Ambassadors Hotel, Kensington, London

London has laid on superb weather for our last two days here in the United Kingdom, albeit very fresh this morning. Tomorrow promises to be even colder, but dry, which will make our progress through to Heathrow painless. Perhaps painless is not the right word, although we have shuffled items between suitcases and the weighty luggage that did my back in last Wednesday should be a little more tolerable. Alas, we do not travel light and worse still, we love books. The bequest of ill health has now spread to my dear husband, and now we are two hypochondriac curmudgeons, although I really have been trying to be cheery and bright. 

Yesterday after eating yet another wonderful breakfast, we set off on foot up to Kensington Park, and made our way through the sunny golden scene along with hundreds of locals who do this on a more regular basis, across to the Palace. We arrived about ten minutes before opening time, more by good luck than good management, because then we had no idea how long and slow the entry queues would become later in the day. 

The promotional material raves more about Princess Diana’s wardrobe exhibition than anything else, so I was a little hesitant about paying out the entry fee, however Chris was keen, and if he is happy to divest himself of our children’s inheritance, so am I. So we paid up and found there was so much more to take in that the frivolous pursuit of glamorous, glitz and privately designed outfits for day and night, work and pleasure. What a dizzy silly little thing she was, but then most of those who make their way on to the front pages of the tabloids are.

The Royals, William and Mary, bought this house in Kensington, then apparently as leafy as it is now, in the summer of 1689, hoping the village location “with very good air” would help William’s chronic asthma. They commissioned Sir Christopher Wren, he of St Paul’s Cathedral fame, to rebuild and extend the house, before moving in at Christmas time that year. It was here that Queen Victoria was born and spent her childhood, and here she met her beloved Albert. It is here that Diana lived after her divorce from Charles, and here tucked away from the roving public that both her sons have apartments these days. It really is a delightful location, with views out across onto the Serpentine and extensive parkland, although I wonder how much of these are enjoyed by the current royals with the paparazzi following their every move.

The area open to the public is divided up into separate areas with exhibitions about Victoria and Albert, Queen Mary II and her sister Queen Anne, the three German generations of women that guided and nurtured the Hanoverian Kings, and of course Diana and her fashion story. The sunken gardens are lovely too and it was beside these we sat to lunch, watched and stalked by several bold squirrels. You know that I am a push-over for these gorgeous little critters, however yesterday I had to stamp my foot several times to shoo them away.

From here we walked to West Kensington and caught the underground to Green Park, from where we walked up around past St James’s Palace and Clarence House, haunts of the past Queen Mother and more latterly of Prince Charles, neither structure very visible from street level. Then along Pall Mall and up into Piccadilly Circus where we sat on the central monument steps and listened to the buskers and took in the buzzing crowds of tourists, hoping no terrorists had chosen this afternoon to run amok. From there we took the underground back to Gloucester Road and soon back to the hotel on foot. Quite an outing for the unwell!

Later we went out again and dined at a local Greene King pub, this chosen by Chris because I have refused to have anything more to do with choosing a restaurant, deciphering their hidden charges or telling the hosts what they should do with these. I play the submissive dumb wife, albeit not glamorous or blonde. As it turned out the meal was delicious, we paid the listed price and came away without a repeat of the previous day’s fiasco.

After a wakeful night, I certainly did not feel like a grand city safari today, but nor did I wish to hang around all day between the four walls of our little room, so we set off again, lunch purchased at the nearby superstore so all options were on the table. We walked westward along Cromwell Road, until it became West Cromwell Road, on past Earl’s Court, turning down New North Road into Fulham in search of the market. Here market stalls selling fresh fruit and vegetables, fish and meat, were strung out along the main road, and the unsophisticated locals were busy stocking up from their favourite vendors. The shops that line the road behind the stalls are a mish-mash of general stores and food stores, no doubt with decade-old history and not a chain store to be seen. On we went down into Fulham proper, where no doubt we would have seen the smarter shops had we been bothered, but instead we caught the underground through to Westminster, joining the throngs of tourists in the city centre, soon escaping eastward along the River Thames until we reached the Tate Britain. 

This is my favourite art gallery, along with the National Portrait Gallery I suppose, and we spent some time here, before walking north to Victoria Station and catching the underground back to Gloucester Road. I remarked to Chris that if someone wanted to trace our rail route from our Oyster cards, they would find it all rather confusing, because we have covered great gaps on foot. I was glad to arrive back at the hotel and put my feet up, and would have napped longer had Chris’s brother not phoned with a query about the car keys. He has picked our Kia up today and it is now under his care until we return next year.

So there is little left of our 2017  UK trip, but another meal out tonight, god-knows-where, and our progress through to Heathrow tomorrow before we fly back to New Zealand. It has been an excellent six months (less a few days; very important to note) and I look forward to another episode in 2018, just a pity I have both begun and ended this one with less than good health.

Ambassadors Hotel, Kensington, London

Our last few days in Suffolk were spent eating, packing, eating, and then eating some more. On the Sunday evening we were entertained in style by Chris’s brother’s partner at her lovely home south east of Stowmarket. What a feast she turned on! A roast of beef as I have never seen before with so many platters of perfectly cooked vegetables, followed by trifle and cream only squeezed in by greed; no-one needed desert after all of that! It was lovely to see my husband with both his siblings, and for us all to enjoy such an animated evening. 

Perhaps this was not entirely true for Margie who had been unwell since our night out in Bury St Edmunds last week, nursing a cough that would have been best kept in quarantine. However I guess she was keen to spend every possible moment with her little brother, no matter how she felt. 

Unfortunately she managed to share the virus with me and I have been hovering on the brink of poor health myself ever since. Of course I too should have put myself into quarantine, but there is just so much going on!

We spent Monday attending to laundry then packing seriously, finishing the day eating at the local Indian Restaurant down in Haughley to save mess in the spick and span van. The Old Counting House, a fourteenth century heritage building is the most unlikely scene for an Indian restaurant, but is quite wonderful. The service and food are great, and the interior of the building, some of the rooms separated only by bare antiquated wooden skeletons, is worth checking out alone. However we did find their prices a little stiff, mainly because they charged exorbitantly for the extras, such as the scant helpings of rice and the naan bread.

When Tuesday arrived, we were ready to deliver the caravan back to its storage up near Thetford Forest for the winter. This all went very well, and we remembered all the little steps that Chris’s brother considered we had been neglectful of last year, feeling quite self-satisfied when we turned up at his place in Bury St Edmunds with the television and other bits for safer storage. Alas, we soon we learned we were not perfect after all; such is the bane of being a younger sibling. We had left the brake on, something that should never be done in these colder climes.

That afternoon after settling the caravan into place with about four hundred others, we called into Thetford, ostensibly to source some luggage straps for our suitcases, this alone turning out to be a Grand Quest. It seems that travel accessories are tucked away once autumn arrives; it would appear that the average English person does not consider heading off on an aeroplane to warmer places. 

We did eventually track down the last three straps in town, but not before having a good look around this ancient town. We wandered through the streets and along the lovely Little Ouse River, pausing from time to time to admire the odd statue or architectural feature. There are plenty of interpretative boards about the town, claiming several very famous folk: Thomas Paine, whose hugely influential works include “Rights of Man” and “The Age of Reason”, and Charles Burrell & Son’s whose business in its heyday employed 10% of Thetford’s population producing two large machines a week, a total of four thousand exported all over the world, and about four hundred of those preserved today. There is a lovely walk along the river, although we saw only a small section of it, and agreed we had to return some day in the future to explore further. 

That night we camped out in Margie’s house, spreading our mess throughout and I am sure a little part of her was happy to see us gone yesterday morning and her house restored to order. Her youngest daughter, Mandy, took us down to the railway station at Stowmarket, from where we travelled through to London. 

I could say our trip and relocation into London went without hitch, but I would be exaggerating. Our connecting train through to Ipswich was late, and then sat out from the station to allow the express train coming through from Norwich to take precedence. By the time we pulled up at the platform, the express was about to depart, regardless of the fact there were several of us trying to connect. We all rushed over the bridge, us hauling our too-heavy cases, and we only just managed to struggle on board, yelling out to the guard to wait. As a result we entered the train at the wrong end and struggled further to drag our cases through to the back end of the train, giving up half way, because it was all just too hard. 

We took seats, not our own, and waited for the consequences, which never came. I was absolutely pooped and Chris was furious that I had insisted we make that mad rush. It was his opinion that we surely could have waited for a later train, however I was adamant that since we had acquired special price non-transferrable tickets, we would have been up for a whole new lot at premium prices.

However I can say that our progress through London on the underground went relatively smoothly, even with some of the linking stations having no lifts. And best of all we were delighted to discover our hotel superior to those stayed in the two previous years. We do understand you get what you pay for, and so should never be too critical, but this one is definitely a step up. It has a lift, and taps that work, and space to open both suitcases at once! 

We spent yesterday afternoon exploring the area around the hotel and South Kensington on foot, discovering dozens of restaurants probably suitable for the next four nights’ dinners. We ended up dining last night at an Italian restaurant, the Bellavista, enjoying the set menu appropriately priced.

This morning we were further delighted to discover breakfast far superior to our experiences thus far in London. Instead of the limited choice of cornflakes, milk and white toast, there was all that plus an array of other cereals, yoghurt, brown bread and a selection of pastries, and … a cooked breakfast as well. Of course for those of you who use hotels on a regular holiday basis, you would always choose hotels that offered this at least, but we do not patronise hotels, always self-catering and when circumstances insist otherwise, follow price rather than pleasure, frequently a case of cutting off your nose to spite your face. Anyway, I rejoiced over the yoghurt and scrambled eggs, and Chris was in seventh heaven over his more adventurous platter.

This morning we set off after our excellent breakfast, walking to the Gloucester Road underground station, and travelled through to Holburn where we found the connecting trains absolutely packed like sardines. We sat out about half a dozen of these very full trains, until a while after 9 am when the loads eased and we were able to find space for ourselves, albeit standing tight up against city commuters. We alighted at St Pauls and made our way to the Cathedral, the target for our day’s exploration. The entry fee for the cathedral is quite hefty, £16 each even at OAP rates, unless you have come for genuine prayerful reasons. We thought it would be rather difficult to play at that game and still manage a good look around. Included in the price are audio guides, with good screens which offer visual extras. 

St Pauls as it is today was built after the London fire of the mid-1600s, completed in 1711 and one of the most important masterpieces by Christopher Wren. The original church dated back to 604 AD, although earlier versions were destroyed by fire twice before the medieval cathedral was consecrated in 1240. The “new” cathedral was built on the footprint of the old, although is smaller and the famous dome is lower than the original medieval spire.

We spent over two hours exploring this lovely structure, including time spent up in the “Whispering Gallery” accessed by 157 steep steps which is not too easy when one’s lung function is challenged as is mine this week. It was from this elevated gallery that one visitor saw fit to end her life just two weeks ago, leaving a note for her immediate family and another for the viewing public apologising for her undignified behaviour. We lingered too in the crypt where we saw the tombs and monuments to Lord Nelson, the Duke of Wellington and the more recent war hero, Winston Churchill, the latter honoured by a rather ornate gate.

After lunch spent out in a nearby garden area with London office workers dodging drizzle, we caught the train to Convent Garden and wandered about the market, checked out the opera timetables unsuccessfully, then travelled onto Earl’s Court where we explored the area for restaurants before making our way back to the hotel. Later we ventured out to the same restaurant we had dined last night, always comfortable with the familiar. Perhaps we will be more venturesome tomorrow. The weather looks more promising tomorrow too.

Nashoba, Base Green, near Wetherden, Suffolk

Again the days seem to have slipped by, few spent with interest to fellow tourists. We have dined and afternoon tea’d with relatives, some closer than others. We passed a delightful evening with my husband’s siblings, his brother’s partner, and a niece and nephew from each family, travelling into Bury St Edmunds through narrow lanes and misty rain on a dark night, to dine at a now familiar pub, not familiar for boozy nights but for past dining experience. 

One day we travelled up to Barningham on a pilgrimage with my sister-in-law to dine in the pub the three Clarke children spent about three years of their childhood, all of them admitting to climbing out second storey windows but each with differing expeditions in mind. 

Unsurprisingly the past sixty years have seen alterations within the outer shell of the Royal George, then a Greene King establishment, now a Freehouse. The pub has been fully opened as a licenced public house since the end of the 19^th century but the building dates from the 15^th century. It was once two dwellings and is named after a fighting ship of the line built in 1746 and sunk off Spithead in 1782.

The current publicans have been there for about twelve years and these days buy in the freshest of fish and offer a wonderful lunchtime menu. No doubt the evening menu is just as good, however we were only interested in the midday repast.

Apart from enjoying the feast, both Chris and Margie reminisced over their childhood and the layout of the interior, all very much changed over the intervening years.

While up near the Norfolk border and in the midst of the childhood villages frequented through those same years and since, we called down at the home family farm, Fen Farm, on the edge of Hopton and the border fens. 

During the last twenty plus years, Chris has often spoken of his time “down on the farm”, holidays and weekends more accurately spent bothering his elders, but “helping” from his childhood perspective. Grandfather Goddard bought the property about a hundred years ago, then a much more extensive land holding that Cousin Bunny owns today. These days Chris’s cousin, close to eighty,  holds little more than his house and good sized garden, and his son, a patch of yard big enough to operate his busy firewood business from.

We admired Lilly’s dahlia’s, acquainted ourselves with the excited little terrier, Scamp, and sampled Lilly’s home baking over cups of tea in fine china. These folk are down-to-earth Suffolk folk, who speak of “meda’s” rather than “meadows’, whose broad Suffolk accent requires great attention of visitors from DownUnder, and whose hospitality is boundless. I had met them at a family funeral a couple of years ago, so I was not entirely a curiosity, however to spend a couple of hours in their own surroundings was so much more rewarding.

But that morning we had received ghastly news from New Zealand. The elections were held several weeks ago, and while the incumbent National Party, won more seats than any other party, the MMP system has meant that the opposition has been able to gain power with the support of very minor parties. More accurately, one Kingmaker, he who has been in this position at least twice before, has chosen to support the left leaning Labour Party, and we will return to New Zealand at the end of this month to political change. In all fairness, we have no grounds to complain, because we did not vote, not having any address where voting papers could be posted. However I am not at all happy, nor rejoicing in the fact that New Zealand’s now has its third female Prime Minister. It is not the fact that Jacinda is female, or only in her mid-thirties, but the fact that she has so little experience in parliament.  

Since then we have had poor weather, and reluctant to step out onto footpaths bordered with wet nettles and brambles, with muddy surface, we have not spent our time as well as we might. This morning with the showers more infrequent, even in the midst of Storm Brian and wild winds, Chris washed and polished the Kia while I remained in the shelter of the caravan, defrosting the fridge and sorting jars of dry goods, deciding whether to store or discard.

After lunch, we headed about eight miles north for distraction, up through the lovely village of Bacton toward Norwich, but turning easterly to Gislingham. I have been nursing a walks’ pamphlet for some months now, waiting for an opportunity to suggest an expedition. 

We parked up near the village hall and set off out across the arable farmland for the four and a quarter mile circular walk. We walked through woods and fields, often traversing planted areas which would be fenced off with electric wire if I were the farmer, but of course cannot be here. The public footpaths on which the public have a legally protected right to travel on foot are hundreds of years old, and land owners have no right to consider those travellers as trespassers. If I were a farmer I would not be happy to have random walkers wandering across my cultivated fields, but the pathways in a couple of cases today did indeed instruct us to do exactly that. 

We passed through spinnies and copses, two delightful English English words one does not readily come upon DownUnder. We crossed the busy rail firstly on a fine old brick bridge and later across the tracks, here encountering a local who was waiting for the Flying Scotsman to come rattling on through. He had checked the internet and seen it was due to leave Norwich at 2 pm and figured it would pass by this spot about half an hour later. I suggested they might have stopped by in Diss, given that this was a tourist train and not necessarily on a strict schedule, so long as its journey worked in with the other trains using the tracks. We stood and chatted for some time with him, but then left him to his vigil; we pressed on across the muddy field now on the home run to the village visible in the distance. Today there were less pigeons, pheasants and crows across the fields making the most of the scattered seed;  gas fuelled bird scaring guns firing off at intervals frighten both avian and human interlopers.

Once back in Gillingham, we set off home on a roundabout route through the lovely villages of Walsham le Willows and Badwell Ash, travelling back through Elmswell where we stopped to buy ice-creams. It seems that the coming of winter prompts ice-cream stocks to be run down; we made do with a couple of marked down items from a box tucked away in the large freezers.

Nashoba, Base Green, near Wetherden, Suffolk

Yesterday was the thirtieth anniversary of The Great Storm and the beginning of the Ex-Cyclone Ophelia, three people killed even by nightfall. By the time we retired to bed, the winds were strong even in this eastern corner of the country, far from the storm centre over Ireland and Wales. 

But happily we had enjoyed an excellent day, the morning with clear skies, the temperatures pleasantly unseasonal, although by late afternoon, there was a strange haze about, partially obscuring the sun, a phenomena that was apparently due to wild fires down in Portugal or winds whipped up from the Sahara Desert in Northern Africa. Such matters bring to mind how very close we are to the continents to the east and south. 

Chris was keen to pay a call to the storage space reserved for our caravan through the winter and our absence, so we headed north west up through Ixworth and Thetford to East Wretham,  delighting in the autumnal colours and pretty villages we passed through. The farm is about twenty five miles distant from our current camp, although when we do take the caravan up there next week, we shall take a slightly longer route in an attempt to avoid the narrower lanes out of here.

Out came the tape measure to check we could still open the door when it is reversed snuggly back into its hibernation; we were pleased to find our space a little roomier than last year. As we made our way out of the yard, we were accosted by the business owner, the father of the chap we have previously dealt with. What a treat, what a delightful man! Like us, he is a motorhomer and has travelled about New Zealand, so we swapped stories before attempting to solve the woes of the world. We could have spent the rest of the day with him, however he had places to go as we did.

Driving south to the northern edge of the Thetford Forest, we spotted a bare parking space and decided to check walking suitability out. There was a man and his dog just returning to a car and we were soon engaged in lengthy conversation. The fact he was “elderly” was evident only later, because he was a sprightly youthful looking chap; here in the UK under watery sun even nearly eighty year olds manage to retain their smooth complexions. Like us he had spent many years living a nomadic life, but ten years longer than us, equating with his seniority.

He told us of a geological feature just up the pathway, and of the walk on through the woods, as well as another further on which sounded appealing. After cups of coffee and delicious sticky pastries oozing “fly cemetery” (or “Christmas mince” for the more discerning) acquired when we swung by Thetford’s Tesco, we set off following the ex-RAF chap’s advice.

The Devil’s Punchbowl is one of the two depressions in the landscape we found along our path, a “doline”, a circular depression formed by ground subsidence or collapse in areas of limestone bedrock. There are apparently numerous dolines in the Breckland of Norfolk, where the acidic groundwater has attacked the chalk, causing fissures and caverns to form.

I have written of this forest before, when we called to explore the flint mines and the Forest Centre (this latter turning out to be a disappointment). It is the largest lowland pine forest in England, managed by the Forestry Commission for timber production, wildlife, archaeology and recreation. According to the information panels, this forest contributes over £3 million a year to the local economy.

We walked on through the forest, leaf litter up to our ankles and beyond; it was so very beautiful and we were disappointed when we arrived at a side road, prompting us to return the same way. There were no way markers but numerous fire breaks crisscrossing the forest; it would be quite easy to get lost if one was not careful.

Back on the road, we continued on down into the Forest, turning toward Santon Downham, crossing the rail line but turning before the river, just as we had been instructed by our local guide. Soon we found ourselves at the St Helen’s Picnic Site, a cleared spot in the forest beside the Little Ouse.

We lunched al fresco, giving our deck chairs an airing for perhaps the fifth or sixth time in all the time we have been here in the UK this year and last. Then we set off on the five mile circular trail, crossing the river, clear and clean, home to a pair of swans and a small family of ducks. The trail skirted around several agistment plots, an amazing number of horses being grazed for town folk. The forest varied, little of it as picturesque as that walked through earlier, but still a delight. Squirrels darted off at the sound of our boots, fluffy silver flashes across the landscape. Noisy crows announced their displeasure at our presence and little finches chirped high in the trees, too far up for us to identify them more accurately.  

The picnic area was once the site of the medieval village of Santon; the moated site of the medieval manor evident in the low scrub, the whole site having been dug up and explored some time in the recent past. The Domesday Book recorded the village having thirty inhabitants in 1086, however by the mid-1650s, the population had shrunk to just one householder. The Black Death of the mid-14^th century possibly played a part and the nearby establishment of rabbit warrens, with their promise of easier paid work could have attracted villagers away. And then there was the Great “Sand Flood”. The Brecks was always a notoriously sandy area and, in the mid-1600s, severe sandstorms drove a huge mass of sand to Santon. From 1665 to 1670 it progressively buried most of the village to finally drive the last parishioner out. This is probably why there is nothing but a recreational space left today.

By the time we returned to the car we had walked for over two hours in total, and were satisfied with the amount of exercise. Our route took us via Brandon, down the B1106 toward Bury St Edmunds, then we turned east toward home, but taking the scenic route via the attractive villages of Great Barton, Thurston and Tostock.

Today, apart from attending to more the mundane chores of life, we headed back through Bury St Edmunds after lunch, to Ickworth House, this time to revisit the house itself rather than enjoy the walks through the extensive parklands. We had explored the house in 2015, then taking in the architecture and history, a varied and long drawn out affair which we had found tantalisingly curious as only the whacky peers of England can be. 

Ickworth had already been home to the Hervey family since the mid-1400s, but the grand house that stands today was built between 1795 and 1829. It was the 4^th Earl of Bristol and Bishop of Derry who commissioned the Italian architect Asprucci to design him a classical villa such as he had seen during his Grand Tour through Italy.

Frederick Hervey was rather an accidental Earl, his oldest brother, George Hervey, the 2^nd Earl had been a prominent Whig politician and ambassador for King George II in Turin and Madrid, but died unmarried at the age of fifty four years old; read what you wish into that.

His father, son of the 1^st Earl of Bristol, was a notorious bi-sexual and prominent at George II’s court despite, or perhaps because of his reputation. He was a successful politician and pamphleteers, and rose to high government office as Keeper of the Privy Council, becoming one of the most famous figures of his time. He is best known today for his outspoken memoirs of the court of George II and for his devotion to Queen Caroline. He was evidently a man adept at juggling life; he shared a mistress with the Prince of Wales while having a ten year relationship with another man, while still remaining married to his wife, who was herself much admired for her wit and good sense.  He died before his father hence never inheriting his father’s title.

Frederick’s second brother, Augustus, the 3^rd Earl of Bristol, had a distinguished naval career and rose to be Vice-Admiral. He was known as the English Casanova, his battles and amorous adventures recorded in his own scandalous diaries. He died four years after his older brother without legitimate issue.

Prior to Frederick’s inheritance, he had secured himself the Bishopric of Derry, the wealthiest diocese in Ireland. It is said that he directed all income from his diocese be kept within his control, hence he incurred the wrath of the English hierarchy, but his parishioners in Ireland respected the efforts of agricultural innovation, social improvements and general goodwill toward his tenants and donors. Reports of his behaviour differ greatly and it seems to depend which side of the political and economic divide you sit as to how he is remembered. He died in 1803 on an Italian road, having his life’s treasures and art confiscated by Napoleonic troops, however it was his vision that created Ickworth house as it is today.

Further down the decades, in 1907 Frederick, the 4^th Marquess of Bristol, inherited a now antiquated property in dire need of maintenance, on the death of his uncle. This Hervey heir had made a canny marriage, to railway heiress Theodora, and it was with this new wealth the property was saved. Over the course of the next thirty years, Ickworth was restored and improved.

In 1910 major renovations were undertaken, including improved heating, electricity and hot running water. They were more down to earth folk who actually met the needs of their staff and tenant neighbours, and with only daughters realised that something would have to be done to save the house from the clutches of the profligate nephew who would eventually inherit.

The Hervey’s who followed included the 6^th Marquess, also known as the “Mayfair Playboy No 1”, a member of a gang of “gentleman” jewel thieves, who was convicted in 1939 of two counts of robbery. He also dabbled in arms sales, a very bad egg indeed. Amazingly he did turn his life around, embracing respectability when he inherited in 1960.

His heir, the 7^th Marquess, was a drug addict, known for his flamboyant lifestyle and homosexuality, even though he did marry, albeit briefly. He died in 1999 almost penniless, thus justifying the previous disposal of the House and immediate farmlands and grounds, albeit brought about by the villainous tax-man.

In 1956, the house, park and a large endowment were given to the National Trust in lieu of death duties. As part of the handover agreement, a ninety nine year lease on the sixty room East Wing was given to the Marquess of Bristol. However in 1998 the 7^th Marquess sold the remaining lease on the East Wing to the National Trust. When his half-brother, the 8^th Marquess, inherited, the National Trust refused to sell the remaining lease term back to the successor.  This Wing is now run as The Ickworth Hotel on a lease from the National Trust. 

When we visited the first time, we took a tour through the house and learned much of this scandalous history and so much more. There were also a series of large interpretative boards in the orangery café describing the degenerate lives of the Herveys, but today they were gone, although the battens on which they were pinned still remain. Perhaps it is no longer considered politically correct to reveal the skeletons in the cupboards?

It was late in the afternoon when we left Ickworth, but just in time for afternoon tea at my brother-in-law’s. We sat over cups of tea and coffee, and packets of doughnuts and pastries, all rather excessive but very tasty, the two brothers reminiscing their youth interwoven with their parents’ working lives. The traffic was dense as we made our way through the roundabouts of Bury St Edmunds, and it was dark soon after we arrived back at camp. The nights are certainly closing in.