My magic carpets

ASSUMING you have a house, it’s not possible to own too many rugs. I know this because, recently, I went to an auction and bought a job lot of 17. I just fancied them and they’ve vanished into the house like ghosts. These are Chinese and we already have a good collection of Middle Eastern rugs, which used to be called Persian. Some were actually Persian, others Baluchi and, particular favourites of mine, Afghan.

All had abstract patterns apart from a few stylised flowers and nearly all were in soft reds and beiges, a result of being coloured with vegetable dyes.

I was also told that all these Middle Eastern rugs have at least one deliberate mistake ‘because only Allah is perfect’. I don’t know whether this is true or a convenient myth, however, they all do have imperfections. Borders are out of alignment, colours vary—all little errors that don’t spoil the rug.

Hew had a godmother who, instead of buying fitted carpets for her house in Devon, simply spread the rooms with small rugs, creating a kaleidoscope of colours that was much more interesting.

Hugh Trevor-roper, who seemed to have an affection for holey, ancient rugs, covered each perforation with a pile of academic papers. It was less dangerous, he thought, to trip over his notes for The Last Days of Hitler than get his feet entangled in a faulty rug. It certainly made photographs of his study memorable.

We have a few fitted carpets, although I wouldn’t bother with them again. However, mostly, we have wooden floors, some with elm planks at least 12in wide. We also have floors of pamments— square terracotta tiles endemic to Suffolk—and others of old brick. Each is ideal for rugs.

Among the 17 I bought were at least three that are ideal for corridors—long and narrow and made up of squares, each of which has an identical pattern. All are abstract. Others are the usual size—a biggish bath towel—and these are the ones that sit on fitted carpets, largely because they’re pretty worn.

Nearly all those in my huge lot are coloured with indigo dye, which is very unusual in Middle Eastern rugs, but obviously not in Chinese, and most are the size of a face towel. You might think that this isn’t a very useful size, yet they sit on either side of our beds, so that, in the morning, you can flex your feet on a decent bit of pile.

Most of the ones this size are patterned with controlled abstract designs such as alternatively coloured squares of dark and light blue or swirling motifs, but at least two have ornate vases of flowers placed at each end.

Most of the rugs are designed as if they were in pairs and I don’t know why. Were they intended to be folded in two on a table or was it just that the rug maker liked the symmetry of his images?

At least four have a common theme. One depicts a fallow deer (or I assume it is, as it has spots on its back) with perky antlers. It’s standing on a field and looking upwards with some sort of exotic bird—that’s about the size of a cockerel, but looks a lot more menacing—swooping down towards its antlers. It could be a crane, however, its plumage seems to be patterned other than plain white.

Obviously, this scene has some deep inner meaning in China, just as the more common dragon chasing the pearl of immortality has. However, I haven’t been able to find out whether the bird is attacking the deer or is just being friendly.

I’ve only found out that deer don’t have special significance and are considered lucky, as well as that fallow deer originate from the Middle East not China.

Can anyone put me out of my misery and explain what it is that my four small rugs are trying to tell me?

‘Most of the rugs are designed in pairs and I don’t know why’