A few weeks ago, we went to Longford Castle, which holds one of the greatest art collections in the country and works closely with the National Gallery. It was an interesting experience just getting there, not only in terms of the stringent ID demanded, but also the manner of transport.
The select group met at Salisbury Railway Station, where a specially chartered coach took us through winding country lanes to our destination. We were in Agatha Christie land, in every sense of the word, evocative country, charabanc, and our companions from a different class and age. I couldn’t avoid wondering who amongst us was the murderer and determined to refuse any offered sandwiches or drink.
My favourites were two very elderly, very aristocratic women, one tall, dressed in ankle-length black and with ornate Edwardian hair, the other shorter but with no less authority. The tall one, to my joy, wore sensible trainers beneath the long black dress.
They sat behind us and talked in clipped upper-class accents. Both were members of the Hurlingham Club where fees start at £1400 a year – a largely academic figure since membership is closed except for the children of existing members. We learned that it was pointless keeping horses unless one enjoyed at least 1200 acres of land and were intrigued by the social niceties of a sewing circle both attended. Neither women had any great enthusiasm for its secretary:
“Secretary—most unpleasant.”
“Nasty piece of work.”
“So unfortunate. Her husband is such a nice man.”
“Hungarian, I’m told.”
“Yes. Wooden leg, you know. Still goes swimming. In that sea every day. Crack of dawn.”
At last, we arrived.
And our two guides didn’t disappoint. The lady was thin and approaching early middle age. She wore a knee-length floral skirt and a faded green cardigan that ached to be an inch longer and was fraying in the attempt. She had, though, a wonderful smile, which she switched on and off at will. The man was slight and dapper, with a boyish twinkle and a quizzical smile. Both exuded charm and effortless expertise, their patter honed to perfection. We were charmed.
And soon saturated with its history and treasures: oak and mahogany panelling, silk-lined walls and so many pictures—none of which we could photograph, the use of a camera strictly forbidden.
The exterior it was then, very nice, but not a patch on what was inside.
What we see now is the work of the Victorian architect Anthony Salvin (1799-1851) He built it around an original Elizabethan castle, which in turn was built upon an earlier manor. Sir Thomas Gorges found the wherewithal to finish his castle after Elizabeth I gifted the Marchioness of Northampton, (Gorges was her second husband) with the contents of a galleon captured in the defeat of the Spanish Armada.
In 1717, the house passed into the hands of the Bouverie family, Huguenot refugees from France who made their fortune from the Levantine trade. Legend has it that Sir Edward des Bouverie fell in love with the house on sight and paid for it there and then from two saddlebags of gold. That’s the way to do it. The house has remained in the Bouverie family ever since.
Amongst many Bouveries of note, my favourite is Helen Matilde, Countess of Radnor who was married to the fifth Earl. Apart from being the first to make a full inventory of the castle’s treasures, she also formed and conducted an eighty-strong all-female string orchestra.
During concerts, she made a point of wearing her tiara on the back of her head, so it was visible to the audience when she stood on the rostrum.
Soon after her husband died in 1900, she fell madly in love with Venice, gondolas and gondoliers, to the extent of bringing a gondola back to Longford along with its gondolier. In between playing with gondola and gondolier on the river Avon, she bred small white pigs, and in the eve of her years, she wrote From a Great Grandmother’s Armchair in 1927 which recorded a history of the family from the opening years of the C20th.
To my great disappointment, no one was murdered, and we arrived back in Salisbury in time for a Pret a Manger sandwich.
Back home, I've decided I want cyclamen in my garden. What's good enough for the Bouveries is good enough for me
2 comments:
Now I'm curious on the reason for the stringent ID. If only we had such stringent requirements for ID when US citizens vote in an election. ...but I digress.
re: cyclamen
Those are lovely. I doubt they'd survive our hot and sometimes dry conditions here.
You do well to digress- electoral arrangements need reforming!
Sorry for delayed reply. Catching up after a short break in Powys and Ludlow😀
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