A Voyage in the West The solstice has come and gone. The sundial's shadow is a little black pool in the moss under the gnomon. It is hot and green -- sweltering hot, and so green that the mind wanders nostalgically back to Hergest and a red rhododendron 'Elizabeth' in front of a cool white-barked betula jacqmontii 'Jermyns', with behind it the clear pink of a big Magnolia campbelli ... Someone is sneezing on the far side of the hedge. They are high, cross sneezes, so the sneezer is the Duchess. Her blood is deepest azure, splendidly reactive, so she is allergic to just about everything. The situation is aggravated by the fact that she has declared a state of economic siege, dismissed all garden help, and taken on her own bony shoulders the Hope's grimmer chores. The dawn chorus segues seamlessly into the howl of her chainsaw. After a light breakfast of anchovies and gin, she careers wildly to and fro on the lawnmower, cursing all trees. This process naturally stirs her allergies to fever pitch, forcing her to spend the afternoon on a daybed in the Turkish kiosk, smashed comatose on Piriton and smoking Capstan Full Strength against the wasps. At dusk she zigzags forth to reminisce. The other night she gazed upon our brilliant embothrium, flared her nostrils to a whiff of woodsmoke, and started talking about Lochinch Castle. A friend of hers visited this pile in the time of the last Lord Stair but two, famous