Country Houses – Somebody’s Got to Live in Them
One battlefield of the present cultural wars concerns country houses, specifically those now in the care of the National Trust. It seems (what a surprise) that many of these, mainly dating from the time of the acceleration of Britain’s imperial achievements in the C18, were paid for by fortunes derived from slavery in the Americas.
The National Trust wants to “contextualise” the history of the relevant properties, by making prominent information that shines a light on the murky provenance of many C18 fortunes. (“Contextualisation” is one of the softer weapons in the war, a step or more down from chucking some offending historical item into a river.)
On the other side of the battlefield are those, including our current prime minister, who hold that we should unconditionally celebrate the splendour of houses and estates that have survived to delight us. Indeed, they claim, we should be thankful for the buccaneering, proto-capitalist spirit of enterprise that underpinned these great legacies.
The houses and parks have successfully laundered the dirty money of long ago.
Me, I’m a non-combatant, although I want to know the details of the histories of the places I visit. This probably makes me a camp-follower of the National Trust forces, but I am far from supporting a Taliban-style demolition of grand houses built by slave owners, or investors in slavery. I am grateful that a lot of them, even ones still privately owned, are essentially museums and their parks available to the public.
My other reaction to the really big country houses is that they represent a grotesque way of living. These huge palaces were the product of a hyper-inflation of moneyed prestige, of the type we now associate with oil wealth or kleptocratic regimes. Some aristocrats owned (a subsisting subset still own) multiple piles, not to mention the obligatory House in Town (London).
The National Trust has become the owner of many estates because hard times, and taxes, forced owners or their executors to donate the properties to the Nation in lieu of death duties. The grateful Nation passed to the places to the Trust. Often the deal included a lease back of an apartment or wing to the donating family, which thereafter had to live in uneasy symbiosis with the visiting public.
Such was the case with Ickworth, the country seat of the Marquesses of Bristol. I don’t yet know the sources of the wealth that paid for the house. (Perhaps the clue is in the title – “Bristol”: what was source of that city’s prosperity in Georgian times?)
Ickworth is an unusual Italianate building, whose purpose was chiefly intended, also unusually, to be the repository of the then Earl’s great collection of European art. Hence the huge Rotunda, flanked by two long wings, the West of which was going to house wondrous galleries, and the East for living quarters.
The Earl’s, and his Marquess heirs’ plans were ruined by the Napoleonic wars. The art collection, stranded in continental Europe, disappeared, seized by the conquering French.
The house then settled into a lopsided existence. Family living quarters remained in the East, state rooms in the Rotunda – but farm storage was the fate of the West, the interior of which was never completed. It remained as a three-dimensional trompe l’oeil.
In the 1950s the financial fate discussed above fell on the Bristols, and the National Trust took over, but with usual arrangement of a lease back to the family. They remained in the East wing.
There was a further fate awaiting. The 7th Marquess was a wicked lord, straight from the pages of a modern fairy tale. An addict and trafficker, he was frequently imprisoned. He spent all the family money, and used to amuse himself at Ickworth by firing a shotgun into the air and yelling “F..ing peasants” at the blameless National Trust visitors.
Thus it came to pass that the family’s lease was sold back to the National Trust. By way of another lease, the East Wing became a hotel in the early 2000s.
This is where a largeish family party stayed in August this year. “The Ickworth”, as the hotel is styled, is part of a small group, Luxury Family Hotels. Their offering could be considered as a sort of British ClubMed, but without the free drinks. Certainly the “family” billing is very accurate. The hotel was full of babies, toddlers, and children on upwards, all tolerated and catered for with many facilities and activities, some supervised, and children’s mealtimes.
A big difference from ClubMed: there’s a bit of cult-like atmosphere about the latter: badges denoting loyalty, and the staff’s duty to “befriend” anyone on their own, any temporarily. (It reminds me of earnest Mormon missionaries who try to engage you in conversation on a bus journey.)
At The Ickworth there was an army of youngsters, always friendly and often chaotic (you might end up with two coffee cups and no knives at breakfast). I wondered if a whole year of leavers from a local school had been recruited. But our stay included the A Level results day. There was no perceptible change in the demeanours of the cohort. So I suspect they are summer recruits from colleges.
The estate has extensive park and farmland, with well maintained paths. There’s an alleged river flowing through, but this turns out to be a wide ditch, although at one point it is captured in an attractive ornamental small lake.
In the Rotunda are remnants of the original Earl’s art collection, retrieved or repurchased from Napoleonic clutches.
An enigmatic Titian Portrait of an Unknown Man
A startling, scary, marble group by John Flaxman The Fury of Athamas ( a Grecian king ,driven mad by the Goddess Hera, killing his son)
A lovely self portrait by Elizabeth Vigee Le Brun
A "splendid" example of C18 Sublime landscape
Amidst all the beauties, marvels and cheerful chaos was nearly a tragedy.
A small bird was discovered lying at the foot of one of the trees near the hotel. It was still apart from the occasional minutest movement of its beak. There were little flecks of blood on its neck near the wing.
Our first thought was that the creature had suffered some sort of mortal injury and that it would be kind swiftly to end its misery. With heavy heart I went to the car, where there was a walking pole in the boot. It has a metal tip for purchase on ice and loose terrain.
By the time I returned, a Google search had suggested another possibility and course of action. The bird might well be stunned- perhaps in strong winds it had crashed into the tree. In this case, nursing rather than euthanasia was “indicated” (in medical jargon).
Instead of a lethal pole, a cardboard box was called for. A small wine box would do. Children were despatched (not kicked) into the long grass, to forage bedding. The unconscious bird was laid into this refuge/hospital. A small container of water was contrived.
This was about 11.30 am or so. Four or five hours later, the bird flew away.
August 2021
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