It’s so quiet as I stroll along Anne Boleyn’s walk that I fancy I can hear the swish of her skirt skimming the grass. To my left is the fairy-tale castle where she grew up and the formal Italian garden; ahead lies the lake, with its pleasant hour-long circuit by the water. The only person I meet on my early-morning perambulations is a gardener; guests staying the night at Hever Castle get exclusive use of the grounds before they open to the public and after everyone else has gone home.
It’s a delicious feeling having all this history to yourself, imagining Anne strolling along with Henry VIII, the Tudor king she so enraptured that he broke with Rome and set up the Church of England just so he could marry her. The story might not have ended
