Sunday Sept 26th - Destination Chirk.
Woken by the sound of a pig passing by - oh me, oh my! - but all we can see is a retreating bicycle. We giggle. Pig on wheels? We pop our own pig into the frying pan and then it is time to find Chirk Castle, a fine National Trust affair with a lot to see. So at £10 a ticket it is in fact good value for once, not that we have to pay, but just in case you find yourself wanting to visit, go for it. Spend an entire day here, bring a picnic. Post pig I was feeling like nothing more tasty than a pair of Paracetamols, and BB is coming down in sympathy, sneezing for Wales. But with such beautiful weather it was hard to find fault. If you had to live in a castle, this would be a good one. Nice and squat, a bit like Tamworth, complete with dungeons and because this is Wales, also dragons. Whilst BB nips up the Medieval tower I look around the ground floor leading to the dungeons. I wish I wasn't feeling as if the world was going dizzy, and then see something that gives me a start.
'Good grief! Was that a sword knocking the table?' The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
'A sword? Hardly likely in this day and age, Madam,' says a sturdy young yeoman in a rather fetching tunic. (Am I really that unwell?)
He is leaning on something that does look remarkably like a sword, long, pointy, metal, hands clasped on the hilt, perfectly serious. My brain is having trouble catching up, one does not expect a sense of humour in a dungeon.
'Then you must be a ghost!' I reply, 'Would you mind if I passed my hand right through you, just to check?'
He bows.
'If you can manage that madam, you may wear one of my hats.'
I look at the table where a selection of metalware is waiting for unsuspecting visitors. With a head currently as thick as mine, I have no need of anything thicker to protect it.
'You wear the hat,' I suggest, ' I'll take the photo. And, by the way, there is another ghost, I heard a peacock whilst in the ladies, but I understand there are no peacocks at Chirk any more.'
'Damn! Outghosted!'
What a splendid peasant.
And see those brown leather leggings? They were in fact loose chaps, tied with thongs, so when the back is turned and the green mini-skirt hitches over the bum, you get a saucy flash of white long-john. Far too sexy for his hat this ghost.
The interior of the house is split into different historical ages: Medieval, 17th Century Long Gallery, 18th C state rooms all with ancient holly leaves on every seat so you have to keep going. Then there is the more modern East Wing where you can sit on all the very comfy chairs and chat to old ladies who remember the de Waldon family who didn't own the castle, but leased it from the Myddletons (Not Kate) from 1911- 46. There is a black and white film of this family growing up in perfect happiness, acting pantomimes, sledging - very Downton Abbey - and it turns out Tommy 8th Lord Howard de Walden was a true philanthropist and patron of just about everyone artistic, musical, and dramatic, in the first four decades of the 20th Century. His life reads like a tale of Boys' Own derring-do as he encompassed a huge variety of projects, a lot of them funded from his enormous inherited wealth. In fact we can blame him for virtually single handedly restoring the Welsh language to its current position, although he died in 1946 before that happened. You come away enchanted by the black and white 1930 idyll, and then visit the dismal Refectory which has tiny high windows and a list of rules to curdle your blood. One rule for the Myddletons and a lexicon for the others, although to be fair to Tommy, that wasn't under his watch.
Now let's visit the Laundry; an annexe of substantial proportions.. State of the art c. 1912. The very best washboards, huge copper, trundle baskets. Dirty laundry was brought in not only from Chirk castle, but by train from Dean Castle, in Scotland and Seaford House, Belgravia, London, - two of the other three De Waldon homes - met at the station by the chauffeur, washed in Wales, and dispatched back clean and pressed to the rest of the UK. My mind cannot really take in the scale of this operation, and it isn't just brain-fuzziness either. Was it showing off, or the most efficient way to launder three castles? Perhaps it was a very cunning plan and saved a mint. I really ought to go back and ask the old lady who knew them.
She doesn't know their laundry thoughts, but tells us,
'Lord Howard de Walden had his own suit of armour made, and used to do cartwheels on the lawn in it. He stomped about inside the castle too.'
I look at the impossibly pointy stiletto toes of the suit standing in the bay window.
'Didn't his wife have something to say about the holes in the carpet?'
I get the impression the de Waldens had enough money and probably a carpet factory in the Punjab with an annual order on their books, so we doubt if the holes were of any real significance. Tommy not only had a life-size suit of armour made, which was captured by Augustus John as he read The Times at breakfast suited and spurred, he also commissioned a tiny and very delicate replica.
You will be relieved to know that apart from these possibly slightly mad projects, he spent a good deal of his wealth on others, even instituting 999 year leases in Marylebone, (which he owned, lock, stock and single glazing.) The man was a glorious mix of eccentricity, philanthropy and so eclectic he has to be worth a salute of some kind. He fought in the Boer War, the First World War, supplied some rare new-fangled radios for the army, and whilst he fought in Egypt his wife accompanied him, set up and ran a wartime hospital in the heat and dust. He then went on to the Western Front. Twenty years later, too old to fight in Hitler's war, he organised the local Dad's Army at the castle, trained housemaids to shoot and throw methylated spirits at enemy tanks. No doubt he was a bit upset by then that when he ran Hitler over in the 1930's, he had later aplogized to him, rather than finishing the job.
Yes, that is true.
We bought a raffle ticket to help renovate a roof, from a 90 year old custodian lady from Finland who has lived here for 65 years. (Not in the castle, in the UK) That is one of the more interesting things about the National Trust, not just the buildings, but their living fossils. I shall make a point of chatting to them in more detail in future, but I'm afraid my usual levels of curiosity were a bit dimmed by the presence of the lurgy, so I cannot tell you her life-story. From her accent, I would say she was a Jewish Refugee. My DOM's friends were all Jewish Refugees, and it didn't seem to make any difference if they hailed from Germany, Poland or Italy, the accent and sense of humour was identical. We won't win the raffle, but she won our hearts.
Both of us feeling like a pair of podgy suet puddings by now having absorbed so much detail we could write a book, sorry a blog. As a result we nearly leave the castle without seeing the gardens. That would have been a mistake. They are worth the walk. Magnificent yew hedges.... A performance of Alice and playing croquet with flamingoes would be perfect on these lawns. A brilliant architectural use of the yew. But in case you are thinking of copying this technique in your own garden be aware it probably took about two hundred years to achieve the look.
No hawks in Tommy's hawk house, sadly, but autumn colour, crocuses, vistas over a haha into Wales - or possibly out of it, since we are looking east. A pair of deck chairs are provided for those who wish to sit. We dearly wish to sit, but have you sat in a deck chair since !965? It is an awful long way down. And even as a child they were virtually impossible to rise out of without tipping yourself onto the floor, so reluctantly we bypass this nice touch and choose a bench instead.
The whole place has a feeling of still being much cherished as if the ghost of Tommy is overseeing. He chose this place as his favourite home, although ironically it was not one of his own properties; he kick-started a Welsh revolution towards homnegrown art and drama and heritage, gave Dylan Thomas a house to live in whilst penniless. Somehow all that enthusiasm for detail and tlc still shows. Even down to sheet of paper in the ladies which lists all the resident cats; the ones that have died, and the ones you might still find...
Woken by the sound of a pig passing by - oh me, oh my! - but all we can see is a retreating bicycle. We giggle. Pig on wheels? We pop our own pig into the frying pan and then it is time to find Chirk Castle, a fine National Trust affair with a lot to see. So at £10 a ticket it is in fact good value for once, not that we have to pay, but just in case you find yourself wanting to visit, go for it. Spend an entire day here, bring a picnic. Post pig I was feeling like nothing more tasty than a pair of Paracetamols, and BB is coming down in sympathy, sneezing for Wales. But with such beautiful weather it was hard to find fault. If you had to live in a castle, this would be a good one. Nice and squat, a bit like Tamworth, complete with dungeons and because this is Wales, also dragons. Whilst BB nips up the Medieval tower I look around the ground floor leading to the dungeons. I wish I wasn't feeling as if the world was going dizzy, and then see something that gives me a start.
'Good grief! Was that a sword knocking the table?' The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
 |
| Chastity hat, titillating tights |
He is leaning on something that does look remarkably like a sword, long, pointy, metal, hands clasped on the hilt, perfectly serious. My brain is having trouble catching up, one does not expect a sense of humour in a dungeon.
'Then you must be a ghost!' I reply, 'Would you mind if I passed my hand right through you, just to check?'
He bows.
'If you can manage that madam, you may wear one of my hats.'
I look at the table where a selection of metalware is waiting for unsuspecting visitors. With a head currently as thick as mine, I have no need of anything thicker to protect it.
'You wear the hat,' I suggest, ' I'll take the photo. And, by the way, there is another ghost, I heard a peacock whilst in the ladies, but I understand there are no peacocks at Chirk any more.'
'Damn! Outghosted!'
What a splendid peasant.
And see those brown leather leggings? They were in fact loose chaps, tied with thongs, so when the back is turned and the green mini-skirt hitches over the bum, you get a saucy flash of white long-john. Far too sexy for his hat this ghost.
The interior of the house is split into different historical ages: Medieval, 17th Century Long Gallery, 18th C state rooms all with ancient holly leaves on every seat so you have to keep going. Then there is the more modern East Wing where you can sit on all the very comfy chairs and chat to old ladies who remember the de Waldon family who didn't own the castle, but leased it from the Myddletons (Not Kate) from 1911- 46. There is a black and white film of this family growing up in perfect happiness, acting pantomimes, sledging - very Downton Abbey - and it turns out Tommy 8th Lord Howard de Walden was a true philanthropist and patron of just about everyone artistic, musical, and dramatic, in the first four decades of the 20th Century. His life reads like a tale of Boys' Own derring-do as he encompassed a huge variety of projects, a lot of them funded from his enormous inherited wealth. In fact we can blame him for virtually single handedly restoring the Welsh language to its current position, although he died in 1946 before that happened. You come away enchanted by the black and white 1930 idyll, and then visit the dismal Refectory which has tiny high windows and a list of rules to curdle your blood. One rule for the Myddletons and a lexicon for the others, although to be fair to Tommy, that wasn't under his watch.
 |
| Model armour. |
 |
| Dean Castle, gifted by Tommy's son in 1975 to Scotland - now free entry. |
 |
| Seaford House now UK Defence Academy |
She doesn't know their laundry thoughts, but tells us,
'Lord Howard de Walden had his own suit of armour made, and used to do cartwheels on the lawn in it. He stomped about inside the castle too.'
I look at the impossibly pointy stiletto toes of the suit standing in the bay window.
'Didn't his wife have something to say about the holes in the carpet?'
I get the impression the de Waldens had enough money and probably a carpet factory in the Punjab with an annual order on their books, so we doubt if the holes were of any real significance. Tommy not only had a life-size suit of armour made, which was captured by Augustus John as he read The Times at breakfast suited and spurred, he also commissioned a tiny and very delicate replica.
You will be relieved to know that apart from these possibly slightly mad projects, he spent a good deal of his wealth on others, even instituting 999 year leases in Marylebone, (which he owned, lock, stock and single glazing.) The man was a glorious mix of eccentricity, philanthropy and so eclectic he has to be worth a salute of some kind. He fought in the Boer War, the First World War, supplied some rare new-fangled radios for the army, and whilst he fought in Egypt his wife accompanied him, set up and ran a wartime hospital in the heat and dust. He then went on to the Western Front. Twenty years later, too old to fight in Hitler's war, he organised the local Dad's Army at the castle, trained housemaids to shoot and throw methylated spirits at enemy tanks. No doubt he was a bit upset by then that when he ran Hitler over in the 1930's, he had later aplogized to him, rather than finishing the job.
Yes, that is true.
We bought a raffle ticket to help renovate a roof, from a 90 year old custodian lady from Finland who has lived here for 65 years. (Not in the castle, in the UK) That is one of the more interesting things about the National Trust, not just the buildings, but their living fossils. I shall make a point of chatting to them in more detail in future, but I'm afraid my usual levels of curiosity were a bit dimmed by the presence of the lurgy, so I cannot tell you her life-story. From her accent, I would say she was a Jewish Refugee. My DOM's friends were all Jewish Refugees, and it didn't seem to make any difference if they hailed from Germany, Poland or Italy, the accent and sense of humour was identical. We won't win the raffle, but she won our hearts.
 |
| Hawk House |
 |
| Hawk eye view |
 |
| A slice through time |
Both of us feeling like a pair of podgy suet puddings by now having absorbed so much detail we could write a book, sorry a blog. As a result we nearly leave the castle without seeing the gardens. That would have been a mistake. They are worth the walk. Magnificent yew hedges.... A performance of Alice and playing croquet with flamingoes would be perfect on these lawns. A brilliant architectural use of the yew. But in case you are thinking of copying this technique in your own garden be aware it probably took about two hundred years to achieve the look.
No hawks in Tommy's hawk house, sadly, but autumn colour, crocuses, vistas over a haha into Wales - or possibly out of it, since we are looking east. A pair of deck chairs are provided for those who wish to sit. We dearly wish to sit, but have you sat in a deck chair since !965? It is an awful long way down. And even as a child they were virtually impossible to rise out of without tipping yourself onto the floor, so reluctantly we bypass this nice touch and choose a bench instead.
 |
| Salt & Pepper Exit |
 |
| If you look in the disabled loo you will find his name |
What with light and health fading, we have to make tracks. We ask Molly to take us back home, it is less effort, theoretically. Perhaps she'd been at my Kindle again, she takes us into the Heart of Darkness. One day we will buy her an upgrade that works out the most intelligent route home, not the most popular. It seems the entire nation went on one last summer holiday this weekend, the motorways are packed, the side roads have stalled, so we limp, creep and chunter home up the M6, and don't really care because our final Travel with our Duchess this year has been a winner. We have heard ghosts of peacocks, seen ghosts in dungeons, at windows. What more can we want?
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| Goodbye |
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