Whitefield Hall has stood at the end of a farm track since 1820, in a park of old limes, and it still keeps the pace of a country house: an orangery where seventy sit down at one long table, a meadow under the limes for the ceremony, and a drawing room with a log fire for the evening. There are no neighbours and no passing traffic — just the fields, the park, and a light that turns golden around five.
The open day is like the weddings we hold here: calm. Walk the park with us, sit down at the linen-laid table in the orangery, taste a menu from the farms around us, and look in on the paper workshop and on the florist who dries the flowers from our meadow.