Every house has a story

 

 The house I was born in was the family home and had been since the early 1920s, the Keyton family the first and only owners until 1994 when our mother died. 

I remember buying my first house, a Wimpey semi-detached with not a stick of furniture but for a bed and a rocking chair. The house was only five years old, and I was its second owner. I remember buying our second house, a large redbrick Edwardian semi-detached. It had everything in terms of position and potential, but my goodness, it was hard work. Built in 1906 it had been owned by many before us, including more recently a dynasty of Catholic teachers. But overlaying everything was an overpowering sense of tragedy. Its previous occupants were a young married couple, the husband a hard drinking soldier serving in Northern Ireland.  After one tour too many, he committed suicide, his distraught wife took to the bottle and the house fell into dirt and decay. When we moved in the task at first seemed overwhelming, the challenge of restoring the house to what it could be, a joyous and satisfying challenge. 

All of these things came to mind when we stayed for a night at the Mansion House, Llanseffan and spent some time exploring its history. 

It was originally a much smaller house owned by a reverend John Morris but everything changed in 1888, when James Richards bought the surrounding Pantyrathro estate with a newly built Mansion House at its centre.

James was a self-made businessman and owner of Royal Dairies Hampstead. Between 1832 and 1888 he amassed a fortune, had a fine London residence in Belsize, business premises in Hampstead, and had even made the 1893 edition of ‘Illustrated London’ under the heading of ‘Cowkeeper and Dairyman.’ Money is money, but such a sobriquet was unlikely to see him admitted into London’s high society, so in 1888 he retired and devoted the rest of his life to developing his fine new estate and Mansion House. 

When he died, his widow Anne inherited and from that point things slowly went downhill. She died in 1919. His eldest son would have inherited but for his death in World War I, and so the estate went to the younger son, John Llwellyn Richards, known as Jack. 

In 1936 however, Jack was accused of watering down his milk, his court date set for March. Unfortunately for all concerned, Jack never got to enjoy his day in court. He hanged himself in one of the farm buildings just before his appearance. The question is why. To the modern mind, watering down milk is hardly up there with child abuse. Different times, different standards? A strong sense of shame, perhaps, something alien to today’s politicians and bureaucrats where accountability is as alien as Egyptian hieroglyphics before the Rosetta Stone. 

After Jack’s death, the estate was split and sold, and over the years the Mansion House had several owners and lost much of its former grandeur. One couple having bought the house bred pedigree pigs there until 1953 when the house was again sold to pay off gambling debts.

Ted Mallia, a fish and chip shop owner in Carmarthen bought the house for £2000. He and his family lived on the top floors of the house, the ground floor being used as a barn!  Pigs were kept where the bar now stands, wild game hung in what is now the restaurant and chickens enjoyed the entire lounge area and stairs. Local accounts describe the entire mansion surrounded by mounds of pig and chicken slurry.

Once smelling of pig slurry and later a mini golfing green.

In 1966 the house was purchased by Major John Buckley for £6000 who went on to purchase much of the estate. Restoration followed. Things appeared to be on the up again. But when his application to turn it into a hotel was rejected, John Buckley sold it all to the investment company, Slater Walker for £50,000. 

Unlike the Buckleys, they experienced no trouble gaining planning permission. In 1974 part of the estate was turned into a Chalet Park, farm buildings into a swish country club, and the Mansion House…. into a hotel. Ensuite bedrooms occupied the grand Victorian spaces Major Buckley had so lovingly restored. 

In 1978 the house was sold to another investment company who in turn sold it to the Barney family who turned the front into a mini golfing green.

And so, we come to the present. Between 1982 and 2012 the house was run by John Parry and his two successive wives. John Parry, known as ‘Jovial’ John, died in 2010 perhaps from an excess of joviality and two years later his widow sold it to the present owners who have transformed the ]Mansion House into the hotel it is now. 

A glimpse of the sea from the front lawn. No whiff of chicken or pig

A view over the estuary from the front lawn. Two pictures because I couldn't decide whether the tree 'framing' worked or not. Visual FOMO

As to why Carmarthenshire? The simple reason is that though close, we’d never been there before, but it is a beautiful county and the ‘Mansion  House’ was a beautiful hotel. Not only did it come with its own story, it’s become one of many precious memories being stored before such small luxuries become a thing of the past.

Norwich Cathedral and the Automatic Flush

1 - 3 Credit B Keyton

Friends have told us Norwich cathedral is one of the great ones, a friend of a friend was of the opinion it was the finest of all. Built between 1096 and 1145, one can only imagine the thoughts of the newly conquered Saxons as they saw this huge and powerful homage to God emerge from turmoil and dust. 

My thoughts were less sanguine, largely because of the toilets. 

We both went, and things went according to plan—as you’d expect—except when it came to flushing away the excrement. I looked around for something to pull or press. Nothing. 

I looked more closely, feeling the first stirrings of unease. Then on the wall, I saw a small stainless-steel plaque with an even smaller blue-glass disc, and the words—Automatic Flush.

This was new to me. What did it mean? 

I assumed at first it would be akin to these new post-covid taps, the ones you no longer need to touch. A languid wave of the hand under the spout summoning water. Some toilets too have buttons you don’t have to touch, the mere proximity of a finger sufficient to activate the flush.

On that basis, I waved, brought my finger closer. Nothing. I touched it, pressed it, stroked it. Nothing. I began waving my hand like a mother’s farewell to a son off to war, tried pressing the plaque, eventually reduced to studying it like a chimp presented with an iPhone. 

This was embarrassing, leaving an unflushed toilet is one of those unspoken but unforgivable sins peculiar to our time, less so for the stonemasons who built the cathedral perhaps. And the toilet was busy. Behind the cubicle door I heard the sound of taps and hand-driers. I was trapped, at least until the toilet was empty.

Silence at last. 

I peered through the cubicle door, prepared to make a quick and furtive escape. And, as soon as I closed the door behind me—a gush of water as the automatic flush did what it was designed to do. 

Human nature being what it is, the experience soured my views of what is undoubtedly a magnificent cathedral, though not so inspiring as its neighbour, Ely cathedral. To look up is to be reminded of the craftsmanship of what we deem a more primitive age, the use of light and stained glass, the Caen stone transported from Normandy, cut with machine like precision. 

Off from the nave, in St Luke’s Chapel, is the Despenser Reredos, given to the cathedral by Bishop Dispenser of Norwich sometime between 1380– 1400. It was likely painted in the locality by a Norwich artist and is seen as one of the finest European paintings of this period. 

The five panels show the flagellation, the carrying of the cross, crucifixion, resurrection and ascension.  

 

When it came to leaving the Cathedral, I resisted the impulse to make a small donation. If they could afford ‘Automatic Flushes’ designed to confuse the innocent and pay millions in reparations for nebulous involvement in the Slave Trade, they clearly didn’t need what I’d rather spend on a pint of Saxthorpe beer. 

And in lieu of a blazing log fire this, in my opinion would be the perfect place to enjoy it, and not a pesky automatic flush in sight. 

Cromer, Biggles and Crab

have just come back from a ‘magical mystery tour’ of Norfolk, largely because we had never been to Cromer and because I have always wanted to taste the fabled Cromer Crab. In choosing Alfa Coaches, we inadvertently discovered a fascinating example of entrepreneurship both modern and old. The first entrepreneur was Cromer born and would develop the hotel where we stayed.

The Hotel de Paris at night

The view from our window

The original premises were bought by Pierre le Francoise, the son of two French emigres who’d fled the French Revolution and settled in England. Pierre died in 1841 and four years later the hotel was bought by a local businessman, Henry Jarvis. Under his ownership and that of his son Alex, the hotel prospered as did its reputation. Lord Tennyson visited the Hotel de Paris in 1877. Later guests included Lord Curzon, the Marquis of Blandford, the Duchess of Marlborough, and Lord Ivor Spencer Churchill. 

The railway encouraged more tourism, more hotels were built and by the end of the century the Hotel de Paris was showing its age and so the Jarvis family knocked much of it down and built a new and even more grand hotel. It stayed in the family until in 1961 it was sold to a Mr Bush of Norwich who promised to keep the hotel in good repair. When he died in 1972, the hotel fell into the hands of various property companies, its golden days long gone. It might well have been knocked down, turned into flats, or even worse, fallen into the hands of Britannia Hotels. 

Luckily it was saved by two entrepreneurs from Chorley, Tony and Peter Sawbridge, who in 1984 founded ‘Leisureplex.’ Their mission was to renew the once great but fading hotels of this country, realising at the same time they now had to fill them. 

So, in 1990 they founded Alfa Travel,  their new coach company completing a virtuous circle—supplying their refurbished hotels with customers and a fresh income stream to buy and refurbish new but carefully chosen hotels. Saving fine buildings and making money. They now have a fleet of fifty Mercedes Benz coaches and picturesque hotels scattered across the country.

Back entrance to the hotel

The story is inspiring, the reality a little less so but this is purely subjective. Cruising on ocean or river is passive like coach travel, but on a ship or boat you can walk about, stretch your legs, have a drink; in other words do things. On a coach, once you’re strapped in, that’s it—the only distraction a trip to the toilet; stiff legs and a sore bum as you approach your destination. 

As I said, subjective. Coaches suit many people, old people mostly— and I of course am not old—not to the extent of being in a position to compare and contrast the comparative merits of Alfa Hotels. Two of our fellow travellers had been to them all and were able to tell us which had the best architecture and which the best food. That is weird.

 We were though, spared the company of an ex schools inspector on the coach at least; not unfortunately at breakfast and dinner for he sat at the next table.

I’m convinced he took a deep, whale-like breath before he sat down, for he didn’t stop talking – not to us but his two unfortunate companions and anyone in earshot. It was a bit like the Ancient Mariner on speed with an opinion on everything: deep-sea fishing, the armed forces, the French, Germans, Chinese, traffic calming, taxation, the role of the state, immigrants. . .  We also gained an insight into his role as an Ofsted =inspector. He was able tell a good or bad school just by studying  the surrounding litter. To think of all those endless hours preparing documentation and lesson plans when all school needed was a caretaker on overtime.

 Having said all this, Alfa was excellent value and Cromer was wonderful.

In one of these streets was a second hand bookshop where I was able to buy a set of Biggles books at £3 a go. My wife has told me I now have to read them.

The highlight for me was the Red Lion in Cromer, where I experienced a pint of Saxthorpe Bitter, followed by Cromer Crab in a sea front café. That and Biggles made the journey entirely worthwhile

I left my heart in Killybegs *

 

Walking around the harbour, I noticed the history of Killybegs described in a series of some very nice polished steel  plates. I have one here for illustration and to vent my spleen -- one of those weird bodily functions I’ve never quite got the hang of. The thought and money that went into this and yet they have the wrong date. Elizabeth on the throne in 1556? No wonder poor old ‘Bloody Mary’was paranoid about her sister. No wonder my spleen was vented.

A moment or two later, I was about to vent my newly repaired spleen again!

I'd heard of Celtic Cells. There was an island to the west studded with them, many with holes in the roof so that God and the rain could commune with them directly. Surely they should have been referrng to ‘Celtic Christians.’ What about St Patrick for goodness sake? 

And then shortly after, I was humbled on learning more. A humbled spleen, however, is easy to deal with, you just move on, live, and add to your knowledge.

But beardies from Egypt? What were they doing in fifth century Ireland?

The Well of St Catherine was to reveal all.

Coptic monks on a trading mission suffered a devastating storm off the coast of Donegal.  They prayed earnestly to St Catherine of Alexandria, and on being safely delivered into Killibeg’s harbour built a shrine to her which remains to this day. In other words, St Patrick was not the only game in town. 

Coptic monks were active in France throughout this period and there is evidence they had cells in Ireland, too. 

 It is likely the original settlement was built around it. In fact the name Killybegs refers to 'little cells.' And possibly built before St Patrick began his mission.  Above the shrine is the much later St Catherine’s Church and graveyard dating from the 1400s and the remains of Kit’s castle of which but a few stones now remain.

And yes, out of curiosity and respect and perhaps the possibility that Saint Catherine might have a mild interest in cancer, I knelt down, cupped my hands and drank some ice-cold water – much to the audible disgust of some Americans—much to my body’s disgust when afterwards I tried to rise to my feet. It could have been a full body immersion—which then again may have had results. 

Initially, I was not impressed by St Mary of the Visitation. It seemed relatively modern and the inside confirmed it. Again, I was in for an awakening. It was nearing the end of morning mass, and we waited outside until it ended. When we at last entered, I knelt as I always do for a brief prayer, but no words came. None were needed. There descended upon me a blanket of peace—the only way I can describe it—that lasted for some time.

On leaving the church we passed a crocodile of children being herded by two young teachers. I caught their eye, and they responded ith a cheery ‘Good Morning!’ and ‘How are Youse?”

My day was made further when the church bells rang the Angelus in the town square, the old Ave Maria tune. It was akin to being transported to the deep past, as though the years had passed Killibegs by – or at least treated it kindly.

And then of course there was the magnificent Guinness at the Bay View hotel, that and a large pot of Irish tea for a very reasonable 7 euros.

And then we made our way back to the ship

It was farewell to the Guinness.

Farewell to Killybegs

We passed through the same harbour and cliffs those C5th Coptic monks experienced all those years ago; those same cliffs a remnant of the storm-tossed Spanish Armada struggled by in 1588. 

Killybegs was the last port the Spanish La Girona called in for repairs and assistance from the staunchly Catholic town. That was the good news. 

Repaired and supplied, La Girona took on board the survivors of four other Spanish ships and set sail with renewed hope – not in a successful invasion but just on getting back home. It was wrecked off the coast of Antrim. Only nine of the 1,300 crew survived. 

I don't suppose coptic monks or Spanish invaders were taking much interest in the spectacular geology of the cliffs.

But they may have been distracted by my appalling attempt at a panoramic view which unfortunately turned out like a view from the mouth of 'Jaws'. But without the music. 

* Killibegs or Killybegs. It's apparently a matter of choice.