "Here, here, I show you!" The guide we were with pursed his lips in disapproval, but I stopped anyway. The boy untied an enormous cotton bag and revealed a bottomless trove of colorful shoes like these. "My father, he made them." All were beautiful and precious and exotic...and this pair fit me with a Cinderella-like perfection.

2.

If you ever see me dashing around town on errands, I'll probably be wearing these platform wedges from Kork-Ease. (This is actually my second pair, the first pair having passed on after enjoying a rich life in 2009.) Can you say "crazy comfortable?" They come in various colors and styles, but I like the nude cork best. They go with everything, have an organic simplicity that I love and never fail to imbue my psyche with a relaxed, "whatever goes" 1970's hippie attitude (perfect for being stuck in traffic on the carpool run).

3.

Oh, the geisha shoes. I bought them on sale at a hip boutique here in Los Angeles years ago. I think they were maybe $20. I love them because they have a little bell on the bottom of the sole that clicks when you step on it. I wore them to work at "Will and Grace" one day and caused considerable consternation among the sound crew whenever I walked onto the set. Later, someone told me they were training shoes for geishas to learn to walk noiselessly (touching the bell is a no-no). The only way to manage this is to take very little steps and adopt a submissive shuffle. Needless to say, when I wear them, you can hear me coming.

4.

There are countless hiking trails in the Hollywood Hills and my new cross training shoes from Nike are coming with me every step of the way. My last pair of cross trainers was blah-bitty-blah brown, and I love these because they have a slightly glamorous (or, as my husband says, "disco ball") edge to them which makes them as suitable for urban browsing in Paris, Rome or London as they are for a dawn trek up the local neighborhood peak.

5.

Although I love me a good pair of designer shoes, I'm not a brand snob. So when I spotted these boots at Nine West about four years ago, I knew instantly they were the perfect accompaniment I'd long been searching for to go with my Marc Jacobs Couture patent leather 3/4 coat. I love the two-tone color and the nod to classic 19th century spats. It's all about the high-low mix.

6.

This sexy shoe-boot from Michael Kors is my go-to pair for when I am craving a few extra inches in height (umm, which would be always). Lately, I've been wearing them with jeans and my new Irving and Fine Lamu coat with hand embroidered raffia and wooden beads. The built-up platform on the front part of the shoe means your foot doesn't slope down at a painful angle. I wore these at my recent art opening (where I was on my feet all night) and not one tendon or toe filed a complaint.

7.

My friend Suze, fashion editor of Glamour Magazine, made me buy these Jack Rogers sandals the last time I was in New York. "You'll wear them with everything from jeans to dresses." She was right. I've worn them to lunch at the Columbe d'Or in the south of France, to the beach in Malibu and even around my kitchen accessorized with this Tony Duquette-inspired kaftan and a 5pm cocktail.

8.

Bonus pair: I couldn't not include my latest love, this fabulous pair of mid-calf boots from Tory Burch. I only bought them last month, after I spied them at a friend's house and nearly fainted with passion. "Whaa? Hwa?" I sputtered. "Yesterday. Tory Burch. 50% off." I sped over to the store on Robertson and the gods were smiling because there was one pair left in size 7. My heart still races thinking about it.

One Thing Leads To Another

There he is, that wild and crazy bohemian, the one and only Augustus John (1878-1961). Painter, gypsy and virtual force of nature, he consumed wine, women and life in equal quantities. He sits here more demurely than I've ever seen him looking (probably because at 22, he was just beginning to dip his toe into the tidepool of decadence), but that rapacious gaze riveted on the viewer gives the game away.

I'm not unmoved.

In fact, I'd be more than happy to give him exactly what he needs.

(Augustus John by William Orpen, 1899)

A wall-mounted coat and hat rack, of course.

(Coat hanger by Authentic Models via here)

He must be getting overheated sitting there in that wool overcoat and the hat needs a better resting place. (What? Did your minds go into the gutter? Pull them out at once.) I love the dark blue, the vintage-inspired brass details and that unexpected bold red shelf. It feels like a piece you'd find in the back hall of a centuries-old European bistro. Or maybe bolted to the wall of a first-class carriage on the Orient Express headed to Vienna. Or in the cloak room of a very exclusive boarding school in the remotest wilds of Inverness. Or...or...or...make up your own story.

Me wanty.

London: The Days of Cool Britannia

In 1996, we moved to the sceptr'ed isle. Piero flew over first and started looking for places immediately. One night he called to tell me he had found a rose-colored carriage house in a mews in Notting Hill.

Piero: You're going to love it. It's totally you. The woman who lived there before -- Camilla something, the owner said she works for British Vogue -- painted everything this amazing mottled pink and cream. It's like a hippy sponge cake. Even the --

Me: (interrupting) Stop! You need to concentrate. Is it Camilla Nickerson? Because she is my total style icon.

Piero: Yeah, that's her.

Me: (trembling) Oh my God. Do whatever you have to. Just get it.

He did. Unfortunately, in an overzealous quest to please their new tenants, the owners had painted every surface white by the time I arrived. (Oh, the loss, the loss.)

(Our former house in Wilby Mews, London, 1996-1999)

But despite its shiny new coat of paint, the house still heaved with character. A lacy licorice-colored staircase soared through the middle of each floor from the ground level up to the third floor attic.

The centuries-old floorboards were stained a golden honeycomb color and, like a battered leather satchel, gleamed with a patina of character that only a long march of years can provide.

(Upstairs salon)

Design-wise, I was in the throes of what I now refer to as my "Hogarthian" phase: out with the new, in with the ancient. I haunted Portobello Road for cheap second-hand treasures and then set about giving them a new life, hand-sewing cushions, embroidering pillow covers and even reupholstering them (hello, staple gun). Tea, bourbon biscuits and Radio 4 kept me going. At night, when friends came over and the candles were lit, the house did radiate an enticing shabby grandeur.

(William Hogarth, The Distressed Poet, 1736)

The bedroom was on the ground floor of the house, and in an inspired renovation decision, the owners had left the stable stall up which bisected the room in two. The bed fit perfectly on one side and on the other, I created a little reading area. One late night I heard a noise and looked up to see a feral-looking silhouette in the window above my head. "Most likely a town fox," my neighbor said. "Absolute rascals, they are." Town fox. The words reverberated in my head for days.

(Bedroom, London)

The kitchen was a tiny galley area on the second floor and completely unassuming in design, but I loved it. Everything was delightfully within arm's reach, the floorboards uttered a comment whenever you took a step and despite the rain, the fog or the sleet, the light was inexplicably always golden. And from that little window on the world...

(Kitchen)

...I was afforded a rose-colored glimpse onto the lush, private gardens of the massive town houses that faced Ladbroke Grove. It was a fantastic wonderland of 19th century conservatories and Victorian follies and deliriously unbridled foliage. If I squinted, there was almost no clue that the 20th century (or even the 19th) had arrived.

(View onto back garden)

It was during this time that I found my beloved WWII-era horseshoe bench (just visible behind the dining table). I had gone to Bermondsey Market at 5am and spotted it there in the pre-dawn darkness. For £60, it was mine. The painting is by E. L. Blumenschein (1874-1960), one of the famous Taos Painters, although I think it was painted during his Hudson Valley years, before he headed West.

(Dining area)

Up on the top of the house was a half-floor that we turned into a tiny (and I mean tiny) lounge. Outside was our very own private garden. Piero cobbled together some wooden planters and we grew an aromatic variety of herbs and encouraged the ivy to fulfill its long-held ambition of becoming a wall-to-wall carpet. Sometimes at dusk, we'd eat our dinner up there, surrounded by smudgy clouds and blue-grey slate rooftops and a ragtag assortment of Victorian chimneys.

(Mews attic)

This is us as we were then. Eagle-eyed viewers will spot my friend Jane in the background.

(Wedding day, Chelsea Registry Office)

Update: A few of you have asked if I still keep in touch with Jane and Mary from my last post. I do. Mary has moved back to England but Jane still lives in Brooklyn and both are busy raising families and pursuing artistic ventures. Two years ago, we all rented a house in Yorkshire and it was wonderful beyond words to see our children galloping across heathery moors, rolling down hills and scoffing sweets together like there was no tomorrow.

(Yorkshire, 2006)

Maybe up next: Thrills in the Hollywood Hills (if I can locate the photos...)

Also, it's Friday, which means my new column is up at W Magazine. Click HERE to read it, but not before I wish a wonderful Valentine's weekend to everyone.