The same sort of thing happened in my dispute with the National

Host: The evening fog coiled around the old estate gardens, thick with the scent of wet earth and ivy. The statues, worn by centuries, leaned at crooked angles, their faces half-swallowed by shadow. Beyond the broken fountain, a stone folly — tall, elegant, and absurd — stood against the dying light, its archways leading nowhere, its towers too small for any purpose but wonder.

Jack stood before it, hands deep in the pockets of his coat, his grey eyes scanning the silhouette like a detective examining a crime scene. Jeeny knelt near the steps, tracing the moss with her fingers, her breath soft against the chill.

The air held the quiet solemnity of forgotten beauty.

Jeeny: “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Pointless, maybe — but beautiful.”

Jack: “Pointless is the right word. It’s like someone built a joke out of stone.”

Host: His voice was low, almost mocking, as if the ruins themselves had committed an act of arrogance by still standing.

Jeeny: “And yet here you are, staring at it for ten minutes straight.”

Jack: “Curiosity. Like watching a car crash. You can’t look away from what makes no sense.”

Jeeny: “Ian Hamilton Finlay once said something about that — about how people laugh at folly architecture instead of trying to understand it. They call it madness because they’re afraid to see meaning in it.”

Jack: Turns slightly, smirking. “And what meaning could there possibly be in a tower that leads to nowhere?”

Host: The fog thickened, wrapping the ruin like a ghostly cloak. Somewhere, a raven cried — distant, harsh, echoing across the marble columns that held no roof.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s about the courage to build something that doesn’t have to make sense. Maybe folly architecture was the one honest form of art — admitting that beauty doesn’t need a function.”

Jack: “That’s convenient. So by that logic, we could justify any waste of effort by calling it art. The world’s full of half-built dreams already. Why glorify them?”

Jeeny: “Because not everything we build needs to serve utility, Jack. Sometimes, art is the resistance to usefulness.”

Host: A gust of wind carried a few dead leaves through the archway, scattering them at their feet. The sound of the leaves scraping the stone was like a dry, ancient whisper.

Jack: “You always romanticize things, Jeeny. You forget that someone had to pay for this nonsense. The stones, the labor, the time — all for what? So the aristocrats could stand here centuries ago and laugh about how silly it all was?”

Jeeny: “Or so they could feel something beyond commerce and conquest. You think too much in terms of currency. Maybe the folly was built to remind them of their own absurdity — a mirror to their pride.”

Jack: “So, irony wrapped in ornament? Humanity has enough of that without the masonry.”

Host: The moonlight began to pierce the fog, slicing it into ribbons of silver. The shadows shifted, and the folly seemed to breathe, as if alive, as if listening.

Jeeny: “You sound like the National Trust critics Finlay talked about. They couldn’t bear the idea that folly architecture could hold sincerity. They had to laugh at it — because laughter is safer than reverence.”

Jack: “And what’s wrong with laughter? Sometimes laughter is truth. Maybe calling the architect mad is more honest than pretending his madness was meaning.”

Jeeny: “But what if the madness was meaning? Finlay’s whole dispute was about that. He believed the world had become afraid of sincerity. We call everything ironic now — every gesture, every creation. It’s easier to mock than to feel.”

Host: The wind picked up again, stirring Jeeny’s hair like a black ribbon in the night. Jack’s eyes softened, but his jaw stayed set.

Jack: “You think sincerity is some lost virtue. I think irony is survival. The world’s too absurd already. The only sane response is to laugh.”

Jeeny: “But laughter without empathy becomes cruelty. That’s what Finlay saw. When people laugh at art — at architecture — they’re really laughing at the part of the human spirit that dares to create without justification.”

Jack: Steps closer, his tone sharper. “Or maybe they’re laughing because they see the lie. The folly pretends to be ancient, meaningful — but it’s fake. A fake ruin for fake wonder. Doesn’t that bother you?”

Jeeny: “No. It fascinates me. Because it reminds me that even imitation can hold beauty. The folly says, ‘I know I’m false, but I still exist.’ That’s more honest than most people.”

Host: Her words hung between them, trembling in the cold air. Jack looked at her, the fog rolling like a sea at their feet.

Jack: “You’re defending deception.”

Jeeny: “No — I’m defending the imagination behind it. You see fraud; I see faith. The faith that illusion itself can awaken wonder.”

Jack: “You sound like a preacher for lost causes.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a man who’s afraid of being moved.”

Host: For a moment, the night fell completely still. Even the fog seemed to pause its slow drift. The folly loomed behind them — half-monument, half-madness — a silent witness to their argument.

Jack: “Maybe I am. Maybe I stopped believing in beauty that doesn’t prove itself.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s why everything feels hollow to you.”

Host: The moon slipped out from the clouds, flooding the garden with pale light. The carved angels on the folly’s façade seemed to watch them with knowing eyes.

Jeeny: “Folly architecture was never about perfection. It was about the courage to build something purely for wonder. To say — I exist, not for reason, but for joy.”

Jack: “And yet we call it folly.”

Jeeny: “Because wisdom often hides in folly, Jack. Every artist knows that. The line between genius and madness isn’t a wall — it’s a fog, like tonight’s.”

Host: Jack stepped forward, placing a hand on the cold stone of the folly. His fingers brushed over the cracks, the roughness of time.

Jack: “It’s strange. Up close, it feels alive. Like it’s waiting for someone to understand it.”

Jeeny: “Or forgive it.”

Jack: “Forgive it for what?”

Jeeny: “For existing in a world that only respects purpose.”

Host: The moonlight reflected in the water pooled at the base of the fountain, shimmering like an unspoken truth. The mist began to lift, revealing the folly in its full, absurd glory — columns too ornate for a garden, archways that ended in air, a staircase leading into the void.

Jeeny: “Finlay fought the same fight in words. He wanted people to stop laughing at art just because it dared to be sincere. He saw ridicule as a kind of violence — a way of killing meaning before it could breathe.”

Jack: “So, what then? We should stop laughing at the absurd?”

Jeeny: “No. We should learn to laugh with it. That’s the difference.”

Host: Jack’s expression softened, and a small smile found its way to his lips — not mocking, but real.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe the world needs both: the laugh and the awe. Maybe every folly — every useless creation — is a mirror. Some people see madness, others see magic.”

Jeeny: “And both are right.”

Host: The wind eased, the fog thinned, and the night settled into a deep, serene silence. The folly stood proud, absurd, and eternal — its arches glowing under the silver light, its shadows long and elegant on the grass.

Jack: “I guess the joke’s on us, then.”

Jeeny: Smiling faintly. “Maybe the joke is us.”

Host: They both laughed — quietly, tenderly — as if laughter itself had been reclaimed, purified of irony. Above them, the moon glowed brighter, a perfect, useless circle in a dark, infinite sky — the grandest folly of them all.

And the garden, with all its mad beauty, finally breathed again.