It’s not every summer’s day at an Elizabethan historic house – following an ‘owner tour’ with home-made teas and jam sponge cake in the Medieval Rose Garden – that a group ends up being temporarily banned from coming again.
I partly blame my new navy polo tee-shirt – with the red Upton Cressett ‘sea-dragon’ house logo monogrammed on it – which I was only wearing for the very first time.
Around 4.30pm on Wednesday, August 7th, after being subjected to a barrage of verbal abuse by several ‘guests’ after they had been enjoying what was an otherwise enjoyable day out, with home-made lemon drizzle and sponge cakes which very much passed muster with the ‘tea-police’, I politely but firmly told the group to ‘leave the premises’.
After giving the 27 members their marching orders, I then personally escorted the tour group (mostly white haired pensioners in summer suits or sixty plus blue-rinse members of the jam-making and Order of the Battle-Axe variety) towards the car park.
I had just spent over two hours taking two tour groups around Upton Cressett, making every effort to give them an enjoyable afternoon in the sort of moated red-brick Shropshire manor house, set in romantic landscape and gardens, that PG Wodehouse made so famous in the Blandings novels. Wodehouse was brought up around Bridgnorth – our local town – and used to spend his earlier years bicycling around the parsley filed lanes around Upton Cressett as a boy. Hence why some Blandings Castle hunters have thought Upton Cressett one of the models for the fictional home of Lord Emsworth.
Wodehouse himself could have scripted the bizarre afternoon. Certainly my decision to wear my smart new Upton Cressett tee-shirt – as issued to the house staff – probably did not help. As my girlfriend said the moment she saw I had proudly packed the tee-shirt in my suitcase on holiday in the South of France recently: ‘For God’s sake don’t wear that out at night anywhere – people will think you are crew’.
The August afternoon farce started from the moment I opened the front door after a loud amount of knocking at around 2pm. I was expecting a group tour of around 25 WI members from a local federation of the Women’s Institute who had booked some months ago. As I opened the door, I saw not one group of 25 but more like 60 people – a mixture of blazers, summer dresses and walking sticks resembling the sort of sight you would expect on a Saga cruise ship deck. But what the hell, I thought, as I saw the group of some sixty odd day trippers standing around the freshly mown Gatehouse Lawn, boasting smart stripes, in front of the main house. They were all happily chattering away like a full summer cast outing from the Tottering-By-Gently column in Country Life, with their smart eighties-style summer dresses, battered panamas, tropical jackets, blazers and high heels.
I’ll just have to do two separate tours, I thought. One of the groups can sit in the garden and enjoy their cake and tea first for an hour or so and then they can switch over.
The only problem was that Louisa, the girl who helps serve the cake and teas on Open days, was nowhere to be seen. I had seen her disappear off in a car with my mother an hour or so previously – she had said she would be back in time to serve tea.
But tea is always served after the main tour which meant she might not be back for a while yet – perhaps not as late as 3pm. This was hardly her fault. She hadn’t known about the second unannounced group from Worcester who had shown up without a formal booking (our website clearly states ‘groups by appointment’).
The kitchen was empty. There was no way whatsoever I could take any group around of more than 30 people. I then bolted the kitchen door from the inside which leads out onto the back garden where the teas are served (visitors have a way of snooping around any rooms whose doors are left unlocked) and then ran outside to the tool shed to try and find Pedro, my part-time gardener. He was tinkering with an ancient old Atco dark green cylinder mower – with its Royal Appointment warrant crest still visible from the sixties – I had recently bought.
Explaining to Pedro how to create immaculately ‘striped’ English lawns had proved impossible until Wimbledon, when I was finally able to show him from the television what a proper English lawn should look like – and that only an old Atco or Webb cylinder blade mower could create the desired effect. After being originally dismissive of the oily old machine when it arrived, he now looked after it as if it as if it was a classic Jaguar E type in racing green.
‘When’s Louisa back?’ I asked.
‘Gone shopping with your Mum’ he said in broken English.
‘Get your house tee-shirt on now’ I said. ‘We need to be serving the first teas in ten minutes time!’
I then walked over the Gatehouse lawn where the two groups were now hovering around and inspecting each other like two herds of giraffes who had unexpectedly met at the same May Week summer drinks party. Collecting any admission fees would have to wait. This was not the moment.
‘Welcome to Upton Cressett on this glorious summer’s day’ I said addressing the collected party on the lawn. ‘We seem to have two tour groups when I was only expecting one so we are going to have to split you into two groups. Which one of you would like to have tea first ?’
The WI group elected to have tea first.
‘Right then’ I said. “I’m just going into the house to check that all the teas are ready and then we’ll start the first tour in about fifteen minutes’.
I then pointed to the Norman church – standing just a hundred yards or so from the Gatehouse Lawn and reached through a pretty ancient churchyard.
‘Can I suggest you all take a short walk down to the Grade 1 church which has one of the finest 12th century fonts in the country. The font was moved up to Gordonstoun in Scotland when the young Prince of Wales was at school there as his father wanted him to be surrounded by ancient English objects of beauty. There are leaflets in the church. Then can we all meet under the arch of the Gatehouse at 2.30pm?’
I then hurried back inside to check we even had enough home-made cakes for 60 people.
The very moment I walked through the front door into the entrance hall, however, I was confronted by a tall Worcester Woman with white hair and glasses who looked in her sixties. She had marched into the entrance hall of the house behind me – although the Hall was very clearly not ‘open’ yet.
‘Are you staff?’ she said sharply, looking through her spectacles at my Upton Cressett logo tee-shirt. ‘Where’s the public toilet?’
Her manner was direct. Not the sort of woman who takes ‘no’ for an answer.
‘I’m not staff’ I replied. ‘And we don’t offer any public lavatories in the house. But if you want you can use the loo under the stairs’.
I pointed her in the direction of the downstairs loo and headed off towards the kitchen.
No word of thanks. Senior Worcester Woman just darted towards the loo as if it was a public toilet at Waterloo Station.
It’s a regrettable truth of the heritage tourism world today that many visitors often seem to care more about their time spent in the ‘tea-room’ and the ‘toilets’ than actually enjoying the heritage or architectural history.
About 10 minutes later, the first round of teas were almost ready to be served – thanks to myself and Pedro (and his six year old son) manically setting up the tables and chairs outside in the garden whilst I boiled kettles, located tea-bags and sliced up the cakes in the kitchen. Once tea was prepared, I walked out back to the Gatehouse lawn and started encouraging the ‘group leaders’ to round up their respective groups.
The lawn cruise ship atmosphere remained jovial. Just as this all began, I saw the white haired Worcester Woman in spectacles who had used the private loo, emerge back out through the front door.
And then forcefully pull the front door behind her. With a loud clunk.
I could not believe what I had seen. The front door has a deadbolt security lock that means it cannot be opened from the front when locked without a special key. Which was inside the house. So we were now completely locked out of the house.
‘Oh dear’ I said publicly to the woman as she hovered rather guiltily by a topiary yew tree next to the front door. ‘You’ve just locked everybody out’.
‘I didn’t mean to’ she replied. ‘Haven’t you got a spare key?’
‘The key is inside the house’ I said. ‘The kitchen door is locked as are all the other doors’.
Not a word of apology.
I needed to inform people of the turn of events.
‘The tours are now being delayed as we are now locked out of the house’ I announced to the gathering on the lawn.
The former May Week lawn summer drinks party mood was faltering – there was clear anxiety etched on many of the elderly faces now. Whether it was the prospect of not getting a cup of tea or a tour I couldn’t say. But as I delivered the news, I felt like a chief pilot having to calm down an impatient group of passengers stuck on the tarmac.
I then briskly walked around the main house seeing if there was any obvious way in – such as an open window. The only window open was that of my study but the leaded light wrought iron ‘opener’ panel was so tiny I couldn’t imagine anybody could squeeze through.
I then found Pedro and told him about the unfortunate predicament.
‘We have sixty guests out there – most old enough for a bus pass – all baying for tea, cakes and tours, with no way into the Hall’ I explained.
‘I break window’ said Pedro.
He looked around and picked up half an old brick. He waved this at me.
I scowled back at him. I had recently completed replacing almost all the Victorian windows on the front and rear elevations of the house with new hand-made leaded lights by an expert team of local artisan craftsmen (led by the wonderful Karl Lewis from Bridgnorth and his glassmaking partner Keith) in old hand-made oak frames – fitted with hand-made ‘handmade’ glass (the palest of medieval greens in colour) that is only made in Poland. I wasn’t in any sort of mood to start smashing my new leaded light windows.
We then reached the steps leading down to the old dairy. At least this door’s windows were not leaded lights so I gave the order for Pedro (right, with son) to smash the pane. Whilst doing so, and trying to remove the shards of glass, he cut himself – so blood started pouring off his thumb. He managed to get the door open from the inside – but that was as far as we got as the door leading up the stairs to the kitchen was locked from the inside. So that idea failed.
At this point, with no way in, I returned to the now distinctly panic-looking groups on the Gatehouse lawn. I explained that Upton Cressett was built as a fortified manor in the 15th century and hence was specifically designed to be difficult to break into. Breaking one of the leaded light windows was not an option.
‘It would be like going into your house and suggesting I smash up a few plates from your Sevres porcelain set’ I said.
At this point, I started to feel bad as I was going to be left with little option than to call off both the tours, the cakes and the tea- and send all sixty people home. It wasn’t the £600 (£10 per head for tour, cake and tea) that I was worried about as we have never opened Upton Cressett for commercial reasons. No host wants to disappoint their visitors or guests – especially on such a beautiful summer’s day and with both groups having both come from nearly an hour’s drive away.
Then Pedro tapped me on the shoulder.
‘Mr William, I think Mini-Pedro go through window’.
‘Mini-Pedro’ is what we call his young son, aged six, who attends the local school in Morville.
‘Get a ladder’ I said.
Ten minutes later, the front door was finally open again.
Around this time, Louisa – my tea lady – had also arrived back and so we were finally at last able to start the tours and get the tea flowing.
After this unfortunate start – which had caused about a half hour delay – both tours went very well, with the two groups very much seeming to enjoy themselves. Because we have no roped off areas and I do many tours myself visitors usually seem to appreciate the personal flavour of the tours. My favourite entry in our visitor guest book is ‘Better than Blenheim!’ – written by one woman in August 2011 after we re-opened to the public after being closed for restoration and renovation.
I even managed to make some use of the adventure of us all being ‘locked out’ by way of explaining that that the ability to squeeze through a small leaded light window had a special resonance for the Hall during the Civil War. Back in 1648, I explained, Francis Cressett, whose portrait hangs in the Great Hall dining room and who was personal Treasurer to Charles I, was given the role of acting as his secret messenger when the King was incarcerated in Carisbrooke Castle in the Isle of Wight.
It was also Francis Cressett (portrait above) who led the king’s escape effort from his guarded room at Carisbrooke, supplying horses and a boat ready to sail to France.
‘You know why the King’s escape attempt failed?” I asked the tour groups. ’Because Charles could not fit through the tiny window in his room – despite having a rope and horses and Francis Cressett waiting below’.
This Upton Cressett light history banter seemed to go down well, and by about 4.15 pm, after dozens of fresh cakes had been consumed, and bucket-loads of Earl Grey tea, I thought it was time to say goodbye and collect cheques from the branch officers.
‘I hope your group enjoyed their visit’ I said to the guild group ‘leader’, a thin woman with dark hair in her late fifties or therabouts with a beaky bird-like face. “I’m ready to settle up now if that’s convenient. You haven’t already paid any sort of deposit have you ? I don’t think you booked’.
‘No – we haven’t’ she replied. ‘Is a cheque alright?’
Before the conversation went any further, another member of the group approached me. Ms Imperious looked to be in her late fifties, an earthy brunette in trousers with with a jungle of knotty curly brown hair.
‘You owe one of our members an apology” Ms Knotty Hair snapped at me.
‘Sorry?’ I said. ‘You mean the woman who marched into my house, demanded to use the private lavatory and then proceeded to lock everybody out of the house so I nearly had to send both groups home. And who never even apologized herself’.
Reading a recent interview with the TV historian Lucy Worsley in Woman’s World – the house magazine of the WI – the piece opened with the observation that ‘Grown men flinch at the prospect of talking to WI members en masse’.
I had no such fears and certainly wasn’t going to be intimidated by a visitor either who was now starting to get personally abusive to their host.
‘I don’t expect people to be rude to me in my own house, whether they mistake me for staff or not’ I replied calmly. ‘I very nearly had to cancel the entire afternoon. I had my gardener smash a window pane and he has injured himself as a result. We don’t offer public toilet facilities in the house but I still allowed her to use the loo – as I did all your group all afternoon – but still got no thanks’.
‘She was desperate’ she retorted. ‘That’s why she might have been so in need of the toilet’.
‘I’m very sorry to hear that and I am sure the woman is a lovely person. So I won’t ask her to pay. Is that Ok? She can go around for free – you can take £10 off the cheque – how’s that?’
‘Our members must have access to public toilets’ Worcester Woman continued. ‘It’s a basic requirement’.
‘You know what” I said. ‘I’m not enjoying being spoken to in such an offensive way by you and your friend here. I don’t run the visitor side of things here as a ‘business’. We do it because we enjoy sharing the heritage. All I expect some basic thanks – I think I’d rather you all just left’.
I have been giving tours of Upton Cressett since I was about twelve, and was given 50p pocket money per group tour back in the 1970s for doing so. But nobody in our family has ever given a tour because the tours make any ‘money’. We lose money on visitors over the year and all admissions go to staff and running costs.
Most of the time our visitors seem to love the fact that they get to see inside a ‘much loved family home’. This cliché is actually one of my least favourite phrases used by owners of historic houses. I never use it when referring to Upton Cressett partly because I currently live in the house alone. I also conduct many of the group tours on my own with minimal additional staff.
That a house tour is being given by the owner – as opposed to the sort of National Trust volunteer guide that was recently satirized by Alan Bennett in his play People – is something that most visitors regard as an enjoyable bonus. Back in the 1950s, when stately homes and historic homes first began opening their doors to the public, it was quite normal for an aristocrat like the Marquis of Bath to show guests around private houses like Longleat. But that has long changed.
Indeed, these days, most (but not all) Historic Houses Association member houses (of which there are around 1500 in the UK) often charge extra for an ‘owner led group tour’ – as opposed to just handing out an I Pad tablet guide, or audio-guide, or just expecting visitors to drift from room to room without any guide at all other than a house brochure or ‘guide boards’.
I love opening up the front door to complete strangers and showing them around myself – hopefully the afternoon gives them a chance to take a ‘step back in time’ (Elizabethan England in our case) away from the cares and stresses of Blackberry’s and I Phone’s and the rest of the modern world. There is no phone signal here unless you stand inside the top turret of the Gatehouse or climb a ladder set against the entrance gate columns.
When you open your house to the public – Shropshire Art Society, Shropshire Historic Churches Trust, the SPAB, Rolls Royce Owners Club, Women’s Institute, Shropshire Local History Society or Bridgnorth Painting Society etc – there is, however, an unwritten contract between owner and visitor.
You may be paying £5-£10 (Blenheim Palace is £19.50) to go around a historic house and gardens (with an extra few quid for tea and some home-made cake) but just because you are paying doesn’t mean that you can treat the house as if it is the local library, pub or a KFC outlet for that matter.
One hopes – and prays – that your ‘guests’ (as the Duke of Devonshire always tells Historic House Association members that he always insists on calling his tour groups and visitors) will likewise behave as if they are visiting a private home as opposed to a railway station. Just because a few token pounds have passed hands doesn’t mean ‘guests’ have the right to think the ‘client is always right’ – that most nebulous of modern mantra’s – and that they have a self-righteous right to abuse the owner’s invitation.