Morocco. (In 2016, he opened the riad inn L’Hôtel Marrakech.) But it is the garden that perhaps best expresses how Conran has — as the family crest counsels — finally found wisdom in peace. Unlike the formal gardens at Ven House, with their clipped all-green symmetry and stone fountains in the 17th-century style, the grounds of Bettiscombe tend toward the natural and the profuse. They seem a reflection of the unfussy rural character of the area — and of Conran’s evolving disinterest in anything too palatial. There are chickens. A shepherd brings his flock of sheep to graze daily. Conran employs just one full-time gardener, unlike the robust staff that were needed to keep his grander properties in order. “This is a different time of my life,” he says, recalling the partying he did in his younger years that was assiduously documented by the British tabloids, “and I’m feeling so comfortable and full of joy.”

Unlike the interiors, which evince his willingness to ruthlessly edit in order to let good pieces have breathing room (“I don’t do layering,” he notes), the garden here borders on the riotous. “It’s my id run away with me,” he says. During the pandemic, his desire to be enveloped by bright hues, the sweet fragrance of flowers in bloom and organic shapes has intensified: “Just being in the midst of that and seeing every day when you go out what has happened overnight is so exciting.”

The sense of purposeful imperfection begins as you leave through the front door to walk down a stone path: poofs of erigeron — fleabane — with tiny daisylike flowers fizz from between ancient stones. The ornamental beds themselves, bisected by grassy promenades, are densely planted, the colors molten. In late spring there are parrot tulips everywhere, and the belled stalks of purple digitalis burst through blossoms of yellow euphorbia. As the season mellows, the dahlias emerge, their nodding heads sometimes the size of Frisbees. Even in December, the garden bears flowers: Helleborus niger — Christmas roses — with their blowzy blossoms in faded Victorian shades of lavender and sage. There are a cutting garden, a vegetable garden and a greenhouse. Conran pulls fresh peppers, leafy greens and peas from the vines to serve with poached chicken drizzled with aioli; his guests drink chilled Meursault as they sit at the graceful, aged iron tables he has arranged in clearings.

About 100 yards away, near the orchard, Byrne, 37, has set up his studio in the 1830s structure that houses the apple press, still used each fall to make cider. His works over the past year at Bettiscombe, mostly large-scale botanicals with a lush, exuberant edge, have grown even bigger and more vivid. Conran cuts lavish bouquets for him to paint, a gesture of quiet intimacy. “I’ve had my drama and my houses,” the designer says. “Now I feel as though I’ve landed.”

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