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MY BACKGROUND IN PERSPECTIVE
Pressed by Australians and New Zealanders to define my background I have been known to categorize myself as an Aboriginal or Indigenous Englishman. In the best of all possible worlds I have advised, the area that I come from should be designated as an Indigenous Reserve under the auspices of UNESCO.
Of course, Antipodeans have a very hazy view of the English class system which owes a lot to the dialogue between Jeeves and Bertie Wooster. They also have an equally hazy view of rural village life in England based on Midsomer Murders – gracious me that can’t be right, can it?
I was heartened then by an article in The Times of July 5, 2003, which puts these kinds of notions in their proper place. I have provided it below.
THE CHOLMONDELEY PEOPLE (by Carol Midgely)
In the shelter of a Gothic castle, a near-feudal world of order and duty survives. But can it keep the 21st century at bay? Here, a great estate opens its heart to Carol Midgley
‘YOU can’t miss Laundry Cottage. It’s the one with the huge Union Jack flapping outside. In a cynical age, the red, white and blue in Cliff Horne’s garden might invite ridicule, the suspicion that whoever ran up the colours was an exhibitionist.
But outside this unassuming house set in the grounds of Cholmondeley Castle, it seems entirely appropriate — the unaffected gesture of an old-fashioned patriot.
Horne is what used to be called a retainer, someone who has devoted his working life to the needs of one family. Now retired, for 42 years he was chef to the Cholmondeleys. Before him, his father was the Cholmondeley chauffeur; his mother worked in another of the family’s great houses.
Today the Cholmondeley estate (it’s pronounced “Chumley”) is probably one of the last examples of a near-feudal way of life that most of us thought had vanished generations ago. The 450 people who live within its 7,500 acres know their proper station, and if they question it, they do so very quietly. They talk always of “her ladyship” (Lady Cholmondeley) and though they no longer doff their caps or curtsy, perhaps no one would look twice if they did.
I am there on a summer morning to discover how such an apparent anachronism survives at the start of the 21st century, to meet “her ladyship” and the people of her enclosed and ordered world.
The approach to the castle is impossibly romantic. Emerald acres strewn with orchids, daisies, buttercups. Lakes where gigantic carp roll and swirl. Gardens of magnolia, camellia, azalea and rhododendron. Cedars of Lebanon and spreading oaks among sweet chestnut, lime, beech and plane. And the castle itself — a mock Gothic pile of battlements and crenellations, sitting on top of its hill at the heart of it all.
I wrench myself from fantasies of Sleeping Beauty and Rapunzel, and ring the bell on a mighty oak door. There is the tap tap of footsteps inside and I am greeted by a cheerful, businesslike woman in blouse, skirt and court shoes. This is Penny, Lady C’s assistant.
“Did you find it all right?” she asks, “It can be a bit confusing. Come in and don’t worry about the dogs.” Inside, the castle is grand and simultaneously homely — a trick pulled off with the help of Iris, a beagle-basset puppy lolloping around the hall.
In the study another dog — a lurcher named Daisy — is curled in a basket. On the wall are dozens of framed hunting scenes (Lady Cholmondeley is passionate for the chase). And there, wearing beige slacks with her leg up and resting after a recent injury, is my hostess herself.
“I’ve had a bit of a knock,” she smiles, shaking my hand. An attempt at small talk runs into immediate difficulties. She asks me where I come from and when I say Lancashire, she asks, perfectly genuinely: “Oh, do you know the Seftons?” I can’t quite bring myself to say that the nearest I’ve got to that great northern dynasty is sinking a half of lager in Liverpool’s Sefton Arms.
Lavinia Cholmondeley’s husband, George Hugh, died here in 1990 aged 70 but his people still speak lovingly of him as if he were a much-missed father. The couple’s son, David, the present Marquess, who inherited the title and the office of Lord Great Chamberlain, lives at the other family seat, Houghton Hall in Norfolk. A regular face in Tatler magazine, he is, at 43, one of the country’s most eligible bachelors.
Last year, he conducted a census of all the properties and tenants on the two estates — something last done 200 years ago by the first marquess. All were photographed individually by Garlinda Birkbeck and the results bound in three gigantic leather volumes. It is a remarkable record of a community and a way of life on the brink of the 21st century.
I have come here to interview some of these people, to discover what ordinary folk think about living with one pub, one shop, and one landlady. It is an almost inconceivable lifestyle for a visiting thirty something with a non-feudal mortgage on a London flat. Half the staff here were born on the estate and those who have lived here ten years or more are still newcomers. One farmer, asked to sum up life on the estate, thought for a moment and replied: “It’s probably the worst place in England to have an affair and get away with it.”
There is a clue to Johnnie O’Shea’s trade in the stuffed fox’s head fixed above the front door of his cottage. O’Shea, 66, was huntsman with the Cheshire, looking after the hounds. He is an enthusiastic defender of estate life. We sit with his wife, Ann, in front of a roaring fire. I am drinking tea laced liberally with whisky; Johnnie drinks his whisky straight.
“Lady Cholmondeley is a grand woman. Nobody has a bad word for her,” he says in Irish brogue. “She’s no airs and graces, you know; she’d talk to anybody the same if they were a roadsweeper or a lord. We all look out for one another here.”
“My day started at 8am to get breakfast ready and then lunch. I’d go back at 6pm to cook dinner and stay until I was no longer needed. If they were having a dinner party, it could be quite late. My claim to fame was cooking dinner for 45 people in 1986. Thirteen of those were royals. The only one missing was Diana, Princess of Wales.
“I’ve been to the State Opening of Parliament three times. His lordship (as the Lord Great Chamberlain) had to walk backwards in front of the Queen. He invited the staff to come down and watch and put us up in a hotel.
“I was here when David was born. He’s a lovely young man. I’ve had three hip operations and it was David who paid for my second. When my eldest son, Terry, got married last year he sent him a couple of cases of red wine.
“I’ve never thought of leaving the estate. We were never paid huge wages but we had free accommodation and always felt looked after. We still do. They say that people leave here only when they die. Everyone has their place, and it works.”
THE HEAD GARDENER
[Bill Brayford, 44, single].
“I was 21 when I started working in the castle grounds. I got the job through the then head gardener. There are a few gardens to look after but I think my favourite is the Temple Garden. It’s so lovely and peaceful. All the visitors seem to like it. I can’t ever have seen myself working in an office; it’s not me.
I like the gardens in all the seasons and there is always plenty to do. Lady Cholmondeley is very good with plants; she really knows her stuff. I work five days a week, 8am to 5pm, but I have never lived on the estate. I have a former council house that I’ve bought. Sometimes it’s nice to go home and get away from work for a bit.”
THE VILLAGE PUB
The Cholmondeley Arms [Clarissa Dickson Wright has stayed overnight en route to Scotland].
“This is the quintessential English pub. It serves some of the best beef in the country, and it’s all locally reared. Last night I had asparagus that came from ten miles down the road.”
The old building was formerly the primary school but was turned into a pub in the 1980s. The third marquess was a teetotal Quaker and closed all the alehouses on the estate. It was Lady Cholmondeley’s idea to open the pub to give the estate a social focal point. Johnnie O’Shea does the mowing.
Some locals whisper to me that they don’t drink here because it’s too expensive. They are more likely to go to the working men’s club, which is owned by the estate. People come primarily for the food, which appears in the Egon Ronay Good Food Guide
JEAN OAKLEY [75 years old, Shingle Cottage - born on the estate].
“I’ve never wanted to leave. My great-grandfather lived on one of the farms. My husband and I were at Fields Farm for 31 years and had three daughters. After he died in 1986 I moved to another house and then to this cottage.
“The estate is my social life. I help with the church and the gift shop at the castle. I feel privileged to have lived here so long. This is my world. There is still the feeling of friendship here. It’s also different for the younger generation. They have careers and they go to university, which we never did.
They want to go out into the wider world. But I think it’s a wonderful life. We all have a pass to the grounds, which are absolutely beautiful. My granddaughter calls it Grandma’s garden. Lady Cholmondeley is wonderful. She does meals on wheels for the elderly, taking her turn like everybody else.”
THE STEEPLE-CHASE HORSE TRAINER
[Ginger McCain and wife Beryl of Bankhouse Farm. First-class stables converted from a former dairy farm on the estate].
McCain used to train racehorses on Southport beach until the council stopped him, complaining that he was disturbing the natural habitat. He needed to find somewhere secluded, with lots of space, and found a position tucked unseen into Cholmondeley’s rolling hills.
This is where Red Rum, the horse which made him world famous, ended his days. Fans worldwide still send flowers and Polo mints here every year on Rummy’s birthday and on Grand National day. McCain never imagined he would end up a tenant on a private estate, but he has no regrets. “We came here 12 years ago after spending years looking for a suitable place to buy It’s a good life. If you are not careful, you forget there is a world out there.”
NEIL WILLIS - FARMER
[Neil Willis and wife, Felicity at Willey Farm, stocked with 220 dairy cows and five horses. Sons, John, 19, studying biology, and James, 21, studying land management; he may join his father on the farm].
“Our family has been here since 1898 and I’ve never lived anywhere else. It’s a good life ... we can’t complain. We all feel we have something in common on the estate — like we all have a stake in it. I read in the papers that there’s no community spirit within areas of cities but that’s not something we ever have to think about. The estate is part of the glue that holds things together.
“There’s an old-fashioned respect for her ladyship and the family. It has been earned. When times are tough they are very good to people. After one foot-and-mouth outbreak they waived the rent for six months.
“It would be nice to own your own farm but it doesn’t feel like you’re living in a rented house somehow, especially if you can hand it down to your son.”
JOHN BARNETT - FARMER
[John Barnett, 57, and wife, Olwen at Bickley Hall Farm – a dairy, sheep, arable farm. Son, Gareth, 21, studying maths at Warwick University].
“My family has farmed here for years. My grandfather, Robert, started in 1913 when the rent was £184 for six months. I still have his rent book. My father William took over from him in 1945 and he handed over to me in 1982. As a boy I went to Cholmondeley primary school, which is now a pub. I’d ride there on my bike and if I wanted I could stop at every house along the way because I knew everyone. I don’t know as many now. Once you lose a school you lose a lot of contact.
“Gareth is not interested in farming. Kids are realising there is another life out there and you can’t blame them.
“I hope it stays a close-knit community but things change. The pace of life seems to be getting faster. Everybody seems to be short of time these days.”
ROBIN LATHAM - FARMER
[Robin Latham, 66, Brook House Farm. Semi-retired. Has lived on the estate all his life. Son, Phil, 33, runs most of the farm. Ten years ago Robin organised the building of a bowling green].
“I’m very proud of that green. It’s a nice hobby and it’s good for local people to have a meeting place. We have a little bar in the clubhouse. I put £10,000 of my own money into building it, but it’s paid me back. It was a joint effort all this; we pooled local resources and skills.
Clarissa Dickson Wright wrote her name on the clubhouse wall but a few of the regulars weren’t very impressed that she’d scribbled on the clean paint! “We have a tennis court next to it now which David (Lord Cholmondeley) came and opened for us. I have to say they are excellent landlords. I have no complaints. There are plans to open a new village hall on spare land next to the green but I have my reservations. I think it is just right at the moment. Why change things?”
THE HUNTSMAN
[Johnnie O’Shea, 66, and wife, Ann, Moss Wood Cottage. On the estate 12 years. Still keeps greyhounds for coursing].
“I love the horse and I love the hound, I do. They have been my life. I have five greyhounds and two puppies and I think a lot of them. I look after them day and night. We go coursing all over the country. It’s a grand way of life and that bloody Tony Blair is a fool with all this talk of banning hunting.
My wife went down to London to take part in that women’s protest against the ban. They were all supposed to be flashing their knickers, but I told her not to bother wearing any. Ha, ha! “I’m not a Labour man, not a Labour man at all. They talk rubbish, they do.
“I mow the lawns around here. It gives me something to do. I have a drink and a natter with people. It’s a nice life. Sometimes I get asked to blow the hunting horn at weddings. Recently I was asked to go to a wedding reception at Annabel’s in London to do it. The bride and groom wrote to me later to say it was the icing on the cake for them. They said, ‘There’s no-one who can blow a horn like you’ — which was very nice of them.
“Her ladyship is a wonderful woman. She has no airs and graces. She often drops in here for a gin and tonic. Once when she came round she suddenly said: ‘Do you mind if I look upstairs?’ I said, of course, and she looked out of the window and said: ‘This is just like our house Johnnie. You can’t see another house.’
“We are so lucky. What’s the point if you can’t stop and talk to people, or listen to the birds in the morning?”
MEANWHILE IN KENYA
Thomas Cholmondeley, heir to Kenya's most famous white settler family, has been convicted of manslaughter for shooting a black poacher on his family's estate in Kenya, Soysambu.
Known as the Soysambu Conservancy since it diversified from cattle-breeding into wildlife conservation, the estate is about 19,000 hectares (48,000 acres).
There were gasps of surprise in May 2009 as Kenyan High Court Justice Muga Apondi gave his ruling after reading out a 320-page verdict on the case, although the defendant himself remained impassive.
"I find as a fact that the accused shot the deceased resulting in his death," the judge said. "However, I find that the accused did not have any malice aforethought to kill the deceased."
The incident took place in a remote corner of Cholmondeley's sprawling family farm in the Rift Valley region, acquired by his great-grandfather, the third Baron Delamere.
Cholmondeley told police at the time that Mr Robert Njoya was with three companions and a pack of dogs, and he suspected them of hunting a gazelle. He said he had shot at the dogs, killing two of them. Mr Njoya was hit by a bullet and died on the way to hospital.
In 2005 in a separate case, Cholmondeley admitted shooting Maasai ranger Samson Ole Sisina but the case was dropped owing to insufficient evidence. He said he had acted in self defence after mistaking Samson for an armed robber.
IN THE OLD DAYS
We used to get transported to Van Diemen’s Land for the same offence.
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