Stately Moans

Under New Management

2010-06-07T23:18:00.004+01:00

That is the current situation.

We no longer have a Property Manager - the Boss I referred to in posts past left in April 2009 and was never replaced. We now have a General Manager who was appointed in March 2010 and whose brief is to manage not just us but all the other properties in this region. He will be Re-Structuring the Portfolios. He will be unveiling his masterplan in July. Until then I, McColleague and indeed all my colleagues are in limbo. I may not have a house to live in, love and blog about in a month's time. Or I may be Queen High Poobah of the Western Territories. I just don't know.

Bear with me and I'll keep you updated. I mean it this time. Really.

It's Cold Inside

2010-02-24T16:43:00.005Z

"It's so cold my face hurts," moaned McColleague as she returned from the freezing conditions in the Great Hall to the relative warmth of my office.

It is very cold in there. The old circa 1970s storage heaters stopped working a couple of years ago and curatorial debate over replacement heating is still in progress. (For those of you familiar with the Lord of the Rings, Ents make speedy decisions in comparison with those responsible for deciding what light fitting or heating system should be put in place in our historic buildings.) In the meantime McColleague and I plug in electric heaters (and lamps) where we can and put on several layers of clothing before venturing into the showrooms.

"I don't know how our volunteers are going to manage when we open in a couple of weeks time. This cold snap isn't forecast to end anytime soon. They're likely to freeze to the flagstones."

We ponder for a while.

"I'm not lifting the ban on hot drinks in the house," I assert. "Not after the coffee ring on the chest incident."

In the end we decide to let the volunteers keep the front door closed and stay in the Parlour, the warmest room in the house, emerging only to meet and greet visitors as they spot them coming up the path. That and as many trips to warm up in the staff room with a cup of tea as they like should help keep hypothermia at bay. And possibly taking it in turns to wear the Stately Moans fleece (budget restraints mean I can't buy one for each individual, sadly. I'm happy to share mine though, if people don't mind the fact it has paint on it and biscuit crumbs.)

"It's all moot though if the cold snap continues and the drive stays icy."

This is true. The drive down to the house is two miles of twisty-turny, slippy-slidey ungritted ice when the temperatures drop to below freezing. Getting down is a scary yielding to gravity and the patron saints of bobsleigh teams. Getting up is impossible. I spent two weeks back in the January snows dependant on Lovely Warden bringing in supplies over the fields on the Gator and what I could wrestle off the cows in the barn.

"Ah well, it's all beyond our control. Now give us that fleece and I'll go back and finish the bat covers."

About a Metre

2009-12-03T22:01:00.003Z

Regular readers of Stately Moans will be aware that Lovely Warden is very good at making things, just as long as they happen to be things that are very big and made of wood.

I have written of the enormous table, the giant bird hide, the mighty mallet and more.

Talking to Lovely Warden in my office one day I happened to ask him how big his current woodworking project would be when completed.

"About a metre," he replied, stretching his arms wide, like Jesus on the cross, to demonstrate.

"That's not a metre," said McColleague, shrewdly assessing the extensive span of his outstretched arms.

"Yeah, it is," he affirmed. "This is the way I was taught to measure a metre."

"When?"

"When I was a boy. I was taught that the width of your arms - like this - is a metre."

"When you were a boy."

"Yes."

There was a pause while we all digested the significance of this and understanding dawned as to why Lovely Warden's creations are all so massive.

Doris's Question Time

2009-11-25T19:49:00.003Z

"How did it go?"

"It was all right."

I had been to a Very Important Dinner. The idea was that myself and other heads of department, from this property and others, would dine with the candidates who had applied for the new and prestigious Very Important New Role in the organisation. We would mix and mingle with the potential new bosses and ask thoughtful and incisive questions.

I had given long and careful consideration to the questions I would ask. I had devoted almost as much time to them as I had as to what to wear.

"So, did you ask your questions?"

"I asked some questions, yes."

It was not my fault. The candidates weren't allowed to remain seated next to the same person for too long, they kept getting moved along, almost like we were speed dating. You'd just get the small talk out of the way and be about to launch your killer question when the organiser would tap his knife on his wine glass and call a halt to proceedings.

"What did you ask?"

It really was not my fault. I've been the only one on duty since my old Boss left at the end of March. I don't get to go out in the evenings as a rule. I was over-excited by the people, the food and drink.

"Come on, you must have got at least one of your questions in. The one about reward and recognition? Security cover? Lone working? Long term visions?"

"Not really, no. I mostly asked about wine."

"Wine."

"Yes. I asked if they could pass the wine, if there was any more wine, if anyone was drinking the wine on their table and if not whether I could have it, you know, the usual wine related queries that come up at dinner.

I think I made an impression."

Fair Comment

2009-05-11T21:00:00.004+01:00

We have a new design for our comments cards.

One side is aimed at adults, the other for children. The children's side is colourful and asks questions such as "what did you enjoy the most today?" ("the baby lambs!"), "what did you enjoy the least?" ("sheep poo") and "what did you discover?" ("nofing").

Reading the children's cards is always entertaining. My all time favourite has to be the one I retrived from the box after our wildlife day. Lovely Warden runs this event and takes the children on a nature walk as well as making bird boxes and bird feeders with them. It is a fun afternoon of romping through the woods, getting to play with a hammer and drill and, as if all that wasn't enough excitement, then rolling a pine cone in lardy dough and birdseed.

You can only imagine my delight at discovering the following gem under the "what did you enjoy the most today?" heading:

"I liked going round the house, making a bird box and Lovely Warden's fat balls."

Just Ask

2009-03-24T20:18:00.001Z

“When will you ask about the staff car?” whispered McColleague.

“When the moment is right,” I answered. With our Boss leaving we had been given the opportunity to ask questions and put forward suggestions for how things should progress. I had plenty of both along with a keen interest in the future of the company vehicle. I did not want to sound crass though, given the situation.

The Area Manager spoke at length of the thirty amazing years our Boss had given to the property. He mentioned all the achievements our Boss had accomplished during his time here and how sorry everyone was to see him go. It was all quite emotional. I decided this was not the time to ask about the car.

He then moved on to plans for the future. This boiled down to the not unusual tactic of holding fire on recruiting a replacement for indefinite months while discussions on the staffing structure take place at a higher level. In the interim we will be managed by an existing Property Manager from a neighbouring property. This was all very interesting, if not entirely unexpected, yet still not the moment to ask if I could have the staff car.

Then came the question and answer session. You would think that this would have been the ideal time to ask about the staff car and yet somehow the subject never arose. There were so many other issues to cover, so many staff with their own concerns to address, and overriding all there was still this feeling of “it’s so sad you’re going”. It just didn’t seem appropriate to chime in with “but can I have your car?”

So I left it and then asked in an email, later.

I’m not getting the car.

Pre Season Pressure (Washing)

2009-02-28T14:29:00.007Z

We open the doors to the public very soon. The weeks before re-opening are always a manic time of trying to get all your essential repairs and building works completed with no staff and no budget but this year has been even more frantic than usual.

To condense many months of ongoing drama and angst in certain quarters the end result was my Boss and our volunteer shop manager resigning simultaneously and not entirely unexpectedly at the end of the pre season volunteer meeting just a couple of weeks ago.

To compound matters the volunteer shop manager also provides most of the stock. Since she was leaving she decided to take all her wares with her, leaving me with some dusty bare shelves and the pricing gun.

So, in addition to the usual long list of requirements before opening (re-lettering and replacing the signs, interviewing and hiring seasonal staff, unpacking the many boxes of 2009 literature and recruiting materials in the ticket office, updating the handbook, proofing a myriad of advertising, agreeing budgets, and so on) McColleague and I have also had to become impromptu shop managers. We have been scavenging every stock and store room in our quest for merchandise. There was great excitement when we unearthed an entire box of out of date crisps - that's lunch sorted for the next month!

Normally we make great use of the wardens in our pre season preparations, as they are so helpful when you need to move heavy oak furniture or shift an ice cream freezer. This year, however, we are effectively down to just one. Luckily that one is Lovely Warden but he is over-burdened and we try not to add to his workload if we can avoid it. Hence my decision to pressure wash the courtyard myself.

In the shady areas a treacherous green algae proliferates, making the surface incredibly slippery when wet. I donned protective clothing - wellies, cropped trousers and a mac - plugged in the pressure washer and did my bit for health and safety. It's a fearsome beast the pressure washer. It removes algae and dirt effortlessly and blasts them safely onto my face and body in a thick coating of filth. Effective at removing years of mud, it is equally good at removing huge chunks of cement and gravel from the courtyard surface itself, and you can't get cleaner than that.

After many, many hours I had completed cleaning maybe a third of the courtyard. I was caked in goo and my trigger hand was still vibrating for hours after I finished. The rubble and silt I had created had blocked the drains and the muddy water refused to drain away.
"I tried to save you a job," I explained, as Lovely Warden unblocked the drains and shovelled the mud and rubble into a wheelbarrow. "Would you like some out of date crisps?"

It's Not Like It Used To Be

2009-02-11T18:17:00.012Z

"Sodding hell, I've got another one!"

"Another complaint letter?"

"Yes."

"Is it because there weren't any craft stalls?"

"Yes."

[Sound of head hitting desk]

It's been hard work changing a long standing event. For many years now we have held an annual Christmas Fayre, with numerous stalls situated in and around the house. Each year, however, visitor numbers grow smaller as competition grows greater. The problem is we are a small property with a smaller budget. We simply cannot compete with the garden centre up the road or the big shopping centre in town when they advertise that Father Christmas will be arriving by reindeer-drawn sleigh, as opposed to Mini Metro, and will then be available in a proper grotto that isn't just a hastily erected shed. To make matters worse, neighbouring properties have also jumped on the Christmas Craft Fair bandwagon, often holding the same event as we are, on the same day, thereby effectively, and pointlessly, thinning out the audience.

In previous years we have had all the fun of moving the heavy oak furniture upstairs in the house to accommodate the craft stalls, helping the traders unload their cars and set up their stands, and then listening to them complain bitterly all day that there aren't enough power points, that the lighting is insufficient and that there aren't enough customers and we should have advertised it better.

So, for 2008 we decided to change our Christmas event. Let's play to our strengths, I said. Let's feature what we do have and stop trying to compete with properties with more money or big commercial operations. What we have is a unique, moated medieval manor house. We shall hold an authentic medieval Yuletide event!

The re-enactment group were most enthusiastic when I explained the concept to them. I wanted the public to feel like they'd stepped back in time by 500 years. Characters in costume would be making medieval Christmas food, staging mumming plays, bringing to life and illustrating the origins of many of our modern traditions, everything from original meat-filled mince pies, to Yule logs and Saint Nicholas.

I tried to sum up the essence of the event in our promotional material. The press releases, the adverts in the local papers, the posters, even the banners on the road all emphasised the living history aspect of it all. "Enjoy a Merrie Medieval Christmas" went the blurb. "Experience the music, food and customs of Yuletide as it would have been 500 years ago. See the Great Hall decorated with foliage from the estate and join the household as it prepares for the Christmas festivities." I stressed to anyone that would listen that this was a turkey and tinsel free zone. One thing I was very clear about, one thing it did not say in any promotional material at any point was that this was a craft fair.

The event itself went very well. Visitor numbers were high and our re-enactors were fantastic. The public seemed particularly fascinated by the food piled high on the tables and kept our household ladies very busy with questions about it all. One unexpected point of interest was the skinning of a hare! The group had brought some game with them - a hare, some pheasants, a mallard - so that the men would be able to return successfully from their staged hunt. On the second day of the event one of the medieval ladies asked me if there was anywhere secluded in the courtyard she could go to skin (or pluck, in the case of the birds) and gut the game before it spoiled. I set her up in a discreet corner, where no one had to be privy to the blood and guts of real meat if they didn't want to, but still on show if anyone took an interest. She ended up with a huge crowd around her! Children in particular were quick to express an "Ewwww" and immediately draw closer with a volley of follow up questions.

At the close of the weekend I felt confident that we had provided a top quality educational and entertaining event, with far more people in attendance than at the Christmas Fayre the previous year.

Then I received a letter. It stated how disappointed the author was with our Craft Fair this year. There weren't any stalls at all. I replied to say how sorry I was that he was disappointed with our Merrie Medieval Christmas event but that this was not a craft fair and had never been advertised as such.

Then I received a couple of emails which said pretty much the same thing. The complainants came to our Craft Fair every year but this year it was rubbish! The re-enactors themselves were good, they said, but the courtyard had no trade stands whatsoever. What kind of Craft Fair was this?

Almost every week since Christmas I have received another letter complaining about the paucity of stalls at my Craft Fair. I really don't know what more I could have done to raise awareness of the fact that this event was not a Craft Fair other than emblazoning "NOT a Craft Fair" over all my publicity material. There is annoyance that the event has changed, even though the new event is much better than the old one. There is annoyance that they were unable to not buy anything from a selection of tat-laden trestle tables despite the fact that we were surrounded by venues offering exactly that on the very day they attended.

I truly believe that if I invented a time machine and actually transported people back in time to experience the house in its medieval prime, some people would still be disappointed that the paths were muddy and that there was no opportunity to buy a hand-painted tea tray. It confounds me. Why come for a day out at a medieval house, for a medieval event, if all you really want or enjoy is shopping?

Heaven help me if I ever decide to change the format of our Easter Egg Hunt!

The Return of the Doris (Again)

2009-02-05T10:42:00.007Z

I am returned, with so much to update upon it is a little overwhelming. In the meantime, while I get my hilarious stories in order, I shall give you a brief, visual summary of the intervening months.

November
It is a sad day for me, after Halloween, when our amazing creature creations have to be taken down and put back into storage. I was immensely proud that several visiting families told us that ours was the best Halloween trail in the region. I can believe it. No crappy paper ghost flapping forlornly in the corner for us! We do Halloween properly. Full-sized monsters and spooky sound effects abound. Still, all good things must come to an end and, reluctantly, I put away the rubber spiders and turned my mind to other issues, such as the water leaking into the house every time it rains.

It isn't a new problem. I have been flagging it up for quite a while now. Still, at long last, shortly before Christmas, some buildings department people and an architect came to see the problem for themselves. Of course, as is the nature of such things, it wasn't raining. It was a glorious winter day with not a cloud in the sky. We would have to recreate rainy day conditions if they were to try to pinpoint where the problem lay. No problem.

"Up you go," we said to Lovely Warden, issuing him with a ladder and a hosepipe. "Try not to fall off, but if you do, try to roll with it."Afterwards, while I was mopping up the subsequent indoor water features that resulted from this experiment, the architect came to show me the water ingress points he had marked on his drawing.

"So, that's pretty much all of it."

"Yes."

"The entire front of the house."

"Yes."

"Almost every timber and every panel needs attention."

"Yes."

"And when can we start work on this?"

"March."

"When we re-open?"

"Yes."

I have been on a course. I know that this is not a disaster. It is a challenge to be met.

December

Time to prepare for the annual Christmas event, which entails much joyous gathering of foliage.

Lovely Warden McColleague and I duly donned our foliage gathering hats and wellies, climbed into the Gator and set off up the road, singing festively.

"Why's it making that noise?" asked McColleague as the Gator thwup-thwup-thwupped its way along.

It turned out that a knackered tyre was making that noise and Lovely Warden had to remove the entire wheel and take it into town to be repaired.

Undaunted we set off on foot to gather whatever we could carry back to the house. We wanted an enormous ball of mistletoe to hang as our centrepiece in the Great Hall. In one of the many old orchards on the estate we found just the specimen.

"Up you go," we said to Lovely Warden, issuing him with a saw and a pair of loppers. "Try not to fall off, but if you do, try to roll with it."

It was an impressive size once Lovely Warden cut it free. Almost as big as McColleague. We used double the rope we would normally to hoist it aloft in the Hall and even then I had a nagging concern it might plummet onto an unsuspecting visitor and flatten them, festively.

It was an exciting walk back across country with the fruits of our labours. Lovely Warden has a habit of taking shortcurts which involve fording streams and scrambling up near vertical slopes of mud. It all got a bit Blair Witch Project for a while. Which I liked, being a Halloween queen.

The Hall was duly decorated and set for a medieval feast. Sadly the public can't sample the food, but the re-enactors are happy to feed it to me. They have lots of interesting spiced alcoholic beverages to pass around in wassail bowls too, which makes for an entertaining evening.

January

Ah, back to work after the Christmas break. The moat froze solid and the flagstones in the Hall developed an alarming mould. I phoned the curatorial department for advice on the best way to tackle it and was informed to brush the mould carefully before vacuuming it up via a special filter and to wear face masks of the correct specification, to avoid breathing in spores.

Ten minutes later Lovely Warden appeared with a broom, McColleague fetched the Dyson and we all pulled our jumpers up over our noses for safety. It was fine.

February

So far this week I have missed the Spring Conference, a training day and a staff meeting due to the heavy snow. While I am obviously deeply disappointed I am making the best of it. Luckily McColleague and I only just re-ordered toilet rolls and biscuits last week so I think I may survive until the thaw.

Fright Night Delight

2008-10-28T21:20:00.005Z

Those of you have been with me a while know of my love of Halloween and the amazing skill that goes into taking our event budget of £0.00 and turning it into a fabulously scary production.

We still have last year's monsters ready to go back into position, but we have some new props too. I have been busy making a jolly clown for the children. Everybody loves clowns, right?

Doris Ponders Going Legit

2008-10-22T12:13:00.003+01:00

Hello!

I can only apologise for my shameful neglect of this lovely little blog recently. Things have been happening. Work things, family things.

As some of you will recall, I got into a spot of bother earlier this year when an article I wrote about a forgetful coach party generated a complaint letter to Regional Office. Not wanting to give anyone any more sticks to hit me with I laid low for a while. Now I am pondering where to go from here.

My anonymity has always been as effective a disguise as Clark Kent's glasses or Undercover Elephant's eye mask. Those of you who wanted to know badly enough where I am based were able to trace me with a minimal amount of googling.

What I'd really like is to go legit. To post openly about where I am, what we are doing, the challenges we face and - ideally - get input and feedback from everyone as to what you think we ought to be doing, what you would like to see. It would take away the fear of discovery and - who knows? - maybe even become an effective marketing tool.

So, I am thinking of asking the Powers That Be whether they will bestow their blessings upon a blog I just happen to be thinking of writing.

E-engagement. That's the buzzword I shall be hanging it on.

What do you think?

Animal Corner

2008-09-02T16:18:00.005+01:00

The Boss wanted to put on an Animal Corner as part of our Country Fair.

"I've got this cockerel," said McColleague.

"Great, bring it!"

"It's not very big," she confided as the date grew nearer. "It's only a bantam. I'm worried that if Animal Corner is relying on it as the main attraction it could be disappointing."

"Trust me, any disappointment in this event won't be solely down to your cockerel."

Things weren't looking promising at this stage. Animal Corner currently consisted of McColleague's cockerel, some ducks, a few rabbits and a couple of sheep. The rest of the Fair was also remaining at the distinctly low key stage, with most of the exhibitors we wanted dropping out and leaving us with a couple of vintage tractors to display, a gazebo from the Local History Society and a trestle table with some pots of jam on it.

McColleague and I marked out the exhibition area with our finest quality orange baling twine and some pointy sticks. "It's not exactly the Three Counties Show, is it?"

"It'll be fine."

And, against all expectations, it was fine.

The day of the event dawned sunny and dry and the public turned up in their droves to experience the free and simple rustic charms of the Country Fair we had so kindly laid on for them.

Who could resist the lure of the balloons on sticks, an irresistible gateway to Countryside pleasures?

As for McColleague's cockerel, it never did make an appearance in Animal Corner.

"I couldn't catch the cockerel this morning," she confessed.

I was unable to mask my disappointment. "You've let the team down, you've let the event down, and - most importantly of all -"

" - I've let myself down. I know. I brought three chickens and some ducks instead."

"Well, that's all right then."

"That's quite a display," I nodded approvingly at the chicken wire and timber construction, resplendent with Union Jacks. "The flags just set it off nicely. And the child's paddling pool is a nice touch."

From Animal Corner we could see all the rest of the Fair. The wardens had an enclosure of their own, in which they showcased their talents. I must say that I have often wanted to know more and it is good to know that the wardens are open to questions and won't savage my ankles.

A Nice Little Retirement Job

2008-08-19T18:32:00.003+01:00

It had been a long day.

The school holidays mean that a sunny day is often a long day. It is wonderful having so many visitors and it is lovely to see happy families picnicking by the moat and enjoying the walks. It really is. No, it is. Really.

It's just that lots of children in the house means lots of extra care has to be taken to ensure that they are entertained and that the precious things are unmolested. The two states do not naturally exist together. On the typical family intensive day I will find the pot pourri liberally sprinkled around the place, rubbish in the leather fire buckets, stickers on the furniture, devastation in the Family Room, and situations you really don't want to know about in the lavatories.

It was at the end of just such a demanding day that a final family came through the doors a couple of minutes past closing time. They knew they were a little late, but could they have a look round? "Of course," I replied. "Do come in".

I could hear the sound of the early 20th century typewriter in the study having its keys thumped enthusiastically from downstairs. I climbed the stairs and found three children clustered around the - admittedly tempting - typewriter and explained that it was very old and by bashing all the keys at once it would simply jam and break. At this point their parents, who had been in the adjacent room, came through and I engaged them in conversation too.

At one point the fact emerged that the part of the house not open to the public was still lived in, and from there it was a short step to being identified as the fortune favoured person in residence.

The usual "Oh, you're so lucky," conversation ensued, but then the woman asked me "how do you get a job like that?"

I sketched in the sort of background needed.

"The thing is," she said, "my husband will be retiring in a few years and I can just see us in a place like this, pottering about."

Pottering about? Pottering? It's not their fault, I know. They obviously think that standing in the house, talking, is the job in its entirety. I debated telling them about the fact you can't leave the house without arranging cover, the three nights in a row I'd been awoken by the alarms sounding at 4am due to an errant bat, the working every weekend and Bank Holiday, the lack of privacy, the fact that if someone does crap all over the toilet seat then it's down to you to clean it up, and so on, but then thought better of it and simply explained how these jobs are advertised in the local press and can be searched for online, on our website.

They'll find out.

Successful Event Planning, the Stately Moans Way

2008-08-07T17:35:00.010+01:00

When we first had the idea to hold a Fairy Tale Trail it seemed relatively simple. We'd held one before, after all. Apart from the trail itself, and our cunningly concealed creations, we only had to prepare an area for the activities we had promised - wand making, mask making, that sort of thing. A couple of tables in a marquee should do the trick.

Lovely Warden and my Boss duly arrived a couple of days before the event and put up the marquee. They hammered in the tent pegs and tethered it well. "Safe as houses," they declared.

"It looks a bit bare inside," McColleague mused, once it was up .

"We could get some material to create swags," I said, over-confidently, as if I knew about this sort of thing. "And hang up some fairy lights. It'll be a Magical Wonderland!"

So, we went into town and bought acres of pink material and returned, triumphant, ready to work our creative magic.

We were intercepted on our way to the office by a colleague. "Go and look at the moat!" she cried.

The problem was immediately apparent. My Magical Wonderland had developed a definite aquatic theme. Putting the swags up now was going to be a challenge.

I hastened to reassure bemused visitors and volunteers alike that we did not actually erect the marquee in the moat and that it must have blown in. After the tenth repetition I got bored with that and started telling people it was for a duck wedding instead.

Eventually help arrived, in the shape of our gardener, Lovely Warden and assorted other estate staff. They donned waders and climbed into the moat. Progress was not simple, due to the knee high mud and dense vegetation. I gamely assisted by taking photographs and calling out helpful comments like "Careful now!" and "I think it's going to tip over."

It tipped over. It was bit like a warmer, muddier version of Titanic.

"It's not going well, is it?" said McColleague, somewhat redundantly.

"Never let go!" I shouted, but it was too late. Several of the leg poles sank to the bottom of the moat, never to be recovered. That's really going to confuse the Time Teams of the future.

At last the bulk of the marquee was dragged out of the moat and onto dry land. Several key elements were broken, bent or entirely missing. The plastic covering was covered in foul smelling mud and pondweed.

"I don't think I'm going to bother with a marquee for Fairy Day," I decided. "Let's put a couple of tables in one of the buildings in the courtyard instead."

It was at this point we discovered that every single trestle table we owned had been taken away to one of the tenant farms, where they were hosting a wedding party. And that the building in question was full of a disassembled shed, some rusty metalwork and a rickety old piano.

If it wasn't for all the hot wardens-in-waders action the day could have been a tad on the frustrating side.

The Return of the Doris

2008-08-06T19:37:00.002+01:00

It has been a stressful time lately, hence my quietness online.

There have been work issues ranging from staffing problems to grievance hearings, all of which have required my time and attention.

Then my father became ill and had to go into hospital and all my work related dramas paled into insignificance.

Anyhow, the good news is that while none of these issues are entirely resolved they are better than they were. I have decided to re-open the blog and continue posting on such vital subjects as biscuit consumption, suicidal sheep and batty behaviour.

Stay tuned for comedy marquee japes aplenty!

Directory Enquiries

2008-06-24T09:46:00.002+01:00

The phone rings.

"Good morning. Could you tell me, are you open today?"

"Yes we are. The house opens at 12 noon and last admission is at 4.30."

"Oh, thank you. You really should have a word with your organisation, there's nothing about your place in the book. "

"I'm sure we are in the handbook."

"Well I couldn't find you."

"Hang on, I'm just checking in my copy. Yes, here we are."

"Where?"

"In the section for the Midlands. Page 244."

"No, you're not there."

"Page 244? Are you on page 244?"

"It's Hadrian's Wall on page 244."

"Which book are you looking in? It is the 2008 version isn't it?"

"Yes! 2008/2009 English Heritage!"

"Ah. We're not English Heritage."

"Ah."

Moments

2008-06-16T18:52:00.002+01:00

It has been a bumpy ride lately.

The weekend was full of drama and tears and resignations.

The drama and resignations were not mine, thankfully, but some of the tears were. It was heavy going.

We did have some lighter moments, though.

McColleague and I were trying to look up an item online, part of a crossbow. It is called a Goat's Foot lever and I typed the relevant words into Google.

"I'm just going to get pictures of actual goats feet now, aren't I?"

Lovely Warden spoke up from his corner of the office. "You don't want to know what I got when I searched for helmet sanitiser."

Undercover Doris

2008-06-01T20:19:00.003+01:00

Hello!

I know, I have been quiet of late.

And now I have taken the blog to invite only! "What's going on?" I hear you - yes, you - wail.

Well, I write a monthly article for our local magazine. Often there is a bit of an overlap with what I write about on Stately Moans and what goes into print. Especially if a tight deadline is looming.

Some of you may remember a post I wrote a while back about a coach party. I tidied it up a little, made it user-friendly (I thought) and inoffensive and thought it would provide an amusing insight into managing a group of people who can't make up their minds what they want.

So I was somewhat dismayed to find an email from my Boss to say that he'd had a call from our Regional Office to say that a complaint about my article had been received and would I write no more until further notice. I hasten to add, it is just one letter, but rather than write to me, or the editor of the magazine, the complainant has chosen to go higher up the chain to inform the good people at Regional Office that I have "no empathy" for my visitors and that I should publicly apologise.

I have therefore decided to lay low until this situation is resolved. I have no reason to think anyone would search online to see if other amusing/offensive (depending on your point of view) articles on coach parties have been written, but decided to err on the side of caution until I am satisfied that all my posts on Stately Moans are safe to air.

Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.

Watch Your Step

2008-05-14T20:18:00.002+01:00

I was typing at my computer when the volunteer on duty that day appeared in the office doorway.

"Doris," she said, "a visitor has just fallen down the stairs in the Gatehouse! I don't think she's hurt but you ought to come and have a word."

"Of course, I'll just grab my accident report form and a pen."

The Gatehouse is fabulously old and has a slight lean to it. The stairs are very steep, narrow and worn. You only have to look at the stairs to see they are not suitable for carelessly running up or down, yet, just to be on the safe side, we have a large sign at the foot of the stairs which reads "Please Take Great Care on the Stairs." Still, wherever you have steps and thousands of people, statistically, sooner or later, someone will miss their footing.

I followed my volunteer out into the house. She looked around her, perplexed. "Where's this visitor then?" I asked.

"Well, she was here a moment ago. Maybe she's gone to look round the other rooms." My volunteer went off to see if she could spot her, while I went the other way, into the Hall.

From the Hall you can go up to the Minstrel's Gallery and explore the rooms on the first floor. The staircase is old, made of oak, and we do warn our visitors to take care upon them, as they are somewhat steep and uneven.

As I stood by the staircase, looking around for my volunteer to see if she had found our missing accident prone visitor, I heard a cry, a thud and turned round in time to see a woman bumping down the last few stairs on her back.

"Not again!" she exclaimed as she slid to a stop.

"Um....are you by any chance the lady who fell down the stairs in the Gatehouse?" I asked.

She was.

I completed the necessary paperwork and mused on the odds of falling down both sets of stairs in the space of about ten minutes. It reminded me of the boy who was sick on the bug hunt and then fell in the moat, last year.

Some people really do know how to get the most from a day out.

Building Bridges

2008-04-28T22:32:00.003+01:00

I'm not saying it's rickety and unsafe to cross, but the dog did opt to fling himself across the stream and take his chances scrabbling up the bank, rather than walk the plank.

And they often know about these things.

Lambing

2008-04-21T11:09:00.003+01:00

I walk with Z every day. At the moment it is particularly beneficial as I am suffering from a protracted bout of sciatica and the best thing to do is keep active. The only problem is I am not overly good at bending at the moment, or climbing over fences to rescue stray lambs.

The lamb was running up and down the fence, bleating piteously, unable to get back into the field where its mother was unconcernedly munching grass.

"You climb over," I said to my daughter, who fortuitously happened to be with me, "and I'll stay here and hold the dog. Grab the lamb, and just chuck it over the fence."

Could there be a simpler plan?

Or a harder one to actualise?

Mind you, I did get a lot of amusement from watching my daughter chasing the lamb up and down the fenceline. She even caught it at one point but it wriggled so violently she had to let it go again. "There's no way I'm going to get it over the fence," she panted.

I took my phone from my pocket and dialled.

"Hello? Lovely Warden? Are you nearby?"

Lovely Warden is good at chasing sheep. He is speedy and strong. If there were a One Man and His Lovely Warden competition, he'd be a contender.

"No worries," he assured me, "I'll be there shortly."

And he was. He stepped into the arena and eyed his target. It was all over in a blur of wool and tanned legs.

Lovely Warden 1, Lost Lamb 0

I might let the cows out on my next walk, just to see how he does with larger prey.

Praise Be!

2008-04-09T21:45:00.005+01:00

It's happened again!

Another miracle!

I've been feeling rather below par. I haven't slept properly in weeks, due to a bout of sciatica that has me waking up with my hip singing Ave Maria every night when I try to turn over in bed.

Driving is painful, so McColleague had kindly offered to drive me into town for the day. I'd limped around the shops for a few hours and then sat in leg aching misery in the passenger seat for the journey home, wishing all the while that I could be cured of this affliction.

As we approached the house we passed the "Tree Felling" signs that indicated wardens at work in the woods. Sure enough, there they were, clearing away the felled trees that were currently blocking the road.

"We won't be long," they said.

We decided to wait in the sunshine and watch them at work. I clambered, painfully, out of the car when - behold! The Face of Jaysus, in a tree stump!

It can surely only be a matter of time, medication and intense physiotherapy before my miracle cure is complete!

Blossom

2008-03-31T19:22:00.002+01:00

The damson orchards are entering their full bloom stage.

I'm making the most of it right now, as the weekend should see it's fair share of cannon and musket fire, so I predict a blizzard of petals and bare branches by Monday.

Smells Like Festive Spirit

2008-03-22T17:44:00.002Z

The electricians had been here for the best part of the day. So far they had got off to a bad start. After explaining the various problems that needed looking at I left them by the fusebox and returned to my office. I heard footsteps going upstairs. My daughter was in bed as she gets up at 5am to do her morning job and then gets her head down for a couple of hours when she returns. My husband had taken time off work and was enjoying a lie in. I dashed upstairs to warn them not to go into any of the bedrooms, but I was too late.

"Whaffuck?" said my husband as he awoke to find a strange man in the bedroom doorway.

I was cross. I hadn't said they could go upstairs in the first place, they hadn't said they were going off on a voyage of exploration, and you'd think they'd at least knock before heading into bedrooms with closed doors.

I returned, stompily, to my office. Where the computer screen went dark, the lights went out and the fire door slammed shut as the power was unexpectedly cut off.

I was cross. "You could give me a warning before you do that," I said. "Otherwise I lose whatever I was working on."

They apologised.

They moved on to the installation of a new immersion heater. The old one would trip the switches every time I tried to use it on its overnight setting. I could have hot water if I remembered to manually switch on the immersion heater, but the night time setting had to be deactivated.

The first sign all was not going smoothly was the request for a mop and bucket.

The next was the sound of pouring water some time later.

When the electrician came through to ask me to call a plumber I knew for sure.

The verdict was not good. The old immersion had been tricky to remove, so a bit of pressure was applied and the result was a broken hot water tank.

"I can't get hold of a new tank until Friday morning" said the plumber.

The thought of two long days without hot water loomed before me. It didn't help that the weather had just become very cold again and the thought of shivering in the bathroom while trying to have a strip wash in the basin was not an encouraging one.

"I know," said my husband. "We could bring the urn over - that would be a useful way to heat up lots of hot water."

"It's broken," I wailed.

"There is the other urn," said McColleague. "The one we do mulled wine in."

The urn we use for mulled wine can be used for no other hot beverage. No matter how thoroughly it is cleaned after use, it never loses the smell. Still, it does, inarguably, heat up a lot more water at once than a kettle. Handy for washing pots and pans and me.

So, for the next couple of days I washed in water still slightly scented with cinammon, cloves and red wine. It was great to get the new hot water tank fitted, but I do rather miss smelling like Christmas.

These Are Not Just Pants...

2008-03-17T16:32:00.002Z

I did not attend the pre-season conference this year.

My Boss did, and was therefore the one to receive the certificate awarded to our team by the Director General for exceptional results in recruiting new members last season. He duly put it in a frame and presented it to me upon his return.

This was enough to make myself and my visitor reception assistants preen with pride, so imagine our delight when we heard that there was an actual prize element to the award too! "Our apologies for not having the prizes ready for the pre-season conference," the email read. "Your vouchers will be in the post tonight."

The morning's post did not disappoint. Inside the big envelope addressed to me were four smaller envelopes, one for me and one for each of my visitor reception team.

Thirty pounds worth of Marks and Spencer vouchers each! Unexpected riches!

I don't know what the rest of the team have bought with theirs but McColleague and I immediately took ourselves into town for a bra shopping marathon. (I should point out at this stage that McColleague didn't win any vouchers, being on the conservation side of things, not visitor services. She came along solely to keep me company in my bra buying frenzy.)

I managed to get the whole ensemble for my thirty quid. Bra, matching knickers, and seamed fishnet stockings. How tempted do you think I am to rip open my work issue anorak and shout "look what I bought with my award vouchers!" next time I meet the Director General?

Wagons Roll!

2008-03-15T19:12:00.006Z

For some years now a small, green, battery powered vehicle has stood in the courtyard.

It is yet another item my Boss acquired because it seemed like a good idea at the time. He bought it, painted it green and got the same amazing artist who created our nursery rhyme boards to paint a slightly deformed hedgehog on the doors.

When I first arrived here the Trusty Wagon, as it came to be known, still worked. It went about as fast as slow walking pace and myself and my daughter would have great fun driving it around outside and performing slow motion Professionals style dives and rolls out of the moving vehicle.

Our fun was cut short, sadly, as the Trusty Wagon simply stopped working one day and was left to stand, motionless, outside for the next few years. Children, of course, loved it and would climb inside and over it, pretending to drive as they turned the steering wheel back and forth.

It had its uses. It was a convenient weight for tying the marquees to when we had outdoor events. Still, it was beginning to look tatty, bits were starting to fall off it and McColleague and I were, frankly, sick of the sight of it.

At long last, this week, we finally persuaded the Boss that it was never going to be fixed and was an eyesore. He sent Lovely Warden to remove it and take it to the warden's yard.

The plan, according to Lovely Warden, was to simply tie it to the Gator, which McColleague and I would drive, towing the Trusty Wagon, which he would steer.

McColleague and I watched as Lovely Warden attached the rope, and put the vehicles into position.

"Have we done a risk assessment for this?" asked McColleague.

"Yes," I replied. "It's a bit risky, but probably ok."

"I'm not sure about how safe it'll be when we do the hairpin bend."

Lovely Warden was unconcerned. "It'll be fine," he said.

So we set off, McColleague driving the Gator, Lovely Warden steering the Trust Wagon, and me making sure we hadn't lost him and taking photographs. There was a slightly hairy moment by the moat, where the Wagon lost it a bit on the gravel, but Lovely Warden seemed unfazed, smiling and continuing to eat his lunch.

Of course, once we had dropped off the Wagon at the warden's yard, we were left with a two-seater Gator and three people to transport back to the house.

"You'll have to sit in the back," McColleague informed Lovely Warden.

"I'd better get my deckchair then," he said.

"He is joking isn't he?"

He wasn't. He emerged from the warden's shed with a red folding camping chair and proceeded to clear a space for it in the back. "See how I am ensuring it is on a level surface," he explained. "Safety is my primary concern."

Of course safety is our primary concern. So at no point would McColleague and I agree to drive Lovely Warden around the estate as "King for a Day" on a deckchair, we would certainly not go off road and go through the woods, and Lovely Warden would most definitely not therefore claim that he was going to need to have the deckchair surgically removed once we got back to the house. There would certainly be no opportunities for McColleague to shout "Is he ok?" above the engine noise, while I replied "Well, he's still there, if that qualifies as ok." And anyone who says otherwise is lying.

Changes

2008-03-03T18:02:00.005Z

Changing behaviour is a challenge, to say the least. Changing things, as opposed to behaviour, is easy in comparison. We now open an hour earlier, for example, and the long awaited volunteer room is complete and in use.

At the pre-season volunteer and staff meeting I talked at length about the new room. I took the volunteers to look at it. I gave them all a sheet of Frequently Asked Questions relating to the changes for this season. When my volunteers arrived on the first open day of the season this weekend I reiterated the salient points.

These boiled down to:

Do not bring drinks into the house. Apart from the fact it looks unprofessional to be swigging cups of tea while on duty, last year I found someone had left a hot cup on the chest in the Screens Passage (despite the provision of a desk with coasters on it, for just this purpose) resulting in white marks we then had to remove.
Do wash your own cup after use and put it back.

So, naturally, when I walked through the house an hour later to see how everyone was doing, I was somewhat disappointed to spot a cup of tea balanced on the brass alms dish in the Screens Passage and another being held by the volunteer by the desk.

My frustration (masked by a big smile and a tactful "we mustn't put cups on the precious things" as I whisked the offending utensil away) was matched only by the arrival of the two shop volunteers at the end of the day, who had thoughtfully brought me the days takings along with their dirty cups.

What are my chances of getting them to accept the new room as the place to drink tea and do their own washing up before the end of the year?

Pre-Season Mania

2008-02-21T20:31:00.003Z

Things are in the manic phase as we approach the last few days before re-opening the house for the 2008 season.

While most things are on schedule and going to plan, I do have a slight concern, with just over a week until opening, at not having found anyone to run the tea room by this stage.

Who's good at making scones?

Wellies, you say?

2008-02-13T18:15:00.003Z

From the letter I sent in November:

"After the meeting there will be an opportunity to join Lovely Warden for a guided walk along the new nature trail. Please be aware that the terrain will be muddy and uneven so suitable footwear is essential!"

From the Christmas get together in December:

"And don't forget, after our pre-season meeting there'll be a chance to see the new nature trail. It's a bit rough and ready at the moment, so do bring your wellies."

On the morning of the pre-season meeting:

"The trail is particularly muddy at the moment, so if you are joining us this afternoon wellies are a must."

After lunch:

"Right, those of you coming on the walk, please gather in the courtyard. Can I just re-emphasise, the walk is exceptionally boggy in parts, so if you haven't brought wellies or walking boots I wouldn't attempt it."

On the walk:

"Ok, this is where it starts to get really muddy and churned up. I can't stress enough just how muddy it gets. Those of you in ordinary shoes, bail out now!"

"Is it muddy then?"

"Yes, very."

"Will it come over the tops of my shoes?"

"Most likely."

"I'll risk it." And with that, she rolled up her trouser legs and strode on.

I have to say, I am proud of my volunteers. I had wellies on, and I carried a stout stick to assist me through the worst of the slippery, boggy parts of the track. Yet I had a couple of older ladies with me who managed to traverse the entire swamp in their sensible shoes and whilst carrying handbags. It had to be seen to be believed. This is the kind of can-do attitude that makes Britain great.

Our volunteers are a formidable crew. I do love them.

And Smile!

2008-02-06T18:34:00.000Z

I had sent out numerous press releases, not expecting there to be much, if anything, in the way of a response.

Volunteer recruitment days are never terribly newsworthy. Each year I have an open day or a coffee morning where I try to lure people in so I can persuade them to volunteer with us. Each year I sit there, surrounded by plates of biscuits and volunteering brochures and no one turns up. If I'm exceptionally lucky a rambler may stray past, and I'll drag them in and give them a leaflet, but that's about it really.

McColleague was setting up the room, putting out an optimistically large number of cups and saucers, while I finished up in the office. The phone rang. It was the local press photographer!

"Can I come out and get some shots of your volunteer coffee morning?" he asked.

"Yes. Yes!" I exclaimed. "Though, I must warn you, I may not actually have any volunteers to photograph."

He was undeterred by this. "I'll be there at 11," he said.

I hurried over to the volunteer room and McColleague. "The photographer from the local paper is coming!" I explained.

"What will he make you hold aloft this time?" she wondered.

"A volunteer?"

The coffee morning offically began at 10am. By 11 am McColleague and I were still the only people in the room. The photographer arrived.

"Hello," I smiled. "I'm afraid we're having a bit of a lull at the moment."

"No problem," he said. "Let's just have a picture of you, Doris, in front of the house."

And so another photo for my collection is taken. Me, in front of the house, holding aloft a Volunteer Welcome Pack, the sun in my eyes, my hair blowing over my face. I await the torrent of calls to flood in as people all over the county flock to volunteer for me.

I really look like I need help.

Top Table

2008-01-28T15:44:00.000Z

As regular readers may be aware, I have long had logistical problems with the volunteers sharing my office for their lunch and tea breaks. This year sees a major milestone achieved as the long-awaited New Volunteer Room is finally completed. Yea, and there was much rejoicing.

So, the room is complete. The finishing touches are not. McColleague and I are poised with all the little extras that make a volunteer/staff room so appealing. We have all the usual tea making paraphernalia along with a noticeboard, a clock, a comfy chair, some nice pictures for the wall and so on. The one thing we didn't have was a table. Not to worry though. Lovely Warden was making one."Now before I show it to you," said Lovely Warden, about to open the door of the warden's shed to display his handiwork, "the correct response is 'that's a beautiful table'".

McColleague and I nodded dutifully as he looked at us, then exchanged meaningful glances as he turned away.

As expected it was very large and made of wood.

"That's never going to get through the door!" exclaimed McColleague.

"It's very big," I said. "Oh, and beautiful, " I added, hastily.

"It'll be fine," said Lovely Warden. "I'll bring it down tomorrow, on the trailer. I can't fit it in my van."

As predicted, it was too big to fit through the door. The top of the table had to be removed and reassembled once inside.

It takes up quite a lot of the room. It is so big that McColleague was able to wax and buff it usuing the electric floor polisher we use in the house. Lovely Warden is unrepentent. He says it is such a lovely table he wants it to be the focal point of the room. And it is.

Mighty Mallet

2008-01-23T18:38:00.001Z

This is Lovely Warden's latest creation. McColleague and I discovered it in the bird hide. It is a massive, hand crafted wooden mallet. I do not know why Lovely Warden has made it and am reluctant to ask (it takes all the fun out of guessing, for a start).

Is it for giant games of croquet? Dealing with the squirrels who steal the nuts meant for the birds? What uses can there be for a giant wooden mallet in a bird hide?

Pressure

2008-01-17T14:35:00.000Z

Until very recently the house was supplied with spring water. There is a very efficient filter system in place and I was more than happy to drink delicious non-chlorinated spring water that would cost a bomb if it was bottled and put in the shops. Granted, the system wasn't perfect, as the spring water also supplied the cattle troughs, and if any of the cattle troughs got kicked over by a frisky cow, our water supply would slow to a trickle and then stop.

Whenever the subject of mains water was raised I was informed that we couldn't just change over because of the difference in pressure. Our spring water system just wouldn't cope with mains water. All the ballcocks and pipes would need replacing first. It made sense to me.

So imagine my surprise when my water supply was changed from spring to mains a month or two ago.

"Don't we need to change the pipes first?" I asked, in some concern.

"It'll be all right," said my Boss.

"Right," I said.

So imagine my surprise when, on my way to bed at midnight, I discovered a river of water running through the house.

The water pipe outside my kitchen window had burst and was fountaining gallons of water up through the drain cover and subsequently into my kitchen. I phoned my Boss who duly arrived with his brother-in-law, Colin, our resident plumber and builder. We all stood outside, in our wellies, torchlight reflecting off the bubbling water.

"Nothing we can do tonight," said Colin. "I'll just turn off the water supply for now and be back first thing in the morning".

When you've spent the night having to fetch buckets of water from the courtyard to flush the loo, it is a wonderful thing to see a yellow digger outside the kitchen window. It gives you hope.

After much excavation the offending broken piece of pipework was found and replaced.

"I reckon it was the change in water pressure that did it," mused Colin.

"You reckon?"

"Oh yes. It'll be all right now."

Imagine my surprise a few days later when I discovered the overflow from the cold water tank in the roof space pouring out water just outside my back door. To exit the house you had to go through a small waterfall. Colin came to investigate.

"It's the ballcock. It's not designed for this kind of mains pressure. I'll fit a new one."

"Will it be ok now?"

"Oh yes."

I am already imagining my next surprise.

First Aid Made Me Sick

2008-01-10T18:08:00.000Z

"Right, you all remember Resusci Annie, don't you?"

We did. We were all there for our First Aid Re-Qualification. Once you have completed the original five day training course you are then qualified for three years. Once those three years have passed you need to attend a further 2 day course to maintain your qualification. We had all locked lips with Resusci Annie many times before.

"Well, this isn't Resusci Annie, this is Fred," continued our instructor, unzipping the case before him.

"Blimey," I muttered. "Fred's a bit scary, isn't he?"

Our instructor went on to tell us that while Annie is modelled on a petite woman, Fred reflects a more modern trend and is based on a 19 stone man. He was therefore a lot more demanding on the arm muscles when performing CPR.

My knees felt the strain too. Two days of crawling around on industrial nylon carpet, applying bandages and the kiss of life meant I was sporting a couple of impressive carpet burns, despite the jeans I wore.

I passed the exam at the end of day two and went away with a renewed qualification and the beginnings of the flu bug that knocked me out over Christmas. I am convinced someone breathed their germs into the chest cavity of Fred or Annie and I subsequently breathed them in. The medicated wipes used to clean the doll between each use only sterilise the surface. I am convinced Fred gave me flu.

House of Wool

2008-01-03T15:39:00.000Z

My nearest town is small and full of interesting characters. I very much like it. One of the characters is a lovely lady called Olive who has a wool shop. She is an accomplished mistress of the knitting needles. Jumpers and cardigans, scarves and gloves, socks and hats - these no longer present any sort of challenge for her. For Olive is famous locally for her skills in making woolly worlds, knitted alternative realities. She knits people. And animals. Even vegetables.

Her creations can be found displayed in vacant shop windows along the High Street. On my first visit to the town, when I originally moved here, I was perplexed as to why there were life-sized knitted figures in random shop windows. Since then I have come to understand that this is a local tradition and have grown to eagerly anticipate her next flurry of knitted activity. McColleague and I always text each other with updates on the knitted figures situation whenever one of us spots a new display.

So it was that I found myself outside her wool shop in the days before Christmas, gazing in awe at the knitted Widow Twanky in her shop window, and boggling at the knitted paper chains draped overhead. Next door stood an empty shop, but instead of the soaped windows and a few dead flies you might expect to see in a normal High Street, this housed an impressively random selection of Olive's finest knitted figures. You see, that's one of the things I enjoy the most - the fact that there is no theme, no common element to these displays that I can discern. To my delight I could see a Land Army Girl, an Arab and a person in a white coat - a vet? A doctor? Who knows? Oh, and a donkey. And a collection of knitted mice, carrots and even a woolly turnip, scattered across the floor. I fumbled in my bag for my mobile. I needed to send visual evidence to McColleague at once.It was as I took the picture on my cameraphone that I heard a voice behind me.

"Hello! Photographing my knitted people, are you?"

Eek! It was Olive! I was caught.

"Yes," I replied. "I always take a picture to show my friends. We love your knitting."

"Are you local?"

Olive asks me this every time she meets me. I explained again that, yes, I only live up the road at the manor house.

"Would you like to see more of my knitted figures?"

"Um....well I'm a bit pushed for time."

"I've got loads more in the back of my shop, come and look."

It was hard to refuse. The shop was right there and I had been caught showing an interest. Olive ushered me through, into the dark recesses beyond the counter. The bell above the door jangled as someone else came into the shop. "I'll leave you to it," she said.

And so I found myself alone in a room surrounded by life-sized knitted figures. Apart from what I think was a knitted mayor. He was half the size of all the others. I don't know why.I wondered how long was the politely correct amount of time to spend on my own among the knitted people. My cameraphone pictures weren't doing them justice, my hands were far too shaky with the excitement of it all.I texted McColleague. "I am in the back of Olive's wool shop! If I appear in knitted form in a shop window in a few days time you will know I fell to the House of Wool." And I sent an accompanying picture to illustrate my predicament.After a while I decided to venture back out again. Olive was serving some customers in the front of the shop so I was able to call out a cheery "Well, thanks for that, I've some lovely pics now to show everyone!" as I made for the door without slowing or making eye contact.

I must return the favour when the house re-opens and invite Olive along to see our Nursery Rhyme Trail. I've a feeling she'd really like it.

Tis The Season to be Poorly

2007-12-29T17:11:00.000Z

For some strange reason I just couldn't get warm all afternoon. We'd sat around the kitchen table, on the last Friday before Christmas, eating a selection of party snacks and drinking the damson gin that Lovely Warden had been brewing in his shed for the past few months. Well, I say eating and drinking. Lovely Warden and McColleague were. I, on the other hand, was not. My appetite was oddly absent and I was mostly sipping water, the alcohol not appealing to me as it usually does.

When my guests finally left I collapsed into an armchair, shivering.

Turned out I was coming down with a bout of festive flu and by the time I returned to normality Christmas was all over. I am not sure if this is a good thing or not, to be honest. I feel like I missed out on a proper big Christmas dinner and the whole drinking, merriment thing, but, then again, I didn't have to cook or make small talk, as I was in a feverish sleep and therefore excused. Swings and roundabouts really.

Deck the Hall

2007-12-15T13:38:00.000Z

"I want lanterns," I said. "On sticks. You know, like the ones carol singers tradtionally carry in old pictures."

I needed to illuminate the path from the ticket office to the house for our evening event, and apart from our solar powered outdoor lights not looking as historically correct as a nice lantern, they also tend to be entirely deficient in the light emitting department.

Lovely Warden was very excited. Not only had I requested something involving bits of wood, I had also introduced the element of fire, which is always a winner.

Once I'd handed over the paraffin and a box of matches he was away.

Meanwhile McColleague and I put our finishing touches to the house, which, come to think of it, also involved bits of wood and the element of fire. We'd decked the hall with as much foliage as we could gather, and arranged it artfully around the many candles needed to light the house in the evening.

"Beautiful," we agreed, once we'd lit all the candles, and stood back to admire the effect. Flickering flames, ancient timbers. "Best keep the fire extinguishers within arms reach," we concurred.

Next came preparing the refreshments for the evening. The mulled wine was rigorously tested for temperature and flavour. "Needs more wine," said Lovely Warden. We couldn't be bothered to rigorously test the mince pies, we were sure they'd be fine. Besides, we were still sick of the bloody things from last year.

Our catering this time was spot on. Every morsel was consumed. It was slim pickings for McColleague and I at the end of the night.

"Do you want a clove-studded orange, or a walnut?"

"Are there any nut crackers?"

"No, I didn't want the public eating the display."

"I think I'll leave it."

I have promised something much more appetising for our staff gathering (me, McColleague and Lovely Warden round my kitchen table) next week.

Plan B

2007-12-09T13:30:00.000Z

For when reindeer are not available. You'd never know the difference.

Festive Cheer and Two Reindeer

2007-12-07T19:58:00.000Z

Everything was organised. The stalls were allocated, the banner was up on the main road, and press releases and adverts had been placed in all the local media.

All was accounted for and in its rightful place.

My Boss arrived and looked around at the preparations approvingly. "Oh, and I've got us some reindeer," he announced.

"Reindeer?"

"Yes, they're pretty tame now."

"Um...are these the reindeer that were entirely wild the last I heard?"

"They'll be in a pen."

I watched the erection of this pen in the courtyard. I had concerns about its efficiency, concerns which were allayed with liberal applications of baling twine.

"How big are they, exactly, these reindeer?"

"Oh, not fully grown yet. Not that big. Quite small. The older one's only just come into rut. Which has made him a bit boisterous, but he's had a hormone jab and he'll be fine on the day."

I duly went off to rewrite my press releases to highlight this exciting new facet to our festive event.

As it turned out, the reindeer were hugely popular. The nice thing about them is that while most children are wise to the fact that Santa is just some bloke in a poorly fitting costume, a reindeer is undeniably a reindeer.

"Is reindeer shit as good for the garden as horse shit?" I idly asked McColleague as we watched the hordes of happy children stroking the furry defecating deer.

"Let's hope so," she replied.

"Ah well. Shall we go back to the brazier to get warm? We might be given more rejected chestnuts."

"What are we waiting for?"

We returned to the fire, eyes watering in the smoke, waiting to be offered those chestnuts which had burnt and/or been on the floor. We are not too proud to eat chestnuts which have had their flames extinguished by being stamped upon.

Natural Materials

2007-11-29T20:45:00.000Z

McColleague needed an implement with which to apply the floor polish so that it went on in a smooth, thin layer.

Lovely Warden suggested a paint roller.

"But it will knacker my back, having to kneel down to use that," she protested.

"I'll make a handle for it," he countered.

McColleague showed me the finished product today.

"Other properties get proper high tech conservation equipment," she said. "I get a big stick affixed to a paint roller."

"What did you expect from Lovely Warden?"

I was reminded of a classic Lovely Warden moment the week before. McColleague and I had been with him in the landrover, as we zipped about the estate making final preparations for our festive events. "I just need to get some more diesel," he announced as we pulled into the forestry yard. The storage tank is equipped with a meter and readings are to be noted before and after fuel is taken. Lovely Warden rummaged fruitlessly in the landrover for a pen and paper. There were bug collecting jars, magnifying glasses, CDs, chainsaws, rope, toolboxes, batteries, torches - everything imaginable, other than pens or paper.

In the end he found a small, flattish piece of wood and scratched the meter readings into it with a nail. "You are such a warden," I told him.

Winter Games

2007-11-20T17:45:00.000Z

It is the time of year we prepare for our annual Christmas events. Without fail the weather is glorious the week beforehand and then changes as soon as we need to go outside to set up. Last year it was extreme winds which decimated our gazebo, our trees and marquees. This year it was unexpected snowfall.

"I have to say," I announced to McColleague as I looked out of the office window at the slowly melting snow, "that I am not overly keen on the concept of foliage gathering today."

"Lovely Warden is on his way," said McColleague, closing her mobile phone firmly. "Get your waterproof trousers on."

I did indeed put my waterproof trousers on. They are a fetching olive green colour and smell very much like plastic. McColleague has an identical pair, only in a smaller size. We were issued with them last year as part of our emergency salvage kit. They do very well for wearing in wet, muddy and scary conditions, but they do restrict your leg movements. Once we have put on our green jackets, wellies and gloves there was only one thing left to complete the ritual - the Foliage Gathering Hat.

Mine is green and deerstalker style, with handy ear flaps. McColleague had forgotten hers (oh, the shame!) so had to wear the only hat we could find, which was a furry Santa Hat.

"Do I look stupid?" she asked.

"No," I lied. "You look very festive."

Lovely Warden arrived in the Gator. He was admant that before we went foliage gathering we had to go to the bird hide and restock the bird feeders.

McColleague and I waited patiently while he did his rounds.

"Come on! It's cold!"

"And where's your foliage gathering hat?"

"I left it in the Warden's shed."

We detoured back to the shed. Lovely Warden reappeared with an exciting fleecey hat, with very long ear flaps.

"I feel inadequate," I wailed. "His flaps are bigger than mine!"

"I haven't even got any flaps," pointed out McColleague.

"I have also brought a safety modification for the Gator," announced Lovely Warden, brandishing a length of orange webbing.

At this point I must stress that under no circumstances would we make an impromptu passenger seat for the Gator from an office chair and a length of orange safety strap. We certainly wouldn't drive it around the estate with someone claiming to feel like "king for a day" and we would not laugh about "catching some air" as we went over molehills at high speed. We would simply gather our mistletoe and holly, safely and sensibly. And anyone who says otherwise is lying.

Blind Ambition

2007-11-16T17:14:00.000Z

Earlier this week I went on a training course, where I learned all about the various aspects and issues pertaining to disability.

In our organisation we pride ourselves on making every effort to provide as enjoyable an experience as possible for all our visitors. If people are unable to access rooms upstairs, for example, we provide a virtual tour instead (or, in my smaller, less affluent property, a photograph album depicting the the rest of the house). For the visually impaired visitor, properties are encouraged to compile a sensory list of items which can be touched, or plants that have a particular scent, or sounds to listen out for, like the chiming of certain clocks, and so on.

Our trainer on the course was blind himself, and had a wonderful tale to tell of a visit to one of our properties (thankfully not mine) where he was relentlessly persued by a room steward who could not fathom why he didn't want to touch Winston Churchill's walking stick. He personally does not get a great deal out of handling items, but the fact that properties have items specifically for handling by the visually impaired, or have constructed a "feely box", has led to some volunteers believing these have to be utilised. In our trainer's case, having politely declined the offer of a feel of Winston Churchill's walking stick, he was then followed through three further rooms by a mystified volunteer, urging him to "go on, just touch it!"

I did have to point out that this was not discrimination due to him being disabled, but that our room stewards will cheerfully pursue anyone. "They were taught that on a different course," I said. "They must engage our visitors at every opportunity. If you don't want to be engaged they're at a bit of a loss."

Mind you, I wouldn't stick my hand in an anoymously presented "feely box" either, if I couldn't see. Actually, I wouldn't even though I can see.

Hide

2007-11-07T22:56:00.000Z

"Have you seen Lovely Warden's bird hide yet?" asked McColleague.

"No. What's it like?"

"Well, it's big.....and made of wood."

This came as no surprise. Lovely Warden is very good at making anything you need, as long as you need it to be big and made of wood. The Wizard's Staff we commissioned him to make as one of our Halloween props must have been 8 feet tall. He did cut a bit off the bottom at our request, but you'd still need to be a 7 foot tall wizard to wield it properly. The bicycle racks he created could stop a tank. "Sturdy" and "robust" and "that's somewhat bigger than I imagined it would be" are the words that spring to mind when you witness one of Lovely Warden's creations.

The bird hide in question is part of the new nature walk that is being created over the closed winter months. "Do you want to come and look at it?" asked McColleague.

So I donned my welly boots and set off with McColleague into the woods.

"There," she pointed, as we reached a clearing. "Behold, the Bird Hide!"

"It's a bit bigger than I expected," I said.

"Yes," agreed McColleague. "When I'm inside it I can only just see out of the window so he'll need to build some kind of step for kids to stand on."

It is a good height for me, though. We went inside and waited for the birds to appear. Lovely Warden has nailed many of his handmade bird boxes to the surrounding trees and crafted mighty, monolithic bird feeders and tables to install in the clearing. If you wait, patiently, quietly, in his bird hide you may be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the man himself, putting out food for the birds, to lure them to his avian Eden.

Halloween Happenings

2007-10-25T19:18:00.000+01:00

Here you see McColleague hard at work, making final adjustments to our Grim Reaper mannequin. We had decided he was a tad over-stuffed for someone skeletal, so she is removing some bubble wrap. It was a pose that begged to be recorded for posterity.

Our hanging creations are complete, and now in place in the trees. They have proved hugely popular with visiting children, and I have spotted many having their picture taken with our various creatures. We call this one Spike.
This is Swampy.
This is Grunt.
This is Yvonne.
And this is the Bad Bishop.

I have since received a comment card. It reads:

"My husband and I enjoyed the tea room and the house but we felt that as practising Christians the witches and corpses depicting Halloween weren't quite what we were expecting!"

I have many thoughts on this point of view, but the one I shall leave you with is that it's still a lot less scary than the Nursery Rhyme Walk.

Bonus Features!

2007-10-18T19:14:00.000+01:00

Yes, much like those fascinating bonus features on DVDs, giving you insights into the special effects and creative processes involved in a major film production, I am delighted to give you a peek behind the scenes in our Halloween Creature Workshop!

It's hard to credit, I know, but our extensive props are not bought in at great expense from professional events companies.

No, believe it or not, we make our creatures ourselves!

Behold, a monster in the making! It looks, at first glance, to be a couple of rubber eyeballs nailed to a piece of wood. OK, while it is a couple of rubber eyeballs nailed to a piece of wood, once we add a mask and a bit of a body it will be transformed into an amazing creature of the night, to delight and terrify!
See? Here's one I prepared earlier. Isn't that incredible? Personally, I find there is no better way of assessing how effective your finished creature will be than to dress it up in a bit of muslin and put it on a sit and ride lawnmower in the courtyard.

Thriller

2007-10-14T19:13:00.000+01:00

It's that time of year again. The time when I become very excited about Halloween and spend a lot of time making or buying new props. I find it hard to resist showing off my new acquisitions in the scariest ways I can imagine. This means I spend a lot of time waiting in shadowy corners so I can leap out for encounters like this:

"WooOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOOOooooo!"

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!"

"Bwahahahahahahahahahahaaaaa!"

"You utter, utter cow. I almost had a heart attack."

"Sorry, Mildred. Ooh, is that Derek coming up the path? Don't tell him I'm behind the door!

WooOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOOOooooo!"

And so on.

Glove Affair

2007-10-05T18:25:00.000+01:00

I went over to the Ticket Office to offer my Visitor Reception Assistant a tea break. He gladly accepted and headed off to get a drink while I stood at the desk, poised to welcome our visitors and issue tickets as necessary.

In a quiet moment I looked on the shelf under the desk. This is where newspapers and magazines tend to accumulate. A book or a crossword puzzle are useful tools to help keep boredom at bay on those long wet Wednesdays when nobody visits.

What could be better than something to read to keep you company on a lonely afternoon?

Behold Gert and Colin! It appears there is an entertainment alternative to books or newspapers after all.

OK, so he actually keeps these on standby to entertain families with young children as they come through the Ticket Office, but I prefer to imagine the scenarios he enacts with them when he is unobserved.

Skirmish

2007-10-02T15:41:00.000+01:00

"What's going on today then?"

I smiled through the screaming in my head and answered without a trace of irritation.

"It's our 17th Century Weekend."

Every single bleeding event this happens. I have banged on about it before I know, here and here. It's just so hard for me to fathom how they can sign their name beneath the event listing on the rota and then walk through a sizeable civil war encampment on their way to the house, and still have to ask what's happening. I mean, I was even in full 17th century costume myself. Was it really likely it was going to turn out to be the Autumn Walk or something?

Once the volunteers had established exactly what was going on the rest of the event went entertainingly well. The highlight was, as is often the case, entirely unplanned. Part of the scenario was the skirmish that took part outside the house, by the moat. I, and the rest of the household, would watch from the house as Parliamentarian and Royalist soldiers clashed. Cannons roared, muskets fired, swords clashed. It was all very colourful and noisy. The first skirmish had gone without incident earlier on in the afternoon, and now it was time for the second one.

I was sat at the table in the Great Hall, the rest of the household in character with me, playing cards, while the servant children swept and tidied in the background. Then the sound of gun fire is heard from outside and the men of the house grab their weapons and rush outside while the women and children look anxiously out of the windows.

By the moat soldiers were fighting in hand to hand combat. The public were safely cordoned off on the opposite side of the moat, facing the house. The fight progressed, a sword was thrust, the losing soldier fell to the ground and should, at this point, have just played dead for the rest of the battle. However, he fell with some momentum and rolled....and continued rolling, straight into the moat. There was an almighty splash and an "ooooh" from the audience. He later told me that his thought, as he fell, in full armour, was "just how deep is this moat, anyway?" Fortunately the water is pretty shallow and he immediately re-emerged, spluttering and covered in mud and pond weed. The public were unaware of this, as there is a five foot drop into the moat, so from there vantage point he had simply vanished from view.

In the house we were doubled over laughing. What made it funnier still was that the children were laughing in that infectious, purely joyous way they have, pointing and telling me "That's my dad! He's got to stay there now for the rest of the battle!"

And he did, crouching there, back to the wall of the moat, while the skirmish continued around him.

One of his daughters gleefully informed me how she'd been messing about by the moat the evening before and had slipped and put her foot in the water. "He sent me back to the tent to get changed and said I had to stay there until he said I could come back out again." No prizes for guessing what she said to her dad once the event had finished.

At last the scene ended, the audience dispersed, and two strong men helped to haul the unfortunate moat diver back out again. "I'll have to go back in again," he gasped. "My sword's still in there."

So, back he went, to fish around in the murky depths. He did find his sword eventually, raising it aloft triumphantly while we stood on the bank, laughing and shouting "Behold Excalibur!"

I do feel for him though. Getting the smell of disturbed moat sediment back out of woollen and leather garments is no easy matter. Authentic though.

Locum Notion

2007-09-22T19:15:00.000+01:00

"Come back," texted McColleague. "I'm bored".

"Aw," I replied. "I'll be back soon and will entertain you with all my holiday snaps!"

It is most gratifying to know I have been missed during my absence. I'd left a locum in my stead, in the hope most of the staff and volunteers wouldn't notice I'd gone, but McColleague, of course, can not be fooled.

"Been ok but not the same without you," her latest missive reads, "lots to tell."

Lordy. As soon as I'm back up to speed I'll copy you all in!

Local News

2007-09-14T19:44:00.000+01:00

"And it's not just the house..."

I had to pause at this point, pick a damson from the tree and then turn to face the camera.

"It's also our Orchard Weekend. So why not join us and enjoy some of this historic fruit?"

I smiled fixedly and tried not to squint too much, given the sun was directly in my eyes. Yes, appearing in a 30 second television feature for the local BBC news was a definite step up from my usual forced poses for the local press photographer. Not a huge step, but a step nonetheless. I only looked moderately deranged.

The Outing

2007-09-06T19:02:00.000+01:00

Organising the annual coach outing is one of the hardest tasks involved in my role.

Choosing a venue is not simple. It has to be within a reasonable driving distance, not have been visited in previous outings, be open on one of our closed days, and belong to our same organisation so we don't have to pay an entrance fee.

Next, I have to invite all the volunteers. I put up a poster near the kettle where they are most likely to notice it. I send each volunteer a letter with precise details - where we are going, when the coach departs and where from, and a date by which I need to know whether they are coming or not.

I will then spend the next few weeks having interchanges like the following:

"Are we having a coach trip this year?"
"Yes. Yes we are. I sent you a letter."

"So, it's half past nine at the car park then?"
"Nine. It's nine o'clock from the car park."

"Oh, why'd you have it on that day? I can't go!"
"Nor me."
"Or me."
"Right, I'll order a smaller coach."

"Can I bring a friend/partner/relative?"
"And me."
"Me too!"
"Right, I'll phone the coach company and order the bigger coach again."

"Can I get picked up from a special place, convenient to me?"
"And me!"
"And me!"
"Sorry, we're leaving from the car park at nine and no other pick up points."

"I'm not coming now."
"Nor me."
"Or me."
"Damn it, I could have stuck with the smaller coach."

All in all, it is a stressful experience. On the morning of this year's trip I carefully checked I had everything I needed before I left the house to drive the one and a half miles up to the estate car park, from where the coach would depart. I had my big box of sweeties to pass around the coach on the journey, my spare volunteer cards for those who might have forgotten their own, my payment for the coach and my clipboard and pen, for ensuring all those who were coming were ticked off as they got on board so no one was unwittingly left behind.

My daughter and her boyfriend were coming on the trip too, since she works as a seasonal staff member on the estate and he volunteers. I set the alarms, locked the door, bundled them into the car and set off. As we arrived in the car park I felt a glow of satisfaction. I was here, in good time, and well organised. I was cool and unflustered.

"I can't remember if I switched off my hair straighteners," my daughter suddenly announced.

"Oh, God, really?"

"I'm not sure. I think I did. I usually do. But I can't remember if I actually did."

We stared at each other with mirrored expressions of angst.

"Try!"

"I can't!"

"Right. Get back in the car."

There was a swift, atmosphere laden drive back down to the house.

I pulled up outside the door with a crunch of gravel. My daughter ran into the house, thudded up the stairs and into her room. She returned, equally as swiftly.

"They were switched off."

There was a swift, atmosphere laden drive back up the coach.

I arrived for the second time a good ten minutes late and with a definite air of fluster about me.

The day itself went entirely smoothly from the point onwards, I am pleased to say, and we all had a most enjoyable day out. I have only now begun to relax though, now it's all over. And already they are asking me, "where are we going next year?"

Moat Dipping

2007-08-31T20:29:00.000+01:00

"How's it going?" I asked McColleague, as she approached.

"All right, " she replied. "I've had to come back once already. One of the kids was taken poorly in the woods."

We didn't have time to exchange much more information than that. It was the changeover section of our children's event, our Bug Hunt and Pond Dipping activity. This outdoor event is very popular and always fully booked. As the numbers are so large we split it into two sections, with one group heading off into the woods - on this instance with McColleague and Lovely Warden - to hunt for insects and wildlife, while the other group stayed with me and New Warden for a go at fishing in the moat for water creatures. After an hour the groups swap over, so everyone gets to have a go at both activities.

"Right," I announced to the assembled crowd of adults with children in wellies, clutching brightly coloured fishing nets. "Those of you who have done the moat dipping will now be heading off with McColleague and Lovely Warden here. Those of you who have just been on a bug hunt will now be coming with me to see what we can find in the moat!"

I did the usual health and safety chat about taking great care by the water's edge, washing their hands after they'd finished, and then handed out the plastic trays into which the children would be landing their catch of the day. It's always water boatmen. We get the occasional stickleback, a water scorpion, perhaps a leech. But by far the most common sight, zipping about in their trays, is the water boatman.

"Now, what have you caught?" I will ask, squatting down to peer into their inch of muddy water with leaves. "Ah yes," I'll continue, "It's a water boatman."

It was as I was crouched over just such a tray full of little black aquatic beetles that I heard the splash. Then I heard the crying. A small boy came running up to me. He was laughing. "My brother's just fallen in!" He pointed at the source of the noise - an even smaller boy, crying, soaked through from head to toe. As I strode over his mother appeared beside him. She soothed him. "It's all right," she said, "you're just a bit wet. I've got dry clothes here." And to my pleased amazement she produced a towel and a full change of clothes. I was impressed. Once the child was dry and happily sucking a sweetie I expressed my admiration to this paragon of motherhood.

"Oh," she said, "I always come prepared. I know what he's like. Honestly, he was sick in the woods earlier."

I couldn't wait for McColleague to return with her group. "Hey," I pounced, as soon as she returned. "You know that kid who was sick in the woods?"

"Yes."

"He fell in the moat!"

Oh, how we laughed. He's not going to forget his big day out at our property in a hurry. I would love to read his "what I did in the school holidays" essay, complete with pictures.

Bat Scat

2007-08-28T19:32:00.000+01:00

Look at the state of my bat covers!

This is the time of most activity in the house for the bats. Each morning the pile of poo seems to be bigger and wider.

The problem I currently have is that the bats seem to be present during the day as well. Usually they fly about the Great Hall at night and then return to their attic roost for the daylight hours. However, over the weekend I noticed bat poo and even tiny splashes of bat wee on the tables after I taken the covers off and dusted them. I suspect the little buggers have moved in full time. If so, that presents a whole new challenge for protecting the contents.

Suggestions?

Memento

2007-08-21T17:39:00.000+01:00

At the top of the estate is our little kiosk, a small hexagonal wooden building where our kiosk attendant spends the day meeting and greeting everyone who comes past.

The chap in question - let's call him Ken - is lovely and I drive past him many times a day.

My daughter and her boyfriend walk past him often, on their way to the post box, or taking the dog for a stroll. Sometimes my daughter goes past on her bike, on her way out somewhere.

Invariably Ken will emerge from his hut to stop us and ask if we are here for the walks, if we want to visit the tea room or go to the house.

The first few times it happened we would respond: "No, no, it's ok, we live here, we're just out for a walk," or "Hello, Ken, it's me, Doris, I'm just off to the estate office."

However, despite these repeated clarifications, Ken never recognises any of us next time we go past. Which can literally be 10 minutes later on the way back from the post box or office.

"It's like being in Memento," sighed my daughter.

Maybe I should buy Ken a polaroid camera.

The Maize Maze

2007-08-17T19:41:00.000+01:00

Some of you may recall my scepticism regarding the maze ever being open before the end of the season. And the Rabid Badger theme.

However, the recent bout of sunshine after the rains has given the maize a much needed growth spurt and earlier this week my Boss decided the time had come to make the maze.

This, as predicted, involved he and Lovely Warden disappearing into the field of maize armed only with some string and a strimmer. After a couple of hours they re-emerged, caked in mud.

"Does it look like a badger?" I asked.

"Well, we simplified the design a bit."

"Right."

McColleague and I had some concerns, so decided to test the maze ourselves before sending unwitting members of the public into it.

Note the badger motif (no longer rabid, thankfully).

There is a quiz sheet to go with the maze, with badger related things to spot en route. McColleague was in charge of that and duly ticked things off as we trudged along.

"I'm bored now," she said, some time later.

"What time did we come into the maze?" I asked.

We worked out we'd been at it for about 10 minutes.

Twenty minutes later we had reached the "Finish" sign.

"Well, that wasn't worth £2," opined McColleague.

I think I'll just put out a donation tin.

Apple Tree

2007-08-13T20:34:00.000+01:00

While out walking today, assessing the flood damage to the Nursery Rhyme Trail, and regretfully discovering that apart from a bit of silt on the footbridges the rest of the exhibits were completely unharmed, I spotted this apple tree. It has just the one, red apple upon it.

It looks slightly unreal, like a set dressing. It really fits with what a Nursery Rhyme tree should look like. It is my favourite thing on the walk at the moment. Still, once the apple drops, it will be just a tree again. There must be a metaphor for something in there....

Washer Woman

2007-08-09T21:25:00.001+01:00

The washing machine died. It didn't just stop working. Oh no. First it let me strip all the beds, load it up with lots of towels and jeans, filled itself with water and then it stopped working.

When I finally managed to get the laundry back out of it again it had started to smell a bit funny. Being a bit of a clean freak I couldn't bear it, so finished the load of washing by hand, in the bath tub.

Wet towels and jeans are amazingly heavy when you can't spin dry them. I actually sprained my wrist, and not in a fun way. As I pegged out my exceptionally soggy washing in the hope it would drip dry (and in a state of anxiety in case the line snapped and all my back breaking labour ended up in the duck shit) I had a flash of inspiration. There are numerous holiday cottages on the estate, surely there'd be one with a washing machine. If I was lucky, there may be an unoccupied one with a washing machine!

I was lucky! The cottage was a mile and a half up the road, but that was still better than having to wash all my kit by hand, in the bath.

So that is why I have been a little quiet this week, on the blogging front. I have been spending all my spare time trekking up and down the road with my baskets of washing. I have been on a mission to wash as much as possible before the holiday cottage is occupied again tomorrow, in the hope we will then all have enough clean knickers to last until the new machine arrives.

Mending Fences

2007-08-06T22:04:00.000+01:00

Some freeloading git has broken the fence next to the padlocked gate. They have obviously attempted to climb over the railings, given the footprints in the grass leading up to the fence, and have snapped the top bar clean away from its post. Possibly the weight of all the change in their pockets, saved from not paying the admission fees, has been a contributory factor.

I wonder if they hurt themselves?

"You Don't Remember Me, Do You?"

2007-08-04T19:47:00.000+01:00

It's a phrase that causes an internal slumping of the shoulders every time I hear it.

Today is no exception. I have given my customary welcome as this visitor enters the house and he has responded with "you don't remember me, do you?" My smile remains constant as I search the filing cabinets of my mind. Is he a volunteer I used to see occasionally at a previous property? Is he a visitor I have had a lengthy chat with a year or two ago? A member of staff I was on a course with some time?

It's no good. The folders in my mental filing cabinets are as blank as my expression. He takes pity on me.

"It's Dave! I service your water filter. It'll be due for another in a couple of weeks."

"Dave! Right! Yes, of course. Sorry, it's because I'm seeing you out of context," I explain, relieved the Visitor Memory Game was over for the moment. Dave still looks a little crestfallen I hadn't remembered him. I feel a little guilty, as if I have somehow chosen not to store the water filter man's face in my memory banks. The problem is I see literally hundreds of people every day. If I remembered all of them I'd have no room left to store important memories like where I put my shoes or how much wine is left in the fridge.

The slightly awkward moment ends as I gratefully spot more visitors approaching the door. "Hello," I smile. "Have you visited before?"

"No, they reply. "It's our first time."

I am genuinely delighted to hear that.

Body Odour

2007-08-01T22:17:00.000+01:00

An instantly identifiable smell permeates my office.

It swells and fades throughout the day, and is proving difficult to pinpoint. That hasn't stopped me dragging everything out of every corner in my search for the source.

It is the smell of decaying rodent. That awful dead mouse smell that nothing can mask. Unfortunately it is very rare to find the actual body, having gone through this process many times in different rooms of the house. If the unfortunate animal has died under the floorboards or in a wall cavity, we're stuck with it until nature takes its course. My pest control chap has a supply of "rodent deodorant" for these situations, but, frankly, it's so pungent it's a close call as to which smell is harder to live with.

Given the overpowering stench one tiny dead mouse can produce, it does make me wonder how killers manage to hide bodies under floorboards without detection. I have spent the day sitting as close to the open window as possible, apologising to my volunteers for the terrible smell and recommending they eat their sandwiches outside today.

Summer, Finally

2007-07-31T22:21:00.000+01:00

It has been simply heavenly having a return to sunny, summer weather. The only remaining signs of the floods are the terribly gouged and potholed roads and the fact that there are an awful lot of carpets and furnishings now discarded outside people's homes.
And the return of the good weather means the return of barbecue season! The fridge has been restocked accordingly.

Back to Normality

2007-07-29T18:33:00.000+01:00

Well, almost.

It has been a challenging week. After the drama of the previous week it has been a huge relief to have had a sunny, mostly dry weekend. In particular it has been great to have some visitors again. We opened as normal during the week, but we were fighting a losing battle, really. The surrounding roads were still closed, with many of the staff and volunteers being unable to get to us, let alone visitors. While the catering staff stood around in the empty tea room, the scones untouched, the cakes uneaten, the volunteers roamed the deserted house, switching on lights and moving the furniture in an attempt to remain entertained.

There were a couple of days where everyone went home early, after having no customers at all for hours. Conditions have been generally gloomy.

Thankfully, things seem to be improving. I hardly had to put anything back to how it should be in the house today, which must mean they were nicely busy again.

Uninvited Guests

2007-07-24T16:01:00.002+01:00

I stood on the lawn in front of the house, smiling and chatting to the assembled group.

They had each paid to be a part of our Pledger and Benefactor day and we were making sure they felt they received their money's worth. I had given a guided tour of the house and was now making myself available to answer any questions they might have.

As I explained for the seventh time in as many minutes about why the house is limewashed, and therefore not black and white, I noticed a couple of people in the crowd that I was certain were not part of the group. For a start, our Pledgers and Benefactors were all dressed in wet weather gear and sensible footwear, having previously toured the woods and farms on the estate. They also wore name badges. A couple in brightly coloured shorts, with a dog in tow, stood out somewhat.

I watched them for a while, as I continued to chat to our official guests. They'd obviously taken advantage of the unpadlocked gate, as this was actually a closed day, and they would have found the ticket office unmanned. Dogs are not allowed beyond the Gatehouse either, so my hackles were up, but I felt loathe to have a public confrontation in front of our VIPs.

Eventually the man separated from his companion and headed into the house. I was agog at the cheek of it. I finished my conversation about limewash and excused myself. I found the uninvited guest in the Great Hall.

"Hello," I smiled. "Are you with the Pledger group?"

"Oh no, " he replied, "we're just visitors."

"Ah," I said. "Well I'm afraid we're actually closed today. This is a private function."

"Well nobody told us!" he exclaimed.

"That's because there was nobody in the ticket office to tell you. Because we're closed."

I walked him back outside and locked the house before any other opportunistic passersby wandered in.

I then scampered over to the courtyard where McColleague was in charge of the refreshments. I began to recount my tale of naughty visitors blagging a free visit.

"So, I had to usher him out of the door and - bloody hell! There they are again! I've asked them to leave once already!"

Sure enough, the completely unfazed couple, with dog, were now wandering into the courtyard and having a good look round.

"Well," huffed McColleague, "the nerve of it! I'd be so embarrassed, wouldn't you, if I found out I was in the middle of a private function and shouldn't be there?"

"Absolutely," I agreed. "They'll be over here wanting a cup of tea and a biscuit next!"

Our steely stares may have dissuaded them for trying for a free cup of tea, though. As it was they made a point of having a leisurely stroll around, before sauntering off - in the opposite direction to the exit. It was most frustrating. It was as if they knew I couldn't go for the jugular, wouldn't risk a potential scene, it being a day to impress our paying guests and all.

How very, very naughty some people are.

Flooded

2007-07-21T18:19:00.000+01:00

I had taken the week off, as holiday, and even booked a locum, so I could be entirely footloose and fancy free.

Ah, the joy of getting up in a leisurely fashion, happy in the knowledge Somebody Else Was Dealing With It. I decided to spend my time off having some day trips out to visit friends and to spend some time with my family. So I drove into town yesterday for a girls day out with my daughter. We had our hair done, shared a splendid lunch, did a bit of shopping. It rained incessantly but I was determined to enjoy my time off, so stayed out as long as possible. A text arrived on my mobile phone. It was from McColleague: The Boss has closed the house and estate and sent everybody home, due to the severe weather.

Perhaps it was time to return, after all.

The journey home was exciting, to say the least. During the hours we'd spent in town the road had flooded in several places and long queues of cars had formed wherever one of these impromptu fords had occurred. The rain lashed the windows of the car, big 4x4s and lorries zoomed by and sent waves of water flooding over us, reducing visibility further as my poor squeaky windscreen wipers tried to keep up with the job in hand.

I was relieved when, an hour later, we finally made it back onto the estate.

"Nearly home now," I said to my daughter.

We drove through the first mile of parkland, the single track road now a torrent of water. The road twists and turns downhill and the last stretch goes through the woods. As we entered the trees I had a feeling all was not well. I couldn't see the road ahead in the distance, just a mass of foliage.

As we drew nearer I could see the massive tree which had fallen down, completely blocking the road. "I'm not staying here in case any more trees are about to come down," I said as I reversed all the way back through the woods and onto the parklnad again.

I phoned my Boss. He was with Lovely Warden in the landrover and we didn't have to wait long before they arrived.

"We'll go down and take a look," said my Boss. "Then we'll come back and let you know the situation."

They rode off into the murk of the woods, and my daughter and I sat and waited, the rain drumming on the roof.

Eventually they returned. "It's too dangerous to move," yelled my Boss from the landrover. "We'd be putting ourselves at risk if we try to work in there now."

I was perplexed. How was I going to get home? There is only the one road.

"Is there anyone in the house now?" asked my Boss.

"There's my daughter's boyfriend," I replied.

"Well, phone him and get him to walk up to the fallen tree from the house, and bring your wellies and wet weather gear. Lovely Warden and I will drive you down to the tree in the landrover and get you around it on foot. You'll have to leave your car here."

There then followed a few minutes of prioritising, as I peered into the boot of the car and decided which shopping I would carry on foot and what I would leave behind. It says a lot about how people react under pressure, as I opted to bring the cheesecake and wine and leave behind the toilet rolls.

My daughter and I then clambered into the back seat of the landrover, with our bags, and headed back into the wild woods. My Boss wasn't happy. He kept looking out of the window and saying scary things like "That one's going to go soon, as well."

When we reached the fallen tree again we were instructed to stay put while he and Lovely Warden assessed the best route past it.

"Right," he said, opening the landrover door and gesturing for us to scramble out. "I want you two out of here as quickly as possible."

He guided us up the steep muddy bank and around the massive uprooted base of the tree. My shoes were sodden and didn't provide much in the way of grip. My daughter had sensibly worn her Dr Martens so was doing somewhat better than I. Still, we did both make it to the other side and back onto the road without falling over or dropping the wine and cheesecake. We have finely honed survival skills.

Fortunately my daughter's boyfriend appeared at that point, soaked to the skin himself but clutching two carrier bags full of wellies. At least the final mile was walked with dry feet.

So, the house remains closed for the time being. We are cut off from the outside world rather efficiently. At times like this all you can do is settle down with your cheesecake and wine and count your blessings.

I've Come All the Way From...

2007-07-18T23:10:00.000+01:00

I was telling McColleague and Lovely Warden of my experiences with the visitors who had tried to blag a freebie the other week. We were standing on the lawn in front of the house, at the end of a long day. It was not an open day, but we had all been involved in the Pledger and Benefactor event.

"Then there are those who turn up on closed days and always claim to have come all the way from Australia or something." I was saying. "They have always travelled an unfeasible distance and this is the only time they can see the house, as they have to fly home in the morning, and their visit won't be complete without seeing the place. Which is why they've left it until 5pm on a closed day to turn up, as it's so very important to them."

I paused for breath, momentarily distracted.

A car was approaching along the drive. The gates must have been left open after our Pledgers and Benefactors had departed for the day.

Lovely Warden strode off to intercept them. The car drew to a halt alongside him, and the window rolled down.

I didn't hear the first part of the exchange, but as I drew nearer I had to try hard not to laugh.

"New Zealand?" said Lovely Warden. "No, sorry, that's not quite far enough. Now, if you'd said Australia we'd have let you in, but New Zealand...."

Fortunately he said it with such twinkly-eyed good humour no offence was taken. I will definitely be using that line again though.

True Grit

2007-07-16T18:18:00.001+01:00

Last year we had a celebration. McColleague and I decided to put on a bit of a do to mark an important anniversary in the history of the house. We went to the Cash and Carry to spend our massive £30 budget on drinks and nibbles to offer our visitors as they entered the house.

I made my signature dish - cheese and pineapple on sticks - and McColleague knocked up some "Festive Fizz" out of Lambrini, orange juice and lemonade. Our budget goes a long way. We set everything up on doily-lined trays on a table in the Gatehouse. It looked quite posh. We then sprinkled metallic confetti numbers around the base of the glasses to complete our theme. Fancy.

The thing about the gatehouse, though, is that the design means that it is a bit of a wind tunnel. If you stand in it with a tray of drinks and cheese and pineapple on sticks there is a strong chance great gusts of wind will blow assorted grit and debris all over you.

"The confetti!" I cried, as all our little numerical bits of glitter flew into various crevices of the gatehouse and across the lawn.

We spent much of the day trying to keep little black specks of who knows what from getting into our glasses of fizz. The cheese and pineapple was even harder work, as the grit just embedded itself into it.

"This was a terrible idea," McColleague asserted, and I was forced to agree.

"What we should have done," I opined, helpfully, "was to set all this up in the Ticket Office."

"Why didn't we?" wondered McColleague. We didn't know.

This year we had a Pledger and Benefactor day. It is a day for presenting the place at its best in the hope of impressing people so much they decide to give us money. McColleague and I were asked to provide the refreshments. We have a good reputation for refreshments, given our past triumphs. This time we played safe, and stuck to tea, coffee and biscuits. We waited until the last possible moment to put everything out on the tables, which, granted, were outside in the courtyard, but under cover and not in a gusty area.

And yet, despite these efforts, there was still a moment or two when I had to excuse myself as I discretely replaced the milk which had inexplicably been contaminated with various bits of grit and a fly.

Amazing!

2007-07-12T21:54:00.000+01:00

There is a field of maize right next to the car park.

There was some talk of making a Maize Maze to entertain our visitors and generate a little extra income for the farmer.

There was further talk of making it in the shape of a badger.

I could spot a couple of major flaws in these plans.

1. The maize is still only ankle height. It is not going to be a challenging experience. By the time the maize has grown tall enough to create a truly enjoyable maze experience it will probably be the end of the visitor season.

2. My Boss is unlikely to employ a professional maze maker to create the badger motif. No. It will most likely fall to Lovely Warden to try to fashion something that looks vaguely like an animal out of uprooted plants. I foresee a blobby thing with four protuberances.

The ultimate nail in the Maize Maze coffin came earlier today. Our Learning Officer has been creating flyers to send out to various bodies, announcing the forthcoming attraction.

"Our Property's Maize Maze," the title proclaims. "Can you help our badger back to his set?"

And beneath it, this:
I am bewildered. What word had she intended to use, really? I mean, this is the work of our Learning Officer. How could she have looked at this and thought, "Yup. Job well done. That'll get them in"? How did she put them in envelopes and pop them in the post without once thinking "Hang on a minute! Not rabid. No. Fluffy! That's what I meant!"

I am not sure this is the best marketing ploy we've ever tried, myself.

I Have the Power

2007-07-11T16:25:00.000+01:00

It's true. The delightful Miss Despina has bestowed a Blogging Community Involvement Award upon me. According to the creator of this award, (Mike at Ordinary Folk)"when it comes to blogging, schmoozing is your ticket to making new friends, getting yourself noticed and building a reputation."

I am surprised really, as I always thought I was a grumpy old ratbag who did not so much schmooze as complain endlessly about volunteers, visitors and badly conceived Nursery Rhyme Trails. Maybe complaining is the new schmoozing!

Still, it is very nice to receive anything, and, like my other award, this one will not change my life.

Apparently I am supposed to choose five other bloggers to receive this award. That's a tough call, as most of the bloggers I know would prefer a crate of booze or the equivalent in cash. If you're a blogger and would like this award instead, do let me know.

But surely those signs don't apply to me?

2007-07-08T12:03:00.000+01:00

11am, an hour before we open.

I am getting the house ready, taking off the bat covers and checking the loos are clean. I spy three men the other side of the moat, walking towards the gatehouse.

I head over to the gatehouse myself. They are just the other side of the heavy oak door. I can hear their voices. I open the door, which momentarily surprises them.

“Hello! I’m afraid we don’t open until 12.”

“Yes, I know. It's ok. I’ve been before, I’m just showing these two round.”

“Right. But I’m afraid we don’t open until 12, as it clearly says on the signs on all the gates you’ve come through.”

He decides to go for the cheeky chappie approach.

“Have we woken you up? Were you having a lie-in?”

“No. I am busy getting the house ready for when we open at 12. In the meantime I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises until then, for health and safety reasons.”

“Health and safety, eh? That gets everywhere these days doesn’t it?”

“Yes. It does. Are you members?”

“No.”

“Right. Well if you want to visit the house you’ll need to go back to the car park and come through our ticket office, where you can buy an admission ticket.”

“There was nobody there.”

“No, that’s because we don’t open until 12.”

“We’ll be long gone by then.”

“’Oh, I’m sure you will. Enjoy your free visit.”

Long Service Award

2007-07-06T13:40:00.000+01:00

Dear Doris

It gives me great pleasure to congratulate you on achieving 10 years of continuous service with our organisation.

Under our policy on Long Service Awards, you are eligible for an award of £100, just a small token to thank you for all the effort and commitment you give to our organisation. You will receive your award in the July salary payment.

Thank you for the dedication you have shown over so many years.

insert squiggly signature here

Director General

insert handwritten "Thank you" here

Doris' Creature Workshop

2007-07-04T17:23:00.000+01:00

On a budget of £0.00 I have created a Fairy and Ogre event! Yes, if you enjoyed the Nursery Rhyme walk you'll love the magical world I have conjured up for our Fairytale Trail.

Witness my impressive troll, fashioned from just a green balloon and a mask, hidden in a tree, at great personal discomfort and risk of falling in the moat, by me!

A fairy in the flowerbed. There are rather a lot of these dotted around the gardens and orchards. The gardener will be finding them for months. I just printed and laminated a bag full and hid them in trees and under bushes. I did not keep a record of how many I produced or where I put them.

Of course, the first thing a visiting child asked me was "How many fairies are there to find?"

I waxed lyrical on the nature of fairies. They come and go as they please. Could be seven, could be seventy.

"You don't know, do you?"

"No."

There was some concern, after my fairy frenzy, that there was nothing for the boys to spot, hence the boglin, situated, appropriately enough, in the wall outside the bogs. He has since vanished without trace, so I suspect he may have been nicked. This stands to reason, since he was the one of the few pieces of quality kit I had.

We also installed the Troll Feet and, bizarrely enough , a crocodile under the bridge.

And after all that effort, it bucketed down with rain, and the marquee was crammed with small children in bedraggled fairy wings making magic wands and getting covered in glue and glitter.

Magic.

Who's That Man?

2007-07-02T20:51:00.000+01:00

A very pleasant couple were leaving, heading back to the car park via the Ticket Office.

"Did you enjoy your visit?"

"Oh yes, yes thank you."

"Oh, good."

"Can I just ask - who was that man, outside the house?"

"You mean our volunteer? Why, what did he say?"

"Yes, well, when we walked up to the front door he asked us 'Have you been to this dump before?'"

"Ah yes. That would be Dick. He's a character."

I like Dick, he's funny. He has a habit of saying things that people are quite sure he couldn't possibly have said. It brightens up a rainy afternoon.

The Birds

2007-06-29T17:48:00.000+01:00

I am surrounded.

When I go out of the front door there are young swallows on the verge of fledging, in a nest just above my head. The only problem is that they produce a shocking amount of poo. Fortunately Lovely Warden has lovingly crafted a doorstep and doormat protector from pieces of wood. So there are still unsightly piles of poo, but on pieces of wood.

When I step outside my back door I am met by this scene.

The ducks know where grain happens. They beg every bit as much as the cats and dog for their meals. Lurking at the edges of the garden are the moorhens. They are cautious birds and dart in amongst the ducks to grab their share of what's on offer. There is a new family at the moment, the baby moorhens like tiny black pom poms running about the lawn.

I spend a lot of time going "awwww, they're so cute!" and not getting any work done.

Whoops

2007-06-28T18:13:00.000+01:00

I was spouting forth to Young Volunteer this morning about the failings of our organisation's technological side, because I couldn't find any accurate information about events on our own website.

"The thing is," I said, "that we can be shockingly bad at the IT side of - whoops!"

I had somehow managed to pour most of the cup of herbal tea I had been holding into my keyboard.

Young Volunteer is learning so much from me.

Missing

2007-06-27T17:31:00.000+01:00

McColleague has gone on holiday this week.

Luckily I have the lovely young volunteer I mentioned here, who is now experienced enough to be able to perform most of McColleague's duties in her absence.

She works until about 1 pm each week day and then departs, so I always close up the house myself every evening. Some of my volunteers who steward in the house in the afternoon like to stay on after we close, to help me put the house to bed. Tonight my volunteer and I went to the Court Cupboard to fetch the bat covers. These are the tyvek sheets we use to protect all the surfaces in the Great Hall from the bats which like to socialise in the rafters after dark. They are taken off in the morning, stored in the cupboard, and put back on when we close.

We opened the cupboard door. Wow. All the sheets were neatly folded.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed my volunteer, in shock. "This is very tidy."

He was right. Normally McColleague or I just grab the covers from the tables and chairs, bundle them up and stuff them into the cupboard in a big, bulky ball.

"Ah," I explained. "That would be our young volunteer who helps in the house in the mornings."

"She's folded them all up," he said, somewhat redundantly, as we both stood looking at their folded neatness. "I thought half of them were missing at first, but it's just that they take up so little room like this."

"Well, she's young and still cares," I said. "She hasn't become jaded like McColleague and I. We just stuff them in any old how. It's not like they're best quality tablecloths - they're only going to get covered in poo."

"True," he agreed.

"Plus it probably took her ages," I ponted out, "whereas McColleague and I can have this room open in under a minute."

"Still, it's nice that she bothered."

"Yes."

I miss McColleague.

Happy Feet

2007-06-25T19:26:00.000+01:00

McColleague and I went shopping for arts and crafts items for our next big event.

We had a fairytale theme so were delighted when we spotted some stone feet stepping stones in the gardening department of Woolworths.

"They'd be perfect as troll footprints under the bridge!" we exclaimed. "We'd be crazy not to buy them!"

Once we got them back to the office we unwrapped them and decided we needed Lovely Warden to help install them properly outside. We decided to text him a picture to illustrate our request. McColleague and I giggled just as much over our handiwork (footwork?) here as we did over our halloween exhibit or the nuts incident. Is this childish?

Coach Parties Welcome

2007-06-24T18:01:00.000+01:00

Sometimes you just have a feeling that a particular group will prove challenging.

It began with an email.

Regarding our group visit to thehouse next Friday, 14 of us would like the quiche, 12 would like the ploughmans, the others don't know yet but I'll let you know their choices as soon possible. We'd also like to book the guided walk of the estate, thanks.

I was confused. What group visit next Friday? I went through my diary and my bookings file. Nothing.

I wrote back.

Thanks for confirming your choices for lunch and your booking of an estate walk. Would you be so kind as to complete the attached booking form, so I know how many of you there are, your time of arrival and so on?

The reply was illuminating. Apparently the organiser had already completed a booking form and posted it. The only problem was they'd sent it to the wrong address, hence my surprise at the unexpected lunch confirmation.

So, with only a few days notice, we arranged their visit for them. They were to arrive by coach at 11am, have coffee at our tea room on arrival, then half of them wanted to have a guided walk of the estate, while the other half wanted to visit the house. Then they all required a group lunch. This took a bit of planning, as the tea room is a good two miles away from the house. In the end we came up with the simplest solution. My Boss, who would lead the walk, would go to the tea room when they arrived for coffee and take those who wanted the guided walk on a stroll through the woods. The other half of the group would get back on the coach and be driven down to the house. My Boss would bring his group down to me, finishing his walk at the house, and then the two groups could re-merge, get back onto the coach and head up to the tea room together when they were ready for their lunch.

I did have doubts about the group's ability to master this plan. Considering that they didn't manage to send back the form to the address printed on it, I was not overly optimistic about the chances of them even turning up on time. Or to the right place.

11am came and went. I gave McColleague my "I told you so" look. My Boss radioed. "What time did you say this coach was coming?"

Forty minutes later the coach finally arrived. My Boss gave them a few minutes to get their coffees and then went over to the tea room. He welcomed them warmly and explained that he would be taking those who'd requested it on a guided walk, while the others would drive straight on down to the house. "Any questions?" No, they all understood perfectly. "Right, well I'll go outside and all those who are coming on the walk can meet me by the coach."

Ten minutes later a small group had assembled by the coach. "What are we doing again?" they asked. "Am I on the walk or the coach?"

By the time my Boss was approaching the gates to the house an hour later, he was beginning to feel the strain. Still, at least he hadn't lost any of them en route. He radioed me again. "We're just approaching the house," he said. "The organiser has some money for today's visit and wants to know where she should pay."

I sighed, inwardly. This was all explained in the booking information I sent. "If she goes to the ticket office on arrival, they'll be happy to deal with it."

A few more minutes passed. The group arrived in front of the house. One of the party approached me. "Hello! I've got some money to pay for today's visit."

"Right. Yes. If you just call in at the ticket office, there," I pointed, "they'll be able to take your payment."

"Where?"

"That building there. You just walked past it to get here. It's usually quite hard to miss."

My Boss finished his part of the proceedings with a relieved smile. "This is the end of the walk, folks," he said. "I hope you enjoyed it. I'll hand you over to Doris now. Anything you want to know about the house, you just ask her."

He patted me on the shoulder as he took his leave. "This lot are daffy," he hissed in my ear before striding away.

"So, what are we doing now?" was the first query from the group.

"Well, now you can have a tour of the house, have a look round the grounds, and then your coach will take you back to the tea room for lunch at 2 o'clock".

At 2.30pm I noticed two things as I walked through the orchards. Firstly, the coach had gone. Secondly a group of people had accumulated near the now empty coach bay. I went over to investigate, with a due sense of foreboding.

"Oh, good," said the organiser of the coach party as I drew near. "Can you call someone at the tea room and get them to find our coach driver? He's taken some of the others back to the top, but we've been left behind and we're really hungry. We'd like our lunch now, too!"

I duly radioed through the message. There was a pause at the other end, where they were either tracking down the coach driver or laughing a lot. Or both, possibly.

I stayed with the group until the coach returned. I didn't want any of them wandering off again, or I could see this scenario playing out before me on an endless loop for the rest of the day.

At last all of them were on the coach and off to have their lunch. Where, despite their original email, detailing their menu choices, none of them could remember what they'd pre-ordered.

Yes, they were a challenging group. Perfectly pleasant, if a little confused. By the end of the day we were almost sorry to see them go. Almost.

But is it art?

2007-06-21T17:52:00.000+01:00

I received an email informing me that the Learning Officer would be organising a two day art partnership event, with an artist present both days to work with the visiting school classes. Felt making and sculpture, it said.

The days it was due to happen coincided with my days off. On the morning of the first day I encountered Lovely Warden on site, as I walked the dog. He had just pounded in an avenue of fence posts in the orchards, as per the instructions of our Learning Officer.

"What's all this for?" he asked me.

I explained about the art and sculpture thing.

"But what are these posts for?"

I shrugged. I had no idea.

Bidding him farewell I made good my escape for the rest of the day. When I returned I boggled at the sight before me. That couldn't be it, surely? Maybe it wasn't finished yet.

I went out again on the second day. I returned later that evening and, yes, that really was it. After two days, and at great expense, having involved the time and labour of Lovely Warden to install numerous fence posts and hiring the talents of a professional artist, the end result was a collection of tattered tramp beards on a line, slap bang in front of the house, ruining the view.

And no matter which angle I looked at it from, it didn't get any better. No amazing sculpture revealed itself.

Still, that night the big storm came and the next morning only the posts remained. How very fortuitous.

Bigger Rain

2007-06-20T18:42:00.001+01:00

Well, that was an impressive storm .

Ironically enough, the digger had returned first thing yesterday morning to repair the hole, again.

Watching the river of rainwater flowing across the fields and down across the path, over the newly filled in hole, I began to suspect further repairs may be necessary.

As it turned out, the hole withstood the tide rather well, but the path itself has lost a lot of its surface. Great grooves have been gouged out and bare rubble remains.

The tea room flooded again, a couple of paths in the woods were washed away and the bridge which forms the only access to one of our holiday cottages was swept away entirely, stranding the elderly holidaymakers within. Needless to say it has been an incredibly busy day, especially for our wardens. They have been dashing about in waders, putting things right, building temporary bridges, mending pathways and just being rugged.

Given the unsettled forecast I comfort myself with the expectation of lots more warden in waders action during the week.

Stung

2007-06-18T17:34:00.000+01:00

This is what happens when cats swat insects that sting.

Poor Jules, he never learns.

I suspect he must have decided to play with a wasp. If it had been a hornet the effect of its sting would have been far worse I fear.

Every summer we encounter hornets here. They tend to build their nest in the hollow oak tree opposite the house, and head unerringly for the lights once darkness descends.

On one occasion we had two or three circling the lightbulb on the landing and I was too scared to go past them to the bedroom. I slept in the living room, big wuss that I am. And I am right to be wary. Hornets are enormous and menacing with a subsonic rumble that makes bumble bees sound like Joe Pasquale on helium. Many people will tell you that they are less aggressive than wasps, and unlikely to sting, but I am not prepared to give them the opportunity. I avoid them rather than trying to kill them. They are tough creatures and no matter how much you blast them with chemical spray they will not fall down. When they get zapped by the electric bug killer they sizzle and spark and refuse to expire for a good half hour.

One memorable night I went up to bed, snuggled up under the duvet and fell asleep. An hour or so later my husband came upstairs to join me. Time passed, all was snoozy and fine, and then suddenly:

"AAAAAARGH! Oh great buggery FUCK! OW!"

I sat bolt upright in bed, fumbling for the light, as my husband continued to howl anguished obscenities while flailing around the bedroom.

His upper thigh was reddening and swelling rapidly as the culprit crawled sluggishly out from under the duvet. Somehow a hornet had got into the bedding at some earlier point in the evening and I had been sleeping with it in blissful oblivion until my husband had got into bed and disturbed it. Unfortunate as it was for Bert to be stung on the upper thigh he considered himself miraculously lucky not to have been stung any higher up. Though he was saddened at missing out on the opportunity to give the old "take away the pain and leave the swelling" joke a bit of an airing. Sadly, or thankfully, depending on your point of view, I have no photo to illustrate his swollen appendage, but it was impressive. And I am henceforth wary of hornets and check the bed carefully before retiring, if I've had the windows open.

Big Rain

2007-06-16T17:45:00.000+01:00

I stood at my kitchen window gazing out at the sheets of rain cascading down. I knew what to expect next. Every time we have heavy rain a river flows through my kitchen. It begins in the utility room, flows gracefully through the kitchen, and out to the back door. This time was no exception and we resignedly moved shoes, chairs and the dog's bag of Eukenuba out of the way as the water began its progress.

However, this time the rain brought with it a multitude of tiny toads.
Well, they might be toads. They might be frogs. They really are far too tiny to tell, as you can see from the picture above. They are about the size of my little finger nail and I must have collected about 30 before I went to bed that night, carefully placing them outside, only for them to return a few minutes later. I can't bear to leave them though, partly because I am so scared of accidentally stepping on one, and partly because they tend to dehydrate and die overnight and I find their tiny dried spindly bodies too unbearably sad as I suck them up the hoover.

The following morning I excitedly reported the tiny toad invasion to McColleague when she arrived for work. She pointed out there were hundreds outside the front door too, the visitor entrance to the house, their tiny bodies clambering over the fibres in the coconut door matting and clinging to the boot brush. Some had already been squished. So, I made a sign, saying "Watch your feet! Tiny toads crossing!" It worked really well, and we had great fun watching people gingerly picking their way across the lawns, trying not to step on any mini amphibians.

The big rains also caused the reappearance of another familiar feature. Yes, the hole is back, bigger and better than ever!
Here you can see the lovely McColleague pointing at it in true local newspaper photography style. I tried to get the builder chap and his digger back again, but he was busy elsewhere on the estate, as the storm drains up at the tea room had also collapsed. The kitchen staff had arrived to find their kitchen entirely flooded. McColleague and I decided to go and investigate and see if any cakes needed rescuing. We are not too proud to eat water damaged scones.
Amazingly, despite the above setting, people were still sitting nearby to sip their cups of tea and shout polite conversation over the noise. I find it amazing that I get comments cards complaining about dribbly teapots, yet no one says a word when they have to leap a trench and dodge the digger, Indiana Jones style, in order to enter the tea room. It seems our visitors are just as unpredictable as our weather.

How is this possible...

2007-06-14T18:28:00.001+01:00

...when I only had two volunteers on duty today?

Grounded

2007-06-13T18:15:00.000+01:00

This is a young pipistrelle, found in my daughter's bedroom last night. Bats can't take off from the ground, they need to drop a small distance and then fly. Interestingly, as my husband discovered, once they are off the floor they don't need much height to fly at all. This one took off at about an inch off the ground, but fortunately flew out of the window and into the night without too much cajoling.

Isn't he beautiful?

Luck? Sheer bloody hard work, I'll have you know!

2007-06-12T18:02:00.000+01:00

It had been a long weekend. The local photography club had put up their exhibition in the marquee, having never displayed in an outdoor space before. Consequently their pictures spent the entire weekend wafting limply to the ground, as the double sided sticky tape they'd used just wasn't a match for the heat and humidity. I used up my entire office supply of sticky velcro reattaching the damn things every few minutes.

Then there was the time I had to spend on the phone arranging short notice cover for the Sunday. A couple of weeks ago one of my volunteers had come into my office to alter his shifts in the diary. "Doris," he said, wielding a biro, "I have crossed myself out for the Saturday, as you already have plenty of volunteers that day, and put myself down for the Sunday instead."

"Brilliant," I said. "Thanks."

Fast forward to the weekend in question and a few minutes past opening time, in comes the same volunteer. "Hello Doris," he cried, chirpily.

"Hello. What are you doing here? It's Saturday. You crossed your name out for today, and put it down for tomorrow, remember?"

"Did I? Oh dear. That's unfortunate. I've just agreed to do something else tomorrow."

"Brilliant," I said. "Thanks."

I smiled my way through the numerous "I didn't know we had an event on today" comments, sorted out the problem with the malfunctioning padlock which meant no one was able to get in, and raced about incessantly, dealing with everything from visitor enquiries to doling out change and loo rolls.

By the end of the Sunday I was flagging and at the face-ache stage of smiling.

"So, who lives in the house then?"

I couldn't bluff my way out of this one, as she was part of the re-enactment group and would find out eventually.

"I do, " I said.

"You lucky thing! I was just saying to your staff, yesterday, that whoever lives there, whatever they're paid, it's too much! To get paid and live here..." She looked at me again, hard and long. Whatever I was thinking was evidently not displayed in my public-facing persona. "You're so lucky!" she asserted once more.

What's Going On Today Then?

2007-06-10T21:37:00.000+01:00

I have mentioned this phenomenon before.

This weekend was no exception. My volunteers arrived, approaching the house through the myriad tents of the encampment which had sprung up in the orchards, the scent of woodsmoke lingering in their hair. People in costume went about their business, the blacksmith at his anvil, the women tending the cooking pots, soldiers practicing their swordplay.

Without fail, every volunteer was perplexed. "Hello Doris," they cried, eyes roving over the medieval scene before them. "What's going on today then?"

I smiled through gritted teeth, biting back my preferred response of "It's an Easter Egg Trail, what does it look like?" and gently pointed out that it was our 15th Century Weekend, as written on the wall chart and in the diary, in capital letters, with highlighter pen all over it, just above where they had written their own names directly beneath.

I have learned that it is completely pointless relying on them to spread the word about the exciting events we hold here as they are continually amazed that anything happens at all. Given the blanket coverage I already provide I am not quite sure how else to get them to take in such information. All I know is my face aches with patient smiling and I need another drink.

Throwaway Comment

2007-06-08T18:32:00.000+01:00

I unlocked the comments box and reached inside. I retrieved a slelection of cards and questionnaires, completed by our visitors and then deposited within the box. The questionnaires all have to be sent off to the company we use to compile the data at the end of the year.

One questionnaire immediately caught my eye. It had been scrawled on in red pen. An oversized "Fuck you!" gouged across the front page. Turning it over I saw the equally pithy "Fuck you. You smell. Gaylord." emblazoned across the back.

Does this count as a genuine visitor comment and should I still post it to the market research department?

The Digger

2007-06-07T19:08:00.000+01:00

At least I got to see it on my way out this morning. There was already an impressive pile of dirt next to the trench, which was now so deep that the builder could stand in it and have a fag and you'd never know he was there. I knew he was there, which is why he got out as I approached, which is a shame as I would have like a picture of him in his smoking pit.

I then headed off for a day long meeting about Visitor Services matters and when I returned everything seemed back to normal. I think that's because everything is back to normal, rather than my perception of reality being skewed due to a day spent saying things like "engaging our supporters" and writing SWOT analyses, but I will check in the morning to make sure.

The Expanding Hole

2007-06-06T18:01:00.000+01:00

A builder chap came to investigate the hole in the ground.

McColleague reported his findings back to me.

"He says yes, it's big, yes, it's deep, yes it's quite dangerous."

"Right you are," I said.

"Lovely Warden is going to mow an alternative path through the orchards and we'll cordon off that entire corner with hazard tape."

McColleague headed back out, while I said a quick hello to the incoming staff and volunteers, before joining her at the cavern's edge.

She was holding a red and white tattered bundle of shredded plastic in both arms.

"Well, we're off to a good start," she said. "Lovely Warden just ran over the roll of hazard tape with the lawnmower."

We laughed. After all, it wasn't our hazard tape, it was part of the warden's kit.

Eventually we managed to tie enough various shredded pieces of tape together to cordon off the danger area. The builder chap will return tomorrow with a digger. Annoyingly, I'll miss this as I have to go to a meeting at Regional Office for the day. On the plus side, when I return, there is sure to be a big trench across the path, possibly with ramblers in it.

The Hole

2007-06-04T18:51:00.000+01:00

I picked up an answer phone message from the gardener.

"We discovered a collapsed drain while we were mowing," he said. "We've cordoned it off but you might want to get it checked out."

I went outside to locate the hole for myself. It was easy to spot.

Nice barrier work, I thought. Mind you, the hole itself is somewhat bigger and deeper than I imagined. I have concerns it may extend beneath the surface for quite a way and I could need a bigger cordoned off area. Otherwise there is a possibility some visitors may be lost to the underworld. On the plus side, McColleague and I may be able to wear our helmets and lamps again!

Duck Rescue

2007-06-02T18:28:00.000+01:00

The call came at midday.

One of the residents on the estate had discovered a mother duck with seven ducklings on her pond. Unfortunately the dog had already eaten two ducklings and they were concerned for the safety of the rest. Could we possibly relocate them down here, to the moat?

Hmmmm. Not as simple as it sounds. Even if I caught the duck, how was I to get it the mile and a half down to the house?

I texted McColleague. "Do you want to be involved in a duck rescue this afternoon?"

She did. Which was good, as she is the only person I know who keeps ducks, so has a handy duck carrier to transport them in. "Should I bring my husband?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied. "I have a feeling the ducks will go everywhere when we try to catch them, so the more help the better. Mr Sparrow and I will meet you there."

Pausing only to fill a carrier bag with corn, we headed off to the top of the estate. McColleague and her husband were waiting for us. He was holding the large plastic box, in which we hoped to place our captured ducks, and McColleague was holding a small yellow fishing net, of the kind found in seaside souvenir shops. We rang the bell of the house in question. I am sure we made an impressive sight. The plastic bag of grain, which I had now discovered had a hole in in the bottom, the fishing net and the box. A truly professional outfit, guaranteed to inspire confidence at a glance.

"Hello," I said, brightly, as the door opened. "Did you call Duck Rescue?"

They had indeed. Ushering us through into their back garden we immediately spotted our prey. "Ok," said McColleague's husband, "we're only really going to get one shot at this."

Carefully we fanned out around the tiny pond, to form a pincer movement. Mother duck and her babies stayed just beyond the reach of the tiny fishing net, in the middle of the water. I threw corn. They ignored it and refused to come closer.

"Put your arms out," said McColleague's husband, demonstrating by assuming a cruciform pose. We did. The ducks moved a little further towards one side of the pond. There was a lunge, much quacking, some running around over the rockery and flower beds, and mother duck flew off into the garden next door.

"Bollocks."

McColleague and I stood guard over the ducklings, to ensure we didn't lose those too, while our respective husbands climbed over the wall to try to shoo mother duck back into our garden again. There was much quacking, the sound of foliage rustling, thudding feet, a cry of "Aargh, I almost had her!" and then mother duck flew overhead and out into the surrounding parkland.

The couple who had originally called us in as a duck rescue team came out to see how we were doing. We explained the situation as our husbands climbed back over the wall, duckless, and it was agreed mother duck would probably return if we stopped chasing her about and had a nice cup of tea instead.

We drank our tea and listened to the sound of anxious quacking from the other side of the wall. The ducklings were still with us, on the tiny pond, cheeping and cheeping for their mother. We waited. Mother duck did not return.

"OK, plan B," I said. "If we stress the little ones too much they'll die anyway. Mother duck isn't going to come back while we're here. The ducklings can't get to her as they can't get over the brick wall. Let's catch the ducklings, put them back with mum, over the wall, and hopefully she'll decide here is a bad place and take them away to somewhere safe."

At last the small yellow fishing net came into its own, as one by one the tiny ducklings were scooped up and carried over the wall. Mother and babies were reunited and left to take their chances in the wider world. It was the best result we could hope for, and at least they were away from ravening pet dogs. Foxes and other predators would still be a concern even if we had got them back to the moat.

We gathered up our duck busting kit: the dripping net, the bag leaking corn, the empty box. "Right, well, we'll be off now. Just call us, you know, if you need any other ducks rescuing."

We returned to our cars, glowing with the sense of a job well done and the exertion involved in chasing a small duck around a rockery.

Nursery Crime

2007-05-31T17:45:00.000+01:00

Just before I came here, a couple of years ago, my Boss had decided to make the place a bit more family friendly by creating a walk for children. It's a lovely concept. A gentle stroll, surrounded by imagery from familiar children's stories and rhymes.

My Boss being my Boss, however, didn't ask for any input at the planning stages, and just went for what seemed like a good idea to him at the time. If he had asked any of the numerous parents we have working here to test walk it first, or tell him what they would look for in a children's trail, it could have all been so different. As for the images en route, some subtle touches like a bell pull on a tree, some wood carvings or sculptures, maybe, would have blended with the landscape and been fun to spot. As it is, the artwork - and I use the term in the loosest possible way - was completed by the wife of one of his mates and can be seen from space.

The final result is a bizarre array of incredibly badly painted pictures, mounted on boards, weathering badly, randomly dotted along a walk that includes two sets of steep steps and a marsh. I have to send people off on this, when they turn up and ask if the Nursery Rhyme Trail is open. I do my best to warn them - sensible footwear, I say. Does involve steps, I warn. I have yet to find a way of saying sorry about the boards, please don't have nightmares.

I shall now take you on a virtual journey, so you can share my anguish.

This is the Wildflower Meadow. Not much in the way of wildflowers at the moment, granted, but still very pretty and perfectly pleasant. So far so good.

But behind you is a horrible thing. You can tell it's meant to be Humpty Dumpty, but it is not even egg shaped. And it has something very wrong with its legs. I wish it'd hurry up and have a great fall, so I can put it in the skip.

Now, this is meant to be Snow White's cottage. The dwarves are bigger than she is though, which bothers me.

The Three Little Pigs. I can accept that the house of straw and the house of sticks will be piss poor, as that's the point. But the house of bricks is meant to be strong and wolf-proof. This interpretation shows that the third little pig didn't bother with any foundations, or mortar, and didn't have enough bricks. The message to the kids is that, by rights, this pig should be so much wolf shit by now and that chicken wire is, in fact, the optimum building material.

What can I say? Oh, for a flame thrower.

After negotiating the steep flight of stairs down the side of the embankment we now find ourselves in the boggy bit. The unwary step off the end of the bridge onto what looks like solid ground, only to find it is actually a big green spongey mass that will suck your shoes off your feet while simultaneously releasing clouds of mosquitos.

Yes. It is supposed to be Mole and Ratty. Mole looks far more like a big poo, inexplicably wearing a suit, though.

What has happened to Tigger's lips? Why is Eeyore so wide?

This is a Billy Goat Gruff. He has been on steroids.

The steps back up to the non-scary world! Not exactly pushchair friendly. Not easy to climb with a toddler in tow, either. You have to lean quite a way to your right to reach the rail, in places, while nettles abound at toddler bare ankle height. Pretty though.

And to complete the tour, the final gate, which opens towards the steps, so if you had managed to get that far with some super all terrain mega pushchair, you now have to reverse back down while trying to open the gate at the same time. Tricky.

Next month I meet with the conservators and curators as part of the property conservation plan. This trail is on my hit list. The good thing about all that flakey, gaudy paint is that those boards are going burn brilliantly.

Bank Holiday Stake-Out

2007-05-29T22:10:00.000+01:00

Hundreds and hundreds of visitors came to the house on Monday.

Which is great, the people who tot up the figures will be pleased.

It's not too hard for me, as I am busy working, so don't expect any alone time anyway. It is more difficult for my family, who have to share their home with hundreds of other people every weekend and Bank Holiday. They're very good about it, and are accustomed to having volunteers tapping at the kitchen door, needing more milk or trying to track me down if I've selfishly popped home for two minutes to go to the toilet or something. And it's probably just as well the weather was too wet to sit out in the garden. If you do, you will find yourself becoming one of the attractions. Looking out of my kitchen window I saw a line of people, just gazing over the garden fence into the back garden.

They are understandably curious as to who lives there, and why it says "Private" on the gatepost. Which is a bit of a misnomer, as the one thing I cannot have here is privacy. I feel a strong affinity with zoo animals now. There's a reason why chimps behave as they do, you know.

Mystified

2007-05-28T19:50:00.000+01:00

Earlier this year I sent out a letter to all the local craftspeople on my database. In it I gave the price for reserving a stall at the May Craft Fair, and explained that this fee was for the pitch itself, which included a standard sized trestle table, based in a marquee in the grounds.

One craftsperson returned their form, asking if they could have their table against a wall, preferably in a corner of the marquee, as they would be displaying handmade cushions and didn't want them to fall off the table.

I duly allocated tables according to specified requirements and reserved one, in the corner, and moved it as close to the side of the marquee as possible.

The lady in question arrived, looked at it, and went ballistic. It wasn't enough room, it was all wrong, wrong, wrong.

"I'm a serious marketeer!" she exclaimed.

Blink.

And she flounced off, taking her cushions with her.

Clouds

2007-05-26T20:51:00.000+01:00

Due to the aesthetic restrictions of living in this picture perfect house, I can't put my satellite dish up outside. It ruins the medieval atmos, apparently.

I have to hide the dish in an attic space and point it at the open window. This means that sometimes the reception isn't as brilliant as it should be. It's a great deal better than a bog standard TV aerial, but I still find myself watching wildly pixellated, staccato versions of well known films on the movie channels with depressing regularity.

Clouds. That's what causes it, apparently.

You bastard clouds, let me watch my telly box in non intermittent splendour!

(Shakes fist heavenwards and refills wine glass)

Unexpected Visitors

2007-05-24T18:18:00.000+01:00

McColleague entered the office, hands cupped together. "I need the bug jar!" she cried.

I leapt into action, retrieving the clear plastic pot and lid we keep for such times. A moment later we stood back and peered at the small insect within. It didn't look like much, but we both recognised it for the pest it is. A clothes moth.

"Where did you find this again?" I asked.

"On the bed."

I groaned. This was bad. The bedroom houses some gorgeous textiles, and would, naturally, be the last place we'd want a moth infestation.

Sure enough, upon investigation, we found many more insects in the bedding and a treasure trove of bug activity between the carpet and underlay.

We don't use pesticides for such things. The recommended treatment is to put the textiles into a sealed plastic bag and then freeze them for a minimum of two weeks. This was fine for the bed covers, curtains and rug, but has left us with a bit of a problem with the mattress, carpet and underlay. The mattress is hand stitched and stuffed with hair and lambswool. I have a feeling it is also home to stuffed moth larvae, glutted on a feast of natural fibres.

The Wardens - New and Lovely - were kind enough to come and help us move the heavy four poster bed and drag out the heavy carpet. We have left them in charge of those items too large to freeze, while I await curatorial instruction, though if we wait too long there is a chance they'll do a bit of purification through fire. A manky old mattress and a carpet will go nicely on their next bonfire.

Of course, all of this occurred about an hour before we were due to open, so we had to close of the bedroom while I hurriedly made an explanatory notice and laminated some pictures of the bedroom as it should look, when its soft furnishings are not in the nearest freezer.

Still, there were some more welcome visitors today. In our courtyard area we have a corner where we sell plants. We also sell bird boxes. We have some really pretty, twee, painted ones. We also have some very rough and ready rustic ones, that Lovely Warden made with visiting children at one of our wildlife events earlier this year.

As we stood in the courtyard, Lovely Warden noticed a blue tit coming and going from one of the boxes. He waited until she'd flown off and had carefully lifted the lid on the box. Peering into the gloom within, he suddenly broke into a wide grin. "I thought so," he said. "I could see it was worms she was taking in, not nest material." He beckoned me over. There in the box was a fluffy mass of baby blue tits.

"Awwwwww," I said, going into instant soppy mode. "Fancy choosing here, where all the public come to buy plants! Ooh, I'd better make a sign!" I had horrible visions of someone picking up the box and rattling it, not knowing it was in use. Since then, I've discovered the box next door has also got a nest inside - no chicks yet, but two eggs. We saw the same blue tit going into both boxes.

"Can it really have two homes on the go?" I asked.

"Oh yes," nodded Lovely Warden. "If it's from Local Town it's probably servicing the whole street."

Explorers

2007-05-22T19:01:00.000+01:00

"Are the cows coming?"

I was half way over the ricketty gate, in a vulnerable position.

"No, they're still the other side of the hill."

"OK. Well, if they do come, and if that one with the horns is a bull, just save yourself. You're small and quick. I will distract them by flailing my arms about and getting trampled."

McColleague laughed, her eyes scanning the horizon as she calculated the sprinting distance between us and the next gate.

"I reckon we should be all right," she asserted.

McColleague and I had been on quite an adventure, exploring the estate on foot for the last four hours, through fields, woods, streams and parkland.

We found a little shelter in the woods.

It is where the community service kids have their base camp, brewing up tea over the fire when they are not clearing away fallen trees and maintaining the footpaths.

I particularly liked their sign over the door.

I am tempted to make it my own office.

We left the shelter behind us and moved on. We had a moment of indecision when faced with a herd of cows on the horizon. Should we walk through them, or go round on the other side of the hedge? We opted for the latter. As we walked up the hill we could see the cows on the other side of the hedge. They were only youngsters, half grown. We felt somewhat foolish. Turns out they weren't far away, they were just small.

We did a lot of clambering over stiles and fences. Eventually I managed to hurt myself on some barbed wire. "Watch out for the barbed wire," I said, giving my wound a lick.

"Ow!"

I was too late. I untangled McColleague and compared injuries. Mine was worse.

OK, so it was just a scratch. McColleague swallowed a fly too. It was a survival type exercise, all right.

Home was in sight when we encountered the final field, the cattle thundering toward us, eager to see what the two humans were up to on the other side of the fence. "I think there is a bull in this field," I said. "That one's got horns, anyway."

We decided to try to find another way past, and stood for some time peering over the ricketty gate at the expanse of apparently cow-free field before us. "I think we'll definitely be all right, climbing over this," I stated, confidently.

And, as it turns out, we were, despite the fact the electric fence keeping them from us just stopped halfway along. I decided not to draw attention to that fact and just walked a little faster. "I really need some tea," I said. "Come on.

Open All Hours

2007-05-21T19:05:00.000+01:00

"And you actually live here? You're so lucky!"

I hear this at least once a day. I try not to let on that I live here. When visitors ask about the part of the house not open to the public, I just say that it is still lived in. If pressed, I'll go as far as to say it is lived in by a member of staff. The volunteers, however, will rat me out in a heartbeat. "Doris lives here!" they state, pointing at me as I try to slink by, unnoticed.

And yes, it is amazing, and I am lucky, and it is beautiful....but....

The drawback is, of course, it is incredibly rare to just enjoy it, as when you live where you work, you are never really off duty. Closed days and evenings are very important to me, and the family, as these are the only times we can relax and treat the place as our home. Which, of course, it is, it's just that when the public are here you can't go playing loud music, washing the car in the courtyard, letting the dog out, lighting up the barbecue or even hanging out the laundry.

Next year the amount of time when the house is closed is set to diminish further, with opening times set to be earlier in the mornings and the open season starting in February and continuing until December, wherever possible. This means the time I can have to myself, undisturbed, is very precious to me.

The trouble is, my colleagues, the ones who work Monday to Friday, 9 to 5, who go home at the end of the day to a house they have all to themselves, keep booking in extra events and visits for every closed day and evening they can. I am thinking of becoming a naturist, just so I can go outside for a game of wobbly volleyball, or maybe jiggly pilates, and unsettle everyone so much they never disturb me during my time off again.

Centrepiece

2007-05-18T21:32:00.000+01:00

I asked my daughter to create a centrepiece for the dinner table. Something special, as we were making a bit of an effort.

This is what she came up with.

I like it.

Tiny Frog!

2007-05-17T12:06:00.000+01:00

It's that time of year again! Tiny frogs! (Or possibly toads. They are too tiny for me to tell.) There was great excitement, and a poor quality camera phone picture, when we found our first of the season.

At this time each year, when the nights are wet, they appear, in my kitchen, hopping across the terracotta tiles, slowly becoming covered in a tumbleweed of dog hair, until they are captured and put outside again. Last year they reached biblical proportions. We collected 50 in a box and emptied back outside, and by the time we'd done that, the kitchen was full again. It makes it very hard to walk from one room to another without stepping on them. What makes it harder is that when they are still they look like little stones.

"They're softer on your feet than gravel, though," opined my daughter.

Gloomy

2007-05-15T18:38:00.001+01:00

If there's one thing guaranteed to send me into a bit of a tailspin, it's finding a curt, arsey memo in my pigeon-hole on the day that its author has flown off on holiday for a week.