Lovely Lanhydrock and Tricky Tintagel

There’s a legend at the Tower of London of which I am sure you are aware. It’s the one that claims that if the resident ravens ever leave the tower then England will fall. All nonsense, I’m sure. But I would like to offer my own yardstick by which we can safeguard the nation, and that is if you are ever served an inferior cup of tea in a National Trust cafe then you had better start checking the skies for foreign invaders because the National Trust not only looks after our old buildings and countryside, it also sets the standard for the Uk’s favourite beverage. 

The tea room at Lanhydrock did not let us down the morning we visited. Despite the allure of the Grand Mansion, our first port of call once we’d paid our £18 to get in, was the café. Not just to refresh ourselves, but also to check the security of the nation. The scones were good too, even though they were pronounced as if they rhymed with “bones” by the girl behind the counter. But then again, maybe that was correct. Because the family that had lived in the House (with a capital H) up until they handed it over to the nation in 1969 were very, very upper class.

But before we go into all that, let’s see what was going on in that café. There were a couple of very young girls in the café who spent two minutes noisily rearranging the seats at their family’s table to ensure that they sit together on the only purple seats available. Important business when you’re under ten years old.

They were however much cheerier than the man I met at the queue for the car park meter earlier. There was admittedly quite a long line of people struggling to work out how to buy a ticket. The chap in question was a bit older than me and I could sense an impending conversation about the perceived difficulties of modern life, as he looked over his shoulder at me, identified me as a fellow curmudgeon, and shook his head. 

“These bloody machines, eh?” he said. I nodded and smiled. I didn’t want to upset him as he seemed to be the kind of person who enjoyed complaining. But his curmudgeon meter was about as efficient as the parking machine this morning because I was actually in quite a good mood. Nevertheless, he persevered. 

“Nothing’s ever simple, is it?” I pointed out that I was trying to use a parking app to pay which would mean I wouldn’t have to queue. 

“Apps, iPhones, all that. I don’t trust them,” he told me. No surprise there. I left him to find someone else to complain to. 

The House itself screamed Downton Abbey at me. Upstairs there were libraries, billiard rooms, Ladies’ Boudoirs, a Drawing Room, and a nursery (not too close to the adult’s areas but a world away from the servants quarters). All the rooms were geared to the relaxation and pleasure of the family and their 10 (ten!) children.

Downstairs however it was a different story. It was all sinks, cupboards and storage areas for the foods that the servants would never eat. There was a communal eating area with a large table, and hard backed chairs, none of which were purple. 

It’s the kind of place that produces mixed emotions in this old pseudo-socialist. Firstly, it’s a marvel of construction and a beacon of historical interest. On the other hand of course it was a kind of workhouse for the lower classes, trapped in a job that prevented them from ever progressing. Don’t believe Downton Abbey, a far too cosy representation of life in service. I’m not knocking the programme, I loved it myself, but it was a piece of drama not a documentary.

Whoops. I was getting serious there, sorry about that. Let’s see how the man in the car park is getting on; I met him in the loo a bit later on and he recognised me, homing in on me like a heat seeking missile.

“You managed to work out the parking machine then?” he said, while holding a programme in one hand and rather disconcertingly trying to undo his fly with the other. He shook his head, making me feel like I’d won an award against all expectations. I thought he wasn’t even happy after he’d beaten the technology.

After a tour of the House we went back to the café, sitting in a booth in what had previously been an area where the horses were kept. We sat at a table in the stable (boom-boom!) and fought off all the wasps. I’m sure they are employed by the NT to keep the turnover rapid so nobody hangs about too long. 

After a very fulfilling couple of hours we wended our way (random thought – can you “wend” anything else?) back to Tintagel and met up with everyone else. David and Annie had been to Newquay, and Joseph and Daniel had sampled the delights of Port Isaac and Boscastle. Before we settled down to try and beat each other at board games, I thought I’d go out for a walk and see if I could get anywhere near the local castle.

Call me a fool, but did you know the castle was on a hill? Whose idea was that? Undaunted by this, I walked up to the Camelot Hotel, where we had watched the sunset earlier in the week. The sun however was a stranger to the scene this time and the place was shrouded in mist.

I chose a path the was wet, uneven, steep, slippery and near some cliffs. What could possibly go wrong for a sixty-something unfit man in ordinary trainers, rather than proper walking boots? As it turned out, nothing. I got to see the surprisingly blue sea crashing on to the rocks and had some decent exercise too. 

Mind you, I was knackered when I got back to the house. That’s my excuse for losing so badly at the board games, and I’m sticking to it.

It had nothing to do with the rum and coke.