Growing Up in a Castle

Growing up in a giant house was like growing up in pretty much any house.

This was partly because, like any child’s life, all that really matters is food, love, warmth, that sort of thing. And we had those in spades.

Well, maybe not the warmth, now I think about it; the house was freezing, but you see what I’m getting at.

And so, the size of the house was irrelevant and life was dictated by the rhythms of mood, mealtimes, my parents and siblings, holidays versus school.

This was also because the five of us occupied only a tiny percentage of the place. Except on high days and holidays it was the kitchen, sitting room, a couple of bathrooms and our bedrooms.

My brother only remembers using the front door and hall once; our parents closed them off to save energy. It’s a very big house, with maybe a hundred rooms, so you see what I mean by tiny percentage.

I don’t remember being on the top floor other than on a couple of occasions; once when we climbed the spiral stairs to smoke the leaves of tobacco flowers rolled in graph paper and I was incredibly sick (quelle surprise).

And the unrelated time -I promise- when there was a fire there and I was woken to watch the firemen run up the stairs with their hoses.

And then there was The West End, a giant wing on four floors that sat empty and which I don’t think I ever visited. Not once.

I know that sounds weird, but I have no memory of it at all.

But now, well, here we are, and I’ve visited The West End hundreds of times as we stripped and sanded, painted and polished, furnished, upholstered, glazed and cleaned, nailed and, well, you know, all of those things that have made it what the press have called one of the best self-catering holiday homes anywhere.

It took a long time, a lot of work. We were meticulous, gentle, slow, considered. The results speak for themselves. Modesty forbids me from showing off.

Oh, forget that, modesty doesn’t prevent me; it’s world class.

Judge for yourself and have a look around.

My sister thinks that it was full of furniture under dust cloths when we were young.

If she’s right, then all of that furniture disappeared at some point in the past forty-odd years, because when we came to start our renovations a few years ago there was only a broken piano left.
I’m not exaggerating, that was it.
Caroline and I love furnishing holiday homes. It’s work, but it’s the best kind of work.

Between Glen Dye and Hawarden, we’ve done 14 in the last 6 or 7 years. I think we’ve got better at it with each one.

We work as a team, but we never consult each other.

That’s an oxymoron, but this is how we do it; Caroline does paint colours, light fittings, bathrooms and curtains. I buy and arrange the furniture, pictures, books, kitchen stuff, records, lamps, that sort of thing. For years, my only day without shopping for homewares and art was Christmas Day and even then, I was thinking about what I needed.

Now I have finished, I realise that I am addicted. It’s been really hard to stop.

But back to my point.

Somehow, after working alone, what Caroline and I do seems to meld and look great.

Or that’s what I think.You can judge for yourself, and maybe book a weekend while you’re at it.

Charlie