Art, Rain, and Grand Estates: A Day at Houghton Hall
Exploring Timeless Beauty, Contemporary Art, and the Unpredictable British Weather
I had been meaning to confront that final step in the stairwell for a while now—well, technically, it could be the first step, depending on how you’re looking at it. Either way, it has an alarming tendency to vanish beneath me, especially when I’m juggling bin bags and rushing out of the flat. Last Sunday was no exception. I executed my best escape artist routine, twisting my ankle in the process (luckily, hypermobility has its perks—no breaks, just bends).
Nevertheless, I managed to soldier on, racing to King’s Cross with all the precision of a nuclear physicist. Trash? Dumped. Coffee? In hand. Cheese straw? Munching as I dove into the Tube. I reached Peterborough with a smug sense of victory, only to realise I’d missed the coach to Houghton Hall by a mere 45 minutes. My meticulous plan was foiled by an innocent, misread email.
Nothing could deter me, though. A quick cab ride (just an hour and fifteen minutes) took me right to Houghton’s grand gates. As the car emerged from the cover of trees, the sight of the estate struck me like a misplaced uppercut—Houghton Hall, in all its Palladian splendour, standing regal and serene against the Norfolk sky. It only takes blue skies, some greenery, and the smell of manure to bring back the farmer’s daughter in me and wonder why I am living in the city. That thought doesn't last a split second.
Robert Walpole’s ego must have swelled with satisfaction when this grand project, designed by Colen Campbell and William Kent, was finally realised in the 18th century. He wasn’t just building a home; he was crafting a political monument that would echo through generations of Walpoles, Cholmondeleys, and those lucky enough to visit. These grand rooms and sweeping grounds have borne witness to the tides of history, surviving wars, revolutions, and, most impressive of all, the vagaries of British weather.
Fast-forward to today, the Cholmondeley family has turned this architectural marvel into a modern artistic hub. Sure, Catherine the Great made off with a decent chunk of Walpole’s Old Master collection, but the art lives on, with contemporary exhibitions gracing Houghton’s hallowed halls and expansive gardens. And that’s where Antony Gormley’s Time Horizon comes in, a stark contrast between history and modernity.
Gormley’s exhibition features 100 cast-iron figures of the man himself, arranged in a way that makes you feel like you’ve stumbled into a meeting of some dystopian secret society. His casts—carefully formed using layers of Vaseline and plaster—capture every inch of his body, imperfections and all. It’s art that demands introspection: what does it mean to be here, in this body, in this moment, in this space? And how does this grand Palladian backdrop fit into that equation?
Buddhism permeates Gormley’s philosophy, focusing on the transient nature of existence and the body as a vessel. As you wander among his figures, it’s hard not to think of your own fleeting presence contrasted against the timeless majesty of Houghton Hall. It’s a beautiful reminder that while buildings may stand for centuries, we merely pass through vessels of experience in an ever-shifting landscape. And yet, for a brief moment, we are part of something grander.
After our leisurely stroll through Houghton's vast grounds, we were swiftly corralled inside like overzealous tourists on a whistle-stop tour—half an hour, they said, to take in Magdalena Odundo’s ceramic mastery. Half an hour!As if Odundo’s pieces, with their stunning fusion of historical and contemporary influences, could be so casually consumed. Her works, rich in themes of diasporic identity and the symbolic weight of objects, demand far more time. Visitors are treated to a significant new commission, dreamt up during her residency at the legendary Wedgwood factory in Stoke-on-Trent. The exhibition elegantly juxtaposes Odundo’s sinuous, hand-coiled forms with the grandiose opulence of Houghton’s State Rooms. It’s a clever contrast—the timeless curves of her ceramics meeting the stiff grandeur of Palladian elegance, a dialogue between old and new, British and global, crafted and curated. To be rushed through it felt almost criminal, but at least we left with more than just damp shoes.
AAfter taking in both exhibitions, wandering the gated gardens, and indulging in a leisurely lunch in the Old Kitchen, we made our way back to the station. Naturally, it started to rain—because no British day out is complete without a damp dash to the train, shoes squelching and umbrellas flipping inside out.