Blood, Sweat and Scones

by Keith James Bell

  In the tiny garret room, soon to become my art room, we found a very small access to an enormous attic which was completely empty and was ideal to use as a storage area. We made a new access and within weeks it was filling up with empty packing cases. You could see that it had once been a living space with blocked up windows and fireplaces, possibly servant’s quarters from the previous century. Some years later we boarded out the space and put in some lighting. We could then clearly see how many things we had accumulated. A few years ago, when we could not squeeze anything else into the space, we decided to hold a rummage sale. It was a great success. People loved sifting through the paintings, furniture, books and bric-a-brac. There was so much to buy it looked like a village hall sale. This has now become a much anticipated annual event.

  The previous owners left a lot of rubbish to be collected by the local refuse collectors. I was keen to recycle. I found two battered wing back chairs which had seen better days. We rescued them from the skip and reupholstered them. They now make a great addition to the house. They are currently outside the new attic area which we have restored and is explained later.

  Outside in the gardens we marshalled a team, including my mum and dad, and started a general tidy up. There was plenty to do. We were immediately embroiled in work, repairing leaks, replacing broken gates, making steps safe, replacing doors, clearing the site of unwanted timbers and debris and renovating the coach house into a two storey office. The latter was the priority. We had ten employees housed in an unsatisfactory temporary office set up in the cold Jacobean part of the Hall. One of the secretaries of our consultancy business was scared stiff of the ghost and was often left on her own during the day. She was desperate to move into the new accommodation. Five long months later she was able to do just that, much to her delight. She never went into the Hall again.

  The builders who were converting the coach house into our new offices were a great help in the rest of the Hall too. They replaced a couple of windows which were rotten, made two large wooden garden gates, two sets of steps and removed a huge pile of rotten roof timbers to gain access to the front of the coach house. It was here they laid the large gravel area which we were to use as a staff car park.

  I discovered how heavy green oak was when I saw two large men struggling to carry what appeared to be a rather small beam. This was for an urgent repair required in the minstrels’ gallery, where water had been pouring in, resulting in a sodden beam which was on its last legs.

  The construction team remained on the premises for six months after we moved in. They were extremely good, very professional and, above all, patient. Our dog, Ben, a highly strung border collie, plagued them. Since moving to the Hall Ben seemed to have three key pastimes: When he was not chasing rabbits, his favourite activity, he was waiting for the next train to come down the main east coastline which runs along the field behind the gardens. Whenever a train came into sight he raced along the gardens barking at it. Each time the train sped off he believed he had chased it away and was truly ‘Top Dog’. His third occupation was harassing the builders. He stole their lunches from their haversacks. He leapt on any new builders in that over loving way that only a dog can. He managed to charge over newly concreted floors to greet them. In the end they had to relay the one concrete floor three times because Ben was so adamant that he wanted to leave his paw prints for posterity as if he was some Los Angelino celebrity. The builders loved Ben; I had no idea why.

  Maggie was still beside herself, not yet feeling like she was ‘home’. One evening on her return from work in Sunderland she was spooked by hearing voices echoing around the empty dining room. I told her not to be so daft and accompanied her into the room to investigate. I changed my tune when I too heard voices. Voices coming from the wall. We seemed to be listening to a conversation. More ghosts?

  Fortunately a more worldly explanation soon became clear. Much to our surprise one of the builders poked his head out of the fireplace with a very cheerful greeting. What a relief. We were delighted we could put a body to the voice. The builders had been removing the gas fire and had discovered a huge inglenook fireplace behind the wall. They had climbed in and had been standing in there exclaiming over their discovery when Maggie came home.

  The builders had a number of skips delivered for their refuse. My dad, not one to miss a trick, felt the surplus wood could not go to waste. He was of the ‘waste not want not’ generation. He took on Amanda as his young apprentice and together they built a tree house. Not a platform standing high up in a tree but a palatial two storey residence with a stepped ladder to the upper house. All covered in with seats and tables inside. It was a work of art and Amanda and her friend Vicky were absolutely thrilled.

  Not only delighted to have helped to build the place but also delighted they could invite other friends around for tea just like the grownups. Not to be outdone, Ian and his friend Philip were also building a tree top home in the large cherry tree which stood in the Solar Wing Garden. Maggie and I wondered if both our children were preparing to leave the family home. Their houses looked so inviting. Certainly on assessments at the time these new structures looked more waterproof and weather resistant than the main house. However, that waste wood was waste for a reason and it just could not cope with the ravages of the British weather. The tree houses managed to last for a decade. As they started to disintegrate we could not really apply for European funding for restoration so we removed them as they were becoming a hazard for our visitors.

  My mum and dad were such a support to us, not just during that first cold Christmas but also for the next eighteen years of our ownership. Over those years there was no stopping my dad. Every time he visited he attacked the garden as if there was no tomorrow. Out at first light, short meal breaks to refuel and then back out to work until last light. He had such an attention to detail. My mum used to help in the kitchen, on the entrance gate, around the house and, on nice days, out in the garden. Years later Maggie gave my dad a small photo album filled with photographs of his garden accomplishments from the stone wall surrounding the Solar Wing garden to the path across the walled gardens. The album included the pergolas, the garden gates and steps as well as the small pond and bog garden that he had made. He absolutely loved the gardens and enjoyed immersing himself in the task in hand. On days when we were closed to the public the only interruptions were the calls from Mum who came along with endless cups of tea. He was a child again and the garden was his playground. On the days when we were open he particularly liked the guests who suggested that they would not be able to manage what he was doing because of their advanced years. He would chuckle to himself as he knew that they were usually much younger than he was. I did try to draw the line when he was over eighty and was insistent on painting the windows of the Georgian house from a ladder. I was wasting my breath – my objections were ignored. The only thing that stopped him working was the failing light. He lived in London. I am sure he spent most of his time down there planning what to do next time he visited Crook Hall. He would often arrive with the car full of the tools and materials he would need for that next job. When his health started to fail he could not bring himself to visit. I think he would have found it too difficult to look out from the house thinking of all the jobs he still had to do. I can understand this because there is always another job to do or project to embark upon at the Hall.

  * * *

  We were all delighted to see the first spring arrive. The previous owner, Mrs Hawgood, sent a lovely card to Amanda describing all the spring flowers we could expect to see over the coming months. She proved to be right and we were quite excited by the appearance of thousands of snowdrops, which acted as an advance guard for the battalions of daffodils which followed. The great magnolia tree flowered in the March. We all felt like children at a party just waiting for the next present the garden was going to reveal to us. There were many unusual plants and if I did not recognise one I almost ran to the boo
ks to find out what it was called. They were like new friends and I needed to know their names.

  The previous owners had a passion for peacocks. The next door neighbours did not share this love and had been plagued by a noisy procession of these birds underneath their bedroom window at unearthly times each morning. The peacocks had gone but their huge cage and shed remained right in the middle of the garden, beneath the branches of the splendid beech tree. I saw it as an edifice which needed to be removed. It was one of the first tasks we completed in the garden. We left the shed in its position as a tool shed for a few years but it was eventually moved to make way for a fountain.

  * * *

  We bought Crook Hall as a place from which I could run my management consultancy. However, once in the property, the reality that the grounds and the house were far bigger than our personal needs would ever be hit home. We invited along a lecturer from the local horticultural college to give us advice on how to look after the gardens. I remember standing with him in the walled gardens, gardens which had existed for over 800 years and he suggested we should rip everything out and put down a lawn. He added that this was the only way we could stay on top of it all. It was at that point that I stopped listening to the ‘expert’ who was suggesting we tore up hundreds of years of history with a well-oiled rotavator. We had other plans.

  At this time I was putting a good twenty hours a week into the gardens, mostly in the capacity of an unpaid labourer. I recall one day looking at the small border that had taken me three hours to weed. I stood up and surveyed the rest of the walled garden and then thought of the other gardens beyond the black gate. The light bulb came on and I realised we needed professional help. Someone who could concentrate on the gardens. A person with focus was needed. For the first time we looked to recruit a gardener rather than just enrolling helping hands. We found David. He had an interesting background and we felt he would make a great contribution. He joined us from Elton John’s estate in Berkshire. He came along full of enthusiasm and was an enormous help from the very start. Having said that I never did become that man of leisure, I was still doing twenty hours, I was just avoiding those small demotivating borders. I soon realised we could put hundreds of hours into the gardens and there would always be more we could do.

  Some of the doorways in the house were low, even for someone of my modest height. After several painful bumps I learnt which ones to duck for. However, it did not prepare me for the accident in the garden. I was labouring away and banged my head hard on the guard robe doorway. I shrugged it off. I was getting used to the bumps. I continued work with what I thought was sweat trickling down my face. When I went back into the house for lunch Maggie was horrified.

  “What have you been doing?” she exclaimed. “Look at yourself in the mirror.”

  I wandered across to the mirror and almost scared myself. There was blood pouring all down the side of my head. The sweat was actually blood. I looked as if I had been in a battle. Maggie administered some first aid. I bravely told her it was only a scratch which indeed it was but I do hate the sight of blood, especially my own. Now I was aware of it, the scratch was hurting a lot. I gratefully took all the sympathy I was given and retired to bed with an aspirin and an ice pack.

  * * *

  The vegetable garden was totally overgrown, with autumn raspberry bushes bearing the most enormous fruit I have ever seen. The bushes were interspersed with nettles, also the biggest I had ever seen. Some work was required. We, or rather the gardener with some help from me, cleared the area. We planted some potatoes to clear the ground but more importantly acquired a huge greenhouse with a heating system. We now had somewhere to plant our vine. I was looking forward to gallons of wine. (I have never lost my ability to dream.)

  * * *

  We hoped our second Christmas would be less eventful than the first but it was not to be. While it was by no means as cold, we were hit by heavy winds which battered the front of the building. Crook Hall is quite high above the river and is vulnerable to the prevailing south west winds. Nature seemed set on disturbing our Christmases. The winds rattled the front of the building bringing one of the pear trees down, along with a large section of roof. While the children unwrapped their presents I was in the attic unwrapping polythene sheeting to keep the weather out of the roof space. A few days later it snowed heavily. We stood in the Medieval Hall watching the flakes coming through the holes in the roof and settling on the stone floor. Two years into our ownership we hankered after a well-insulated and warm home but now reckoned on it taking a few years to achieve such luxury.

  * * *

  That spring we had extensive roof repairs to the Georgian house, it was all we could afford; stopping the rain and snow coming into the Medieval Hall would just have to wait.

  As one of the builders who was converting the coach house remarked, “You will need deep pockets to live here.”

  We glumly agreed. The problem was that our pockets were nowhere near deep enough. We ignored our rapidly increasing debts and soldiered on.

  * * *

  That summer we had the privilege of seeing the garden coming to life around us. That’s not to say it was all Pimms, strawberries and balmy summer evenings. One night we were awoken by extremely strong winds. You could hear the noise of the trees being blown this way and that. There were also ominous clattering sounds. I was thinking slates. We had already lost a few slates the previous night. In the morning I went out to see the damage; a fifteen foot lilac down in the front garden along with a large bough of a pear tree. Behind the Hall more trees were down including a fifty foot silver birch tree completely uprooted but held up by its neighbour. With little idea of what to do I rang two friends who had experience of large gardens. They came around straightaway armed with chain saws. In no time Graham was standing on top of the newly built tree house. This was a test for Dad’s building work. Graham looked like a cross between Rambo and the Terminator as he tore into the branches. Dave was below logging everything that came his way. I took my usual default position of general labourer. We worked all day until the job was complete. What great friends. We were absolutely done for but, with grins of satisfaction, we viewed the logs which would keep us warm next Christmas if the boilers were to fail again.

  * * *

  The gardens provided a natural habitat for many different animals. An army of rabbits were occupying the site but they were not alone. One morning we saw three deer standing forlornly in front of the Hall. They looked as if they were missing the previous owners and wondering if they could see them through the windows. In the walled garden I saw a stoat sit up and point its white crest to the sky then run to ground close to a large rose bush. Underfoot I could see a large toad crawling from one sheltered stone to another. In a particularly damp place I spied a lizard wallowing in the mud.

  In addition to these animals a variety of birds had made our garden their home, including barn owls, woodpeckers, tree creepers, gold-crests and jays. One night I looked out of one of the windows onto the garden and saw a large fox searching around for a suitable source of food for the evening. It then took a massive leap up onto one of the walls and disappeared into the next garden. I closed the shutters and thought how amazing my new home was.

  3

  From Family Home

  To Open House

  Many people did not understand our decision to welcome strangers into our home. All kinds of disasters were predicted. They advised us not to do it and indeed some suggested that our senses had finally deserted us. Others were even less polite, but the common theme was our alleged mental instability. We thought we had little to lose. We had a huge garden to look after, not to mention a badly leaking Medieval Hall which we could not afford to repair. Had we not received a few phone calls from people who wanted to view the old Hall then perhaps we would never have thought of opening to the public. However, we felt an obligation to let these enthusiasts see the place a
nd any income would supplement our future running costs. We thought we would give it a whirl and see what happened.

  Maggie was the one who focused on the detail and always wanted every ‘t’ crossed and every ‘i’ dotted. I, on the other hand, tended to concentrate on generalities. She never felt things were good enough; I always felt they were fine, even when they weren’t. Maggie often said that if it had been left to her, Crook Hall would never have opened because it would never be perfect. Left to me we would have opened but then quickly closed because it would be so far from perfect. The synthesis of our personalities led to this adventure. We kept each other in check or rather Maggie kept me in check and I encouraged her to take calculated risks. It proved to be a good combination – even if it led to some heated discussions.

  There were plenty of things to do before we could open the doors to the paying public.

  First we had to establish a new entrance. Our private lane runs past two other houses. The Cassels, who had owned the Hall up to the 1970s, had sold off these buildings, along with the lane. They made arrangements so that the new owners of the lane would maintain it whilst the Cassels would have a right of way and could use the lane for any access they required. This had been confirmed by the local planners when we had gained permission to run my consultancy business from the coach house. However, I wanted to be considerate. We did not want to bring all our visitors up the lane past our neighbours’ houses. We explored alternatives, some creative thinking was required.

  I had a brainwave. I discovered that the meadow which joined our gardens to the main road was up for sale. Maggie’s fortieth birthday was coming up so I decided to buy it. I was very pleased with myself. I reckoned I was killing two birds with one stone – we could make a private entrance into the gardens at the bottom of the meadow and the newly acquired land would make an unusual birthday present for my wife. Unfortunately Maggie did not share my enthusiasm for the gift.