I remember his help one day when my consultancy were staging a team build event at the Hall. We had set them a gardening quiz which included identifying the eucalyptus tree and stating where it came from. One of the teams decided to cheat by asking the gardener. They chose our labourer instead of Ian. Big mistake.
His response was, “That tree? Oh, it came from out of the back of Keith’s father’s car.” They did not ask him any more questions believing that he had been well briefed. Alan. What a star he was.
Both these individuals made a great contribution to the gardens during their stay with us. Recruiting good gardeners is always difficult, although I operated on the basis that I needed someone who knew more than me which more often than not left the field wide open.
In the walled gardens we worked hard to reshape borders and cut back what seemed to be a forest of forsythia. Under one of the bushes I discovered a water feature, or rather a pond, filled with decomposing dead rabbits. I peered at it in disgust and wondered why the poor animals had followed each other into the water. How many dead rabbits does it take for them to discover that rabbits can rarely swim? My mind then returned to the immediate task of emptying this pond of its contents. It looked and smelt horrible. I looked desperately around to find someone to delegate the job to. There was no one. As I emptied the pond I kept wondering if I would ever be able to forget such an awful job. The answer is quite obviously not, as I am relating it to you almost twenty years later. I think I was slightly traumatised.
One of the more enjoyable tasks in the walled garden was reinstating a long forgotten path which skirted the rose garden. We wondered when it was last walked upon and who by. Perhaps the Fowlers, who had the house in the early 1900s, were the last people who wandered along it or maybe people from an even earlier age.
We found so many interesting items in our random digging including a wonderful array of clay pipes, bottles and coins. One day we found a primitive looking clay tube. We asked the local council archaeologist what it was. He was very excited and pronounced that you could tell by the scouring on one side that it was a medieval drainpipe. I was fascinated. The following day we found a large ancient storage jar in the shape of a bear. The medieval drainpipe was in fact the left leg of the bear. I joked that he must be wearing drainpipe trousers. I did not dare mention it to the local council officer and I am sure he would not have appreciated the comment about drainpipe trousers.
Another item I dug up was an old inkwell. I wondered who had left it in the garden and who had been the last one to use it. Perhaps it had belonged to Violet Hunt who knew all the Pre-Raphaelites and was engaged to Oscar Wilde. A strong possibility as she was often here with her grandparents who rented the house. Her grandfather was James Raine, a well-known local antiquarian. The house and gardens were such a trigger for my imagination. Truly inspiring places.
Behind the Leylandii and privet hedges, and just next to the Shakespeare Garden, was a huge compost heap which had been commandeered by the rabbits. I think it was their HQ. We knew we had to take it back. We brought in our ground forces; a friend called Jo, her boyfriend and a number of family members. We dug and dug and dug until our hands were covered with blisters, levelling the area and making it more like it is today. Our gardener Ian then created what we now know as the Cathedral Garden, our newest garden at the time, and one we were all proud of. We had all sweated and toiled and we were very pleased with the results.
I bought some Victorian edging stones from a local auction to border the lawn. Bricks were collected from around the garden and these were laid out to create arched beds to reflect the shape of the Cathedral windows. Ian had managed the planting, choosing dianthus to provide a stained glass colour for the ‘windows’. He also came up with a great idea to cut arches into the Leylandii hedging. The views of the Cathedral from this direction were awe inspiring. This was of course before the sycamores grew to the height they are now and the Gala Theatre, which stands on the other side of the river to us, was just a twinkle in a deranged architect’s eye.
As the plants matured the garden evolved and changed. The Cathedral Garden is a good example. The privet hedge had had its day and is now replaced with yew and we have added an arch with a black door and sanctuary knocker. Malcolm, our gardener after Ian left, built the stone wall on two sides and planted the beautiful roses. The rose bush in the centre was removed as was the small hawthorn tree. The old apple tree fell over and could not be saved. The Leylandii hedging became diseased and one of our volunteers, Rio, removed it. Unfortunately, Rio had also sliced off the top of our pretty little cedar sapling whilst mowing but having seen him remove those Leylandii I could forgive him a lot. What a hard job. How he worked.
Thus the Cathedral Garden has had a complete facelift since its creation. It does illustrate the work which is carried out continuously to keep the gardens in the shape required for the visiting public. We used to do all this work in those quiet months when we closed in the winter. Now we are open all year round we have no quiet times. There is always a project on the go. It is always busy.
* * *
Although until the age of eleven I had lived in the country, most of my adult life had been spent in a city. Crook Hall is located on the edge of a city, but surrounding the property are fields and woodland teeming with wildlife. My first reaction to these small creatures was to get rid of any animal or insect which I deemed to be a pest. In the gardens, squirrels, moles, rabbits and magpies all had to go. In the house there were mice that had to be eradicated. It was war and I needed the weapons; traps, air rifle, poison, nets and fencing. In fact anything that was legal had to be brought to bear on the enemy. I had to get rid of these unwelcome and unacceptable guests.
This mindset changed after a few thought provoking events. The first one occurred the day after I had shot a magpie. In the fields I noticed a group of magpies visiting the very place where one of their flock had met their end. I can only describe it as a wake; they were coming to show their respect to the deceased. I felt very guilty.
Another incident was seeing the little baby rabbits which one of the gardeners had caught in the Cathedral Garden and had collected in a watering can. They were peeping out of the top like a Beatrix Potter illustration. So sweet.
Early another morning I saw a hedgehog hustling its babies along over the grass to a log pile. It could have been a scene from a Disney movie.
These incidents occurred over a period of a few weeks and I started to understand that we are only sharing this wonderful environment with them all. They have lives to live which are just as important as ours. They are here because the habitat suits them, just as it suits us. The barn owl needs the wide open fields, the moles need the grubs under the grass and the magpies need the smaller birds, just as the other birds need the insects. It took me a few years to work through my naked aggression and become a true country dweller. Although I still cannot give them complete right to roam.
One day we saw a swarm of bees flying into the property and setting up home in a hole just inside the main door. The bees send out scouts who seek out their new home and these scouts made the mistake of picking a poor location – our main entrance. We had to get a beekeeper to move the colony.
Our rabbit fencing keeps the deer and rabbits out of the gardens. The moles tend to stay off the main lawns, I am not sure why; perhaps it is easier to tunnel elsewhere.
There are limits to my acceptance though. I can still be seen chasing rabbits out of the courtyard and removing frogs from the kitchen floor. I have even rescued a mole who was struggling to burrow through dolomite. He was getting weary so I put him back on the grass.
I am perfectly happy seeing large spiders scuttling across floorboards and carpets. I don’t object to seeing mice and squirrels as long as they are outside the house and well away from our outside eating areas.
Birds often get into the Hall. The ones that cause the
biggest disruption are the larger ones. The first one was a beautiful sparrow hawk. I made the mistake of calling in the experts. A man from the RSPCA arrived. Well the phrase, ‘chocolate fireguard’ comes to mind. He was scared of heights and was not so keen on birds. Not surprisingly he failed in his mission to rescue the sparrow hawk. Eventually we enlisted the help of our neighbour’s gardener. He arrived armed with a large net and succeeded in catching the bird and letting it fly free across the gardens.
On another occasion our Australian gardener helped me to rid the Hall of a large crow. The Australian method was different. Roger, with a child’s fishing net, stood on a table as I encouraged the bird towards him. He then lunged towards the bird with his net. He had a look of a deranged butterfly catcher from a bygone age. This was repeated sixteen times, I was counting. It then dawned on me that this was a battle of stamina. Roger’s method was to tire the bird out before he tired himself out and fell off the table exhausted. He just about won. The bird came to rest and was resigned to being picked up and escorted off the premises. Roger looked worn out but had a victorious glint in his eye. I came to the conclusion that Australians are in for the long game.
I must admit I am not over keen on birds when they are in enclosed spaces. Whenever we have birds trapped in the house help from any quarter is welcome even if they happen to be celebrities. Martin Shaw, star of the television series George Gently, happened to be visiting one day when he and his wife happily joined in our local practice of the ‘get the bird out of the house’. He thoroughly enjoyed the activity and beat the time set by our Australian. Another well-deserved English victory.
Even the children got involved in this game. When they were teenagers we were away visiting friends for the day when we received a call from our son advising us that there was a large pigeon flying around the house. He remained on the phone for at least twenty minutes, providing us with a running commentary of his direction of his little sister’s efforts.
He shouted updates down the phone such as,
“She’s going in,”
“It’s looking good,”
“She has it cornered,” and finally
“Success. Mission accomplished.”
We pointed out to Ian that he had done nothing other than be on the phone to us. Amanda had done all the work. He begged to differ and responded by saying that he liked this management role and felt he was a natural.
* * *
Since moving to Crook Hall, water in the wrong place has been a recurring theme. Whether it has been percolating through the walls in damp corners or dripping through the holes in the roof it’s been the bane of my life and a constant battle.
One of the first functions we hosted was held on a summer evening in July, a charity event for one of the local schools. The evening was hit by a deluge accompanied by thunder and lightning. We were all dressed for a warm, dry evening and were unprepared for the torrents of water which raced through the large wooden doors into the screens passage. The lady serving drinks was paddling around in two inches of water. Maggie had to lend her some wellies.
I found myself crouched over a drain with my hand down it trying to dig out years of debris in order to provide a workable soak away. I was drenched. Someone suggested I looked like Bruce Willis in the action movie Die Hard. I pointed out that the only similarities were a balding head, a white t-shirt and a good deal of stress, which was not an act on my part.
One of the outcomes of this downpour was that the gutters and drains were tested to the full and any repair issues were identified. More expense.
The next water crisis occurred on our son’s wedding day, when the River Wear flooded the road at the bottom of our lane. The wedding was to be held at Crook Hall and we were all looking forward to it.
When the river burst its banks Maggie began to go into stress mode but I optimistically (or naively?) asserted that it would be fine. I felt I needed to investigate the depth of the water so I went to get my wellington boots from the cellar. As I opened the cellar door I saw my wellingtons floating in two feet of crystal clear water. Now I really understand the term ‘well up’. It certainly had. I was astounded. There are not many people who have a house sitting on a well but when you really think about it that is why the house is located here. The well is situated at the bottom of the cellar steps and is completely filled with rubble, so we are only ever aware of it on the very rare occasions when it wells up.
In the end we had a wonderful day, the wedding went without a hitch. Well there was one hitch. I saw my sister in law, Jean, our first guest, hitching her lovely dress up above her knees as she paddled towards the bottom of the lane. Fortunately for our other guests who came later, access down the cobbled street of Sidegate meant that no one else was really affected by the swollen river. There are clear advantages to being sited on a hill. I think if we were ever truly affected by a flooding River Wear the market place would have to be underwater along with most of the city between these two points.
* * *
The well water is always crystal clear. I can handle that. What I find difficult to deal with is dirty water from drains and sewers, but then someone has to. The first time we had a blocked drain I was alarmed to see a manhole cover apparently being pushed up by some unseen force. At first I wondered if it was by Ninja Turtles. I would have been happier to see them than what I did see (and smell) when I raised the cover. There below me lay the bowel contents of either an elephant or a great many people and I began to retch. I could not even look around for help. I was on my own. The Hall and Gardens were closed after a few busy days, the two coach trips and other guests having left me with a deposit I was not expecting. The show had to go on. There were more visitors coming tomorrow who, no doubt, would need to use our toilets. I knew what I had to do. Our neighbour lent me some drain rods but no helping hand. I then discovered the drain was too long. It ran under the building, down the garden, and into the lane. These rods would hardly reach halfway. I made a frantic trip to one of the big DIY stores and came back with another set of rods. Still too short. Now the shops were closed. No more neighbours to call upon. The coach trip the next day was an early one and I set my alarm to get to the shops when they opened at 7am.
That night I barely slept. One dream of blocked drains was followed by another of being chased down drains by rats and yet another of wading through excrement. Real nightmares. I woke up the following morning and it’s one of the few mornings I did not bounce out of bed. The prospect of my first task was certainly not motivating. Armed with a third set of rods I managed to clear the drains so that they were free flowing. I cleaned all the rods and the area around the manhole just as Maggie was delivering her welcome talk to the visitors. All was well. In an old house this kind of thing happens occasionally but the first time is a bit traumatic.
Apart from the odd incident such as the drains debacle we rather enjoyed those early days. We had great feedback from our increasing number of visitors. Our scones received wonderful accolades. People wanted to know how we could possibly make them so different to the others they had tasted. They believed ours were perfect. We were asked so many times that we started selling our secret scone recipe.
* * *
The support we received, particularly from the local press, was very welcome and extremely valuable. We liked opening our home to the public. Maggie said that it was the only way she could feel comfortable living in such a big house. We wanted to generate some cash to help maintain the gardens but we also wanted to share this extraordinary listed building with the wider community. We quickly realised that our visitors were experiencing the place in the same way as we had on our first visit.
We wanted it to be an adventure for the adults as well as the children. An experience rather than just a place to look at. A sanctuary from a busy life, a destination for peace and tranquillity. Whenever we proposed any change to the business, however big or
small, we always asked ourselves if the atmosphere would be enhanced by the change. If not we would leave well alone.
We wanted to provide a five-star service by employing five-star people. I know that if we receive poor feedback, as we very occasionally do, our employees are as upset as we are and are desperate to put things right.
When people have favourably compared our gardens with Chatsworth, Great Dixter or Sissinghurst and or our afternoon teas with Claridges or the Ritz we have been delighted. Such feedback gives us all a warm glow.
I remember our son, who works in London, ringing me one morning. He was on the tube going to work. He had opened the Independent to see a photo of our house. It was an article describing the top ten places to visit just out of a town, and there we were in a list with Hampton Court. Ridiculous but fantastic.
A friend contacted us; he had been in Los Angeles Airport. He had picked up a magazine and had been amazed to see an article recommending travellers to visit Crook Hall in Durham, England. Unbelievable. We were finally on the map.
Our visitor reviews were terrific. So too was TripAdvisor – it now listed us on par with Alnwick Garden as the best park and garden in North East England.
I realised we were no longer just opening the doors to our home but had created a destination which people were willing to travel thousands of miles to visit. We both loved the idea. All the blood, sweat and scone making had paid off.
Blood, Sweat and Scones Page 6