Bigger Rain

Well, that was an impressive storm .

Ironically enough, the digger had returned first thing yesterday morning to repair the hole, again.

Watching the river of rainwater flowing across the fields and down across the path, over the newly filled in hole, I began to suspect further repairs may be necessary.

As it turned out, the hole withstood the tide rather well, but the path itself has lost a lot of its surface. Great grooves have been gouged out and bare rubble remains.

The tea room flooded again, a couple of paths in the woods were washed away and the bridge which forms the only access to one of our holiday cottages was swept away entirely, stranding the elderly holidaymakers within. Needless to say it has been an incredibly busy day, especially for our wardens. They have been dashing about in waders, putting things right, building temporary bridges, mending pathways and just being rugged.

Given the unsettled forecast I comfort myself with the expectation of lots more warden in waders action during the week.

Stung

This is what happens when cats swat insects that sting.

Poor Jules, he never learns.

I suspect he must have decided to play with a wasp. If it had been a hornet the effect of its sting would have been far worse I fear.

Every summer we encounter hornets here. They tend to build their nest in the hollow oak tree opposite the house, and head unerringly for the lights once darkness descends.

On one occasion we had two or three circling the lightbulb on the landing and I was too scared to go past them to the bedroom. I slept in the living room, big wuss that I am. And I am right to be wary. Hornets are enormous and menacing with a subsonic rumble that makes bumble bees sound like Joe Pasquale on helium. Many people will tell you that they are less aggressive than wasps, and unlikely to sting, but I am not prepared to give them the opportunity. I avoid them rather than trying to kill them. They are tough creatures and no matter how much you blast them with chemical spray they will not fall down. When they get zapped by the electric bug killer they sizzle and spark and refuse to expire for a good half hour.

One memorable night I went up to bed, snuggled up under the duvet and fell asleep. An hour or so later my husband came upstairs to join me. Time passed, all was snoozy and fine, and then suddenly:

"AAAAAARGH! Oh great buggery FUCK! OW!"

I sat bolt upright in bed, fumbling for the light, as my husband continued to howl anguished obscenities while flailing around the bedroom.

His upper thigh was reddening and swelling rapidly as the culprit crawled sluggishly out from under the duvet. Somehow a hornet had got into the bedding at some earlier point in the evening and I had been sleeping with it in blissful oblivion until my husband had got into bed and disturbed it. Unfortunate as it was for Bert to be stung on the upper thigh he considered himself miraculously lucky not to have been stung any higher up. Though he was saddened at missing out on the opportunity to give the old "take away the pain and leave the swelling" joke a bit of an airing. Sadly, or thankfully, depending on your point of view, I have no photo to illustrate his swollen appendage, but it was impressive. And I am henceforth wary of hornets and check the bed carefully before retiring, if I've had the windows open.

Big Rain

I stood at my kitchen window gazing out at the sheets of rain cascading down. I knew what to expect next. Every time we have heavy rain a river flows through my kitchen. It begins in the utility room, flows gracefully through the kitchen, and out to the back door. This time was no exception and we resignedly moved shoes, chairs and the dog's bag of Eukenuba out of the way as the water began its progress.

However, this time the rain brought with it a multitude of tiny toads.
Well, they might be toads. They might be frogs. They really are far too tiny to tell, as you can see from the picture above. They are about the size of my little finger nail and I must have collected about 30 before I went to bed that night, carefully placing them outside, only for them to return a few minutes later. I can't bear to leave them though, partly because I am so scared of accidentally stepping on one, and partly because they tend to dehydrate and die overnight and I find their tiny dried spindly bodies too unbearably sad as I suck them up the hoover.

The following morning I excitedly reported the tiny toad invasion to McColleague when she arrived for work. She pointed out there were hundreds outside the front door too, the visitor entrance to the house, their tiny bodies clambering over the fibres in the coconut door matting and clinging to the boot brush. Some had already been squished. So, I made a sign, saying "Watch your feet! Tiny toads crossing!" It worked really well, and we had great fun watching people gingerly picking their way across the lawns, trying not to step on any mini amphibians.

The big rains also caused the reappearance of another familiar feature. Yes, the hole is back, bigger and better than ever!
Here you can see the lovely McColleague pointing at it in true local newspaper photography style. I tried to get the builder chap and his digger back again, but he was busy elsewhere on the estate, as the storm drains up at the tea room had also collapsed. The kitchen staff had arrived to find their kitchen entirely flooded. McColleague and I decided to go and investigate and see if any cakes needed rescuing. We are not too proud to eat water damaged scones.
Amazingly, despite the above setting, people were still sitting nearby to sip their cups of tea and shout polite conversation over the noise. I find it amazing that I get comments cards complaining about dribbly teapots, yet no one says a word when they have to leap a trench and dodge the digger, Indiana Jones style, in order to enter the tea room. It seems our visitors are just as unpredictable as our weather.

How is this possible...

...when I only had two volunteers on duty today?

Grounded

This is a young pipistrelle, found in my daughter's bedroom last night. Bats can't take off from the ground, they need to drop a small distance and then fly. Interestingly, as my husband discovered, once they are off the floor they don't need much height to fly at all. This one took off at about an inch off the ground, but fortunately flew out of the window and into the night without too much cajoling.

Isn't he beautiful?

Luck? Sheer bloody hard work, I'll have you know!

It had been a long weekend. The local photography club had put up their exhibition in the marquee, having never displayed in an outdoor space before. Consequently their pictures spent the entire weekend wafting limply to the ground, as the double sided sticky tape they'd used just wasn't a match for the heat and humidity. I used up my entire office supply of sticky velcro reattaching the damn things every few minutes.

Then there was the time I had to spend on the phone arranging short notice cover for the Sunday. A couple of weeks ago one of my volunteers had come into my office to alter his shifts in the diary. "Doris," he said, wielding a biro, "I have crossed myself out for the Saturday, as you already have plenty of volunteers that day, and put myself down for the Sunday instead."

"Brilliant," I said. "Thanks."

Fast forward to the weekend in question and a few minutes past opening time, in comes the same volunteer. "Hello Doris," he cried, chirpily.

"Hello. What are you doing here? It's Saturday. You crossed your name out for today, and put it down for tomorrow, remember?"

"Did I? Oh dear. That's unfortunate. I've just agreed to do something else tomorrow."

"Brilliant," I said. "Thanks."

I smiled my way through the numerous "I didn't know we had an event on today" comments, sorted out the problem with the malfunctioning padlock which meant no one was able to get in, and raced about incessantly, dealing with everything from visitor enquiries to doling out change and loo rolls.

By the end of the Sunday I was flagging and at the face-ache stage of smiling.

"So, who lives in the house then?"

I couldn't bluff my way out of this one, as she was part of the re-enactment group and would find out eventually.

"I do, " I said.

"You lucky thing! I was just saying to your staff, yesterday, that whoever lives there, whatever they're paid, it's too much! To get paid and live here..." She looked at me again, hard and long. Whatever I was thinking was evidently not displayed in my public-facing persona. "You're so lucky!" she asserted once more.

What's Going On Today Then?

I have mentioned this phenomenon before.

This weekend was no exception. My volunteers arrived, approaching the house through the myriad tents of the encampment which had sprung up in the orchards, the scent of woodsmoke lingering in their hair. People in costume went about their business, the blacksmith at his anvil, the women tending the cooking pots, soldiers practicing their swordplay.

Without fail, every volunteer was perplexed. "Hello Doris," they cried, eyes roving over the medieval scene before them. "What's going on today then?"

I smiled through gritted teeth, biting back my preferred response of "It's an Easter Egg Trail, what does it look like?" and gently pointed out that it was our 15th Century Weekend, as written on the wall chart and in the diary, in capital letters, with highlighter pen all over it, just above where they had written their own names directly beneath.

I have learned that it is completely pointless relying on them to spread the word about the exciting events we hold here as they are continually amazed that anything happens at all. Given the blanket coverage I already provide I am not quite sure how else to get them to take in such information. All I know is my face aches with patient smiling and I need another drink.

Throwaway Comment

I unlocked the comments box and reached inside. I retrieved a slelection of cards and questionnaires, completed by our visitors and then deposited within the box. The questionnaires all have to be sent off to the company we use to compile the data at the end of the year.

One questionnaire immediately caught my eye. It had been scrawled on in red pen. An oversized "Fuck you!" gouged across the front page. Turning it over I saw the equally pithy "Fuck you. You smell. Gaylord." emblazoned across the back.

Does this count as a genuine visitor comment and should I still post it to the market research department?

The Digger

At least I got to see it on my way out this morning. There was already an impressive pile of dirt next to the trench, which was now so deep that the builder could stand in it and have a fag and you'd never know he was there. I knew he was there, which is why he got out as I approached, which is a shame as I would have like a picture of him in his smoking pit.

I then headed off for a day long meeting about Visitor Services matters and when I returned everything seemed back to normal. I think that's because everything is back to normal, rather than my perception of reality being skewed due to a day spent saying things like "engaging our supporters" and writing SWOT analyses, but I will check in the morning to make sure.

The Expanding Hole

A builder chap came to investigate the hole in the ground.

McColleague reported his findings back to me.

"He says yes, it's big, yes, it's deep, yes it's quite dangerous."

"Right you are," I said.

"Lovely Warden is going to mow an alternative path through the orchards and we'll cordon off that entire corner with hazard tape."

McColleague headed back out, while I said a quick hello to the incoming staff and volunteers, before joining her at the cavern's edge.

She was holding a red and white tattered bundle of shredded plastic in both arms.

"Well, we're off to a good start," she said. "Lovely Warden just ran over the roll of hazard tape with the lawnmower."

We laughed. After all, it wasn't our hazard tape, it was part of the warden's kit.

Eventually we managed to tie enough various shredded pieces of tape together to cordon off the danger area. The builder chap will return tomorrow with a digger. Annoyingly, I'll miss this as I have to go to a meeting at Regional Office for the day. On the plus side, when I return, there is sure to be a big trench across the path, possibly with ramblers in it.

The Hole

I picked up an answer phone message from the gardener.

"We discovered a collapsed drain while we were mowing," he said. "We've cordoned it off but you might want to get it checked out."

I went outside to locate the hole for myself. It was easy to spot.

Nice barrier work, I thought. Mind you, the hole itself is somewhat bigger and deeper than I imagined. I have concerns it may extend beneath the surface for quite a way and I could need a bigger cordoned off area. Otherwise there is a possibility some visitors may be lost to the underworld. On the plus side, McColleague and I may be able to wear our helmets and lamps again!

Duck Rescue

The call came at midday.

One of the residents on the estate had discovered a mother duck with seven ducklings on her pond. Unfortunately the dog had already eaten two ducklings and they were concerned for the safety of the rest. Could we possibly relocate them down here, to the moat?

Hmmmm. Not as simple as it sounds. Even if I caught the duck, how was I to get it the mile and a half down to the house?

I texted McColleague. "Do you want to be involved in a duck rescue this afternoon?"

She did. Which was good, as she is the only person I know who keeps ducks, so has a handy duck carrier to transport them in. "Should I bring my husband?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied. "I have a feeling the ducks will go everywhere when we try to catch them, so the more help the better. Mr Sparrow and I will meet you there."

Pausing only to fill a carrier bag with corn, we headed off to the top of the estate. McColleague and her husband were waiting for us. He was holding the large plastic box, in which we hoped to place our captured ducks, and McColleague was holding a small yellow fishing net, of the kind found in seaside souvenir shops. We rang the bell of the house in question. I am sure we made an impressive sight. The plastic bag of grain, which I had now discovered had a hole in in the bottom, the fishing net and the box. A truly professional outfit, guaranteed to inspire confidence at a glance.

"Hello," I said, brightly, as the door opened. "Did you call Duck Rescue?"

They had indeed. Ushering us through into their back garden we immediately spotted our prey. "Ok," said McColleague's husband, "we're only really going to get one shot at this."

Carefully we fanned out around the tiny pond, to form a pincer movement. Mother duck and her babies stayed just beyond the reach of the tiny fishing net, in the middle of the water. I threw corn. They ignored it and refused to come closer.

"Put your arms out," said McColleague's husband, demonstrating by assuming a cruciform pose. We did. The ducks moved a little further towards one side of the pond. There was a lunge, much quacking, some running around over the rockery and flower beds, and mother duck flew off into the garden next door.

"Bollocks."

McColleague and I stood guard over the ducklings, to ensure we didn't lose those too, while our respective husbands climbed over the wall to try to shoo mother duck back into our garden again. There was much quacking, the sound of foliage rustling, thudding feet, a cry of "Aargh, I almost had her!" and then mother duck flew overhead and out into the surrounding parkland.

The couple who had originally called us in as a duck rescue team came out to see how we were doing. We explained the situation as our husbands climbed back over the wall, duckless, and it was agreed mother duck would probably return if we stopped chasing her about and had a nice cup of tea instead.

We drank our tea and listened to the sound of anxious quacking from the other side of the wall. The ducklings were still with us, on the tiny pond, cheeping and cheeping for their mother. We waited. Mother duck did not return.

"OK, plan B," I said. "If we stress the little ones too much they'll die anyway. Mother duck isn't going to come back while we're here. The ducklings can't get to her as they can't get over the brick wall. Let's catch the ducklings, put them back with mum, over the wall, and hopefully she'll decide here is a bad place and take them away to somewhere safe."

At last the small yellow fishing net came into its own, as one by one the tiny ducklings were scooped up and carried over the wall. Mother and babies were reunited and left to take their chances in the wider world. It was the best result we could hope for, and at least they were away from ravening pet dogs. Foxes and other predators would still be a concern even if we had got them back to the moat.

We gathered up our duck busting kit: the dripping net, the bag leaking corn, the empty box. "Right, well, we'll be off now. Just call us, you know, if you need any other ducks rescuing."

We returned to our cars, glowing with the sense of a job well done and the exertion involved in chasing a small duck around a rockery.

Nursery Crime

Just before I came here, a couple of years ago, my Boss had decided to make the place a bit more family friendly by creating a walk for children. It's a lovely concept. A gentle stroll, surrounded by imagery from familiar children's stories and rhymes.

My Boss being my Boss, however, didn't ask for any input at the planning stages, and just went for what seemed like a good idea to him at the time. If he had asked any of the numerous parents we have working here to test walk it first, or tell him what they would look for in a children's trail, it could have all been so different. As for the images en route, some subtle touches like a bell pull on a tree, some wood carvings or sculptures, maybe, would have blended with the landscape and been fun to spot. As it is, the artwork - and I use the term in the loosest possible way - was completed by the wife of one of his mates and can be seen from space.

The final result is a bizarre array of incredibly badly painted pictures, mounted on boards, weathering badly, randomly dotted along a walk that includes two sets of steep steps and a marsh. I have to send people off on this, when they turn up and ask if the Nursery Rhyme Trail is open. I do my best to warn them - sensible footwear, I say. Does involve steps, I warn. I have yet to find a way of saying sorry about the boards, please don't have nightmares.

I shall now take you on a virtual journey, so you can share my anguish.


This is the Wildflower Meadow. Not much in the way of wildflowers at the moment, granted, but still very pretty and perfectly pleasant. So far so good.

But behind you is a horrible thing. You can tell it's meant to be Humpty Dumpty, but it is not even egg shaped. And it has something very wrong with its legs. I wish it'd hurry up and have a great fall, so I can put it in the skip.

Now, this is meant to be Snow White's cottage. The dwarves are bigger than she is though, which bothers me.

The Three Little Pigs. I can accept that the house of straw and the house of sticks will be piss poor, as that's the point. But the house of bricks is meant to be strong and wolf-proof. This interpretation shows that the third little pig didn't bother with any foundations, or mortar, and didn't have enough bricks. The message to the kids is that, by rights, this pig should be so much wolf shit by now and that chicken wire is, in fact, the optimum building material.

What can I say? Oh, for a flame thrower.

After negotiating the steep flight of stairs down the side of the embankment we now find ourselves in the boggy bit. The unwary step off the end of the bridge onto what looks like solid ground, only to find it is actually a big green spongey mass that will suck your shoes off your feet while simultaneously releasing clouds of mosquitos.

Yes. It is supposed to be Mole and Ratty. Mole looks far more like a big poo, inexplicably wearing a suit, though.

What has happened to Tigger's lips? Why is Eeyore so wide?

This is a Billy Goat Gruff. He has been on steroids.

The steps back up to the non-scary world! Not exactly pushchair friendly. Not easy to climb with a toddler in tow, either. You have to lean quite a way to your right to reach the rail, in places, while nettles abound at toddler bare ankle height. Pretty though.

And to complete the tour, the final gate, which opens towards the steps, so if you had managed to get that far with some super all terrain mega pushchair, you now have to reverse back down while trying to open the gate at the same time. Tricky.

Next month I meet with the conservators and curators as part of the property conservation plan. This trail is on my hit list. The good thing about all that flakey, gaudy paint is that those boards are going burn brilliantly.

Bank Holiday Stake-Out

Hundreds and hundreds of visitors came to the house on Monday.

Which is great, the people who tot up the figures will be pleased.

It's not too hard for me, as I am busy working, so don't expect any alone time anyway. It is more difficult for my family, who have to share their home with hundreds of other people every weekend and Bank Holiday. They're very good about it, and are accustomed to having volunteers tapping at the kitchen door, needing more milk or trying to track me down if I've selfishly popped home for two minutes to go to the toilet or something. And it's probably just as well the weather was too wet to sit out in the garden. If you do, you will find yourself becoming one of the attractions. Looking out of my kitchen window I saw a line of people, just gazing over the garden fence into the back garden.



They are understandably curious as to who lives there, and why it says "Private" on the gatepost. Which is a bit of a misnomer, as the one thing I cannot have here is privacy. I feel a strong affinity with zoo animals now. There's a reason why chimps behave as they do, you know.

Mystified

Earlier this year I sent out a letter to all the local craftspeople on my database. In it I gave the price for reserving a stall at the May Craft Fair, and explained that this fee was for the pitch itself, which included a standard sized trestle table, based in a marquee in the grounds.

One craftsperson returned their form, asking if they could have their table against a wall, preferably in a corner of the marquee, as they would be displaying handmade cushions and didn't want them to fall off the table.

I duly allocated tables according to specified requirements and reserved one, in the corner, and moved it as close to the side of the marquee as possible.

The lady in question arrived, looked at it, and went ballistic. It wasn't enough room, it was all wrong, wrong, wrong.

"I'm a serious marketeer!" she exclaimed.

Blink.

And she flounced off, taking her cushions with her.

Clouds

Due to the aesthetic restrictions of living in this picture perfect house, I can't put my satellite dish up outside. It ruins the medieval atmos, apparently.

I have to hide the dish in an attic space and point it at the open window. This means that sometimes the reception isn't as brilliant as it should be. It's a great deal better than a bog standard TV aerial, but I still find myself watching wildly pixellated, staccato versions of well known films on the movie channels with depressing regularity.

Clouds. That's what causes it, apparently.

You bastard clouds, let me watch my telly box in non intermittent splendour!

(Shakes fist heavenwards and refills wine glass)

Unexpected Visitors

McColleague entered the office, hands cupped together. "I need the bug jar!" she cried.

I leapt into action, retrieving the clear plastic pot and lid we keep for such times. A moment later we stood back and peered at the small insect within. It didn't look like much, but we both recognised it for the pest it is. A clothes moth.

"Where did you find this again?" I asked.

"On the bed."

I groaned. This was bad. The bedroom houses some gorgeous textiles, and would, naturally, be the last place we'd want a moth infestation.

Sure enough, upon investigation, we found many more insects in the bedding and a treasure trove of bug activity between the carpet and underlay.

We don't use pesticides for such things. The recommended treatment is to put the textiles into a sealed plastic bag and then freeze them for a minimum of two weeks. This was fine for the bed covers, curtains and rug, but has left us with a bit of a problem with the mattress, carpet and underlay. The mattress is hand stitched and stuffed with hair and lambswool. I have a feeling it is also home to stuffed moth larvae, glutted on a feast of natural fibres.

The Wardens - New and Lovely - were kind enough to come and help us move the heavy four poster bed and drag out the heavy carpet. We have left them in charge of those items too large to freeze, while I await curatorial instruction, though if we wait too long there is a chance they'll do a bit of purification through fire. A manky old mattress and a carpet will go nicely on their next bonfire.

Of course, all of this occurred about an hour before we were due to open, so we had to close of the bedroom while I hurriedly made an explanatory notice and laminated some pictures of the bedroom as it should look, when its soft furnishings are not in the nearest freezer.

Still, there were some more welcome visitors today. In our courtyard area we have a corner where we sell plants. We also sell bird boxes. We have some really pretty, twee, painted ones. We also have some very rough and ready rustic ones, that Lovely Warden made with visiting children at one of our wildlife events earlier this year.

As we stood in the courtyard, Lovely Warden noticed a blue tit coming and going from one of the boxes. He waited until she'd flown off and had carefully lifted the lid on the box. Peering into the gloom within, he suddenly broke into a wide grin. "I thought so," he said. "I could see it was worms she was taking in, not nest material." He beckoned me over. There in the box was a fluffy mass of baby blue tits.

"Awwwwww," I said, going into instant soppy mode. "Fancy choosing here, where all the public come to buy plants! Ooh, I'd better make a sign!" I had horrible visions of someone picking up the box and rattling it, not knowing it was in use. Since then, I've discovered the box next door has also got a nest inside - no chicks yet, but two eggs. We saw the same blue tit going into both boxes.

"Can it really have two homes on the go?" I asked.

"Oh yes," nodded Lovely Warden. "If it's from Local Town it's probably servicing the whole street."

Explorers

"Are the cows coming?"

I was half way over the ricketty gate, in a vulnerable position.

"No, they're still the other side of the hill."

"OK. Well, if they do come, and if that one with the horns is a bull, just save yourself. You're small and quick. I will distract them by flailing my arms about and getting trampled."

McColleague laughed, her eyes scanning the horizon as she calculated the sprinting distance between us and the next gate.

"I reckon we should be all right," she asserted.

McColleague and I had been on quite an adventure, exploring the estate on foot for the last four hours, through fields, woods, streams and parkland.

We found a little shelter in the woods.

It is where the community service kids have their base camp, brewing up tea over the fire when they are not clearing away fallen trees and maintaining the footpaths.

I particularly liked their sign over the door.

I am tempted to make it my own office.

We left the shelter behind us and moved on. We had a moment of indecision when faced with a herd of cows on the horizon. Should we walk through them, or go round on the other side of the hedge? We opted for the latter. As we walked up the hill we could see the cows on the other side of the hedge. They were only youngsters, half grown. We felt somewhat foolish. Turns out they weren't far away, they were just small.

We did a lot of clambering over stiles and fences. Eventually I managed to hurt myself on some barbed wire. "Watch out for the barbed wire," I said, giving my wound a lick.

"Ow!"

I was too late. I untangled McColleague and compared injuries. Mine was worse.

OK, so it was just a scratch. McColleague swallowed a fly too. It was a survival type exercise, all right.

Home was in sight when we encountered the final field, the cattle thundering toward us, eager to see what the two humans were up to on the other side of the fence. "I think there is a bull in this field," I said. "That one's got horns, anyway."

We decided to try to find another way past, and stood for some time peering over the ricketty gate at the expanse of apparently cow-free field before us. "I think we'll definitely be all right, climbing over this," I stated, confidently.

And, as it turns out, we were, despite the fact the electric fence keeping them from us just stopped halfway along. I decided not to draw attention to that fact and just walked a little faster. "I really need some tea," I said. "Come on.

Open All Hours

"And you actually live here? You're so lucky!"

I hear this at least once a day. I try not to let on that I live here. When visitors ask about the part of the house not open to the public, I just say that it is still lived in. If pressed, I'll go as far as to say it is lived in by a member of staff. The volunteers, however, will rat me out in a heartbeat. "Doris lives here!" they state, pointing at me as I try to slink by, unnoticed.

And yes, it is amazing, and I am lucky, and it is beautiful....but....

The drawback is, of course, it is incredibly rare to just enjoy it, as when you live where you work, you are never really off duty. Closed days and evenings are very important to me, and the family, as these are the only times we can relax and treat the place as our home. Which, of course, it is, it's just that when the public are here you can't go playing loud music, washing the car in the courtyard, letting the dog out, lighting up the barbecue or even hanging out the laundry.

Next year the amount of time when the house is closed is set to diminish further, with opening times set to be earlier in the mornings and the open season starting in February and continuing until December, wherever possible. This means the time I can have to myself, undisturbed, is very precious to me.

The trouble is, my colleagues, the ones who work Monday to Friday, 9 to 5, who go home at the end of the day to a house they have all to themselves, keep booking in extra events and visits for every closed day and evening they can. I am thinking of becoming a naturist, just so I can go outside for a game of wobbly volleyball, or maybe jiggly pilates, and unsettle everyone so much they never disturb me during my time off again.

Centrepiece

I asked my daughter to create a centrepiece for the dinner table. Something special, as we were making a bit of an effort.

This is what she came up with.

I like it.

Tiny Frog!

It's that time of year again! Tiny frogs! (Or possibly toads. They are too tiny for me to tell.) There was great excitement, and a poor quality camera phone picture, when we found our first of the season.

At this time each year, when the nights are wet, they appear, in my kitchen, hopping across the terracotta tiles, slowly becoming covered in a tumbleweed of dog hair, until they are captured and put outside again. Last year they reached biblical proportions. We collected 50 in a box and emptied back outside, and by the time we'd done that, the kitchen was full again. It makes it very hard to walk from one room to another without stepping on them. What makes it harder is that when they are still they look like little stones.

"They're softer on your feet than gravel, though," opined my daughter.

Gloomy

If there's one thing guaranteed to send me into a bit of a tailspin, it's finding a curt, arsey memo in my pigeon-hole on the day that its author has flown off on holiday for a week.

Rainy Days and Biscuits

"Ah, Doris!"

"Yes?"

"I noticed there were some broken biscuits in the tin, so I took the liberty of feeding them to the ducks. They seemed to appreciate it. I hope you don't mind?"

"No, no, that's fine."

Later on I cleared away the dirty cups and plates from the volunteer's corner, and lifted the biscuit tin to wipe away the tea stains and crumbs from beneath. It was suspiciously light. I lifted the lid and peered inside.

Two sodding biscuits. That's all he'd left me. Two.

"I would have eaten the broken biscuits," wailed my daughter, upon this discovery.

"It's this wet weather," I explained. "It sends them all mad."

Wet Weather Day

On a rainy day, midweek, visitors can be scarce. The staff member in the ticket office, the volunteer in the shop, and the stewards in the house can become very bored after a while. Of course, in the shop and ticket office, in between customers, it is possible to read a book, do a crossword puzzle - one of my ladies brings her knitting with her. It is slightly harder to do entertain yourself in the house in a similar manner, and the volunteers have to find other ways to keep themsleves occupied.

This can take various forms, ranging from moving items about, to a layout they prefer, or putting all the lights on. Many cups of tea are made. Useful suggestions are thought of and searching questions are asked. I receive many more notes scribbled on scraps of paper on a rainy day. My volunteer in the house today though prefers to talk. He knows a great deal, and likes to share his knowledge. When there are lots of visitors he has lots of people to talk to. His attention is divided, diluted. On a day like today he stands in the gloom of the Hall, raindrops dripping from the roses above the door, bored and bursting with information to impart. When he spots a kagouled couple making their way up the drive, his eyes light up with anticipation. They will be the recipients of his undivided attention as he gives them the full 45 minute personal guided tour they never knew they wanted. Some people love it, others I have to rescue. I'll spot them, backed into a corner, eyes darting nervously from side to side, trying to spot an exit, as my volunteer continues, oblivious, lost in his happy place.

The wet weather is set to continue. I have encouraged everyone to bring in a game.

A Reply

I received a reply to the email I sent to the headmaster of the local comprehensive school, following the Unpleasant Incident of last week.

Dear Ms Sparrow

Thank you for your email which was passed to me on Tuesday 7 May.

I share your sense of frustration and disappointment at the way in which a small minority of our students have failed to conduct themselves in keeping with the expectations of the school. The whole situation as you describe it is unacceptable.

The role of the teacher in charge of the situation is clear. If students misbehave in such a way they should have automatically forfeited their place at and been brought back into school.

I will share your email and my reply with the teacher concerned. It may be because the teacher concerned is a supply member of staff and that he is uncertain as to the action he is empowered to take in such a situation. Both the Deputy Head and I will make it perfectly clear as to the action the school believes is appropriate.

I will also share my reply with the Property Manager, . My view is that these particular students should not be allowed to come to again.

I hope you will appreciate that the school completely supports you in this matter and that you accept my personal apologies for what has happened. IT is disgraceful and there is no excuse for this type of behaviour.

I also hope that you will understand that this small group of students are not representative of the student body as a whole and any further groups working at will conduct themselves very differently.

Please do not hesitate to contact me if there are any future difficulties with our students, as action will be swift and decisive.

Yours sincerely

Headteacher.

I am impressed, my faith is restored, and all is right with the world.

Alarming

"Wake up!"

"Wha'?"

"The alarm's going off again!"

Sodding hell. That was the second time in as many hours. My other half dutifully went to check if there were any actual burglars, while I phoned the alarm receiving centre to let them know it had happened again.

It's the same room every time. When checked, nothing is there at all. No intruders, no bats, nothing. The doors and windows are securely closed. I think the problem lies within the detector unit itself. It has become self aware and is attempting to communicate with me via the medium of sleep deprivation.

Jobs for the Boys

We made a sign:

"The last servants left here in 1947.

Please wash and put away any crockery used and take your rubbish with you.

Many thanks!"

New Warden had landed the choice job of putting up the noticeboard above the sink, so that we could display our finely crafted sign. This has been his first week on the job, and, I imagine, quite a learning curve. He has probably not saved a single dormouse or surveyed a solitary fungus. He has learned when we need the rubbish taking up to the wheelie bins, when we put the kettle on, where to gather greenery and flowers for May Day garland-making activities and how to run a wattle and daub workshop for school children.

"Have you got a tape measure?" he asked McColleague.

"Oh, no need to bother with that," she replied. "Just put it up by sight."

"But what if it's not level?"

"Then I'll make you do it again."

A pause. A smile.

He is learning when we are only joking.

An Unpleasant Incident

A cacophony of noise came from outside my bedroom window. Squawking, quacking and an underlying thud of running feet.

I peered out of the window and saw a galumphing great youth chasing the resident bird population along the bank of the moat. I could make out some other people sitting on the bench nearby.

Great. My day off and now it looked like I'd have to go out and move someone on already, and it wasn't even 9am yet. I hurriedly completed getting dressed and then became aware of heavy splashes. I went back to the window. I could see the same teenager crouching by the edge of the moat, throwing stones at something beyond my view, but I could hazard a guess it was any wildlife that hadn't flown away.

I dashed downstairs and out of the back door, and by the time I got to the group on the bench, Lovely Warden had arrived. He explained that these were a group of students from the local comprehensive school. Not overly blessed with an aptitude for academia, they were here to do a bit of outdoor work. I explained that I suspected them of throwing stones at the birdlife.

"They have got a teacher with them," said Lovely Warden. "He's obviously doing a great job of supervising them."

"Are you staying with them?" I asked, hopefully.

"No, but they should be fine, they're working round the back, in the kitchen garden."

"Ok..."

I had grave misgivings. I wanted to go out and enjoy the glorious sunshine, but I was afraid to leave the house unattended. I did not trust them.

And, as ever, my gut instincts were spot on.

Lunchtime came around, and the work party came back to the moat to have their sandwiches. I watched them from the window. Two of the kids were crouched down by the waters edge, lobbing whatever they could find, hard, at the reeds by the opposite bank.

I threw open the front doors of the house and emerged on the opposite side of the moat to them like an avenging angel.

"Are you throwing stones at my ducks?" I demanded.

An adult voice answered me. To my astonishment their teacher was sat on the bench, with them.

"No, at the moorhens," he said.

I boggled. What was wrong with the man?

"Well don't!"

"I've asked them to stop, but they won't".

"What?!" I had reached the incandescent stage. "Don't ask them, tell them. Now I'm telling you. This is my home, not just somewhere I work, and I have shouldn't be afraid to leave my house on my day off for fear of what you lot will do to the wildlife while I'm gone! If you can't respect this place you shouldn't be here. In fact, I want you gone. Go. Now."

I stormed back inside and immediately contacted everyone I possibly could, to express my rage.

I was angry that I hadn't been informed that anyone would be on site in the first place, I was angry that they were here on my day off - I would have liked to have taken my breakfast and lunch out to the moat and enjoyed a picnic in the sunshine without a load of local fuckwittted yobbos lobbing rocks at the ducks. I don't suppose my Boss, or the new Learning Officer would want them in their back yard on their days off. I was angry at the louts for behaving so reprehensibly, but the main portion of my ire was reserved for the teacher who was supposedly supervising them. I would have had them straight back on the mini bus after the first stone was thrown.

The upshot of it all was that Lovely Warden returned and took them away to another part of the estate, where he gave them a lecture on respect. My Boss then intercepted the mini bus before it left and also read them the riot act. I am slightly mollified, but still out for idiot blood. My nostrils are still slightly flared and I have a mad glint in my eye. I am very, very protective of all in my care.

Healthy Options

My nearest post box is at the top of the estate, a distance of nearly 2 miles, all uphill.

I'd been working on the end of month accounts all morning, pausing now and then to gaze wistfully outside at the glorious sunshine. Once I'd finished and was left with a pile of very important paperwork to put in the post I made the decision to cycle to the post box, rather than drive.

I can see now why most of the time I take the car. It is so quick and easy. First I had to find something to carry my post in, on the bike, and then I had to hunt for a water bottle. Then I discovered the front tyre of the bike was looking a little soft and turned the place upside down searching for a pump.

I did, however, spot Lovely Warden and Gardener working by the moat. I wheeled the bike round to them. "I don't suppose, by any chance, you have a bicycle pump to hand?"

Lovely Warden never ceases to amaze me. He waded out of the moat, rummaged in his bag and produced a bicycle pump. Outstanding. Tyre inflated, I was good to go. "Right," I announced. "I am off to the post box."

"The one in town?"

"Um, no. Just at the top of the estate."

I went on to explain how I was not only reducing my carbon footprint, but was determined to be less fat and more fit by the end of the year. "So, if you see me eating something lardy, feel free to slap it away and shout 'no!'"

"So, we have permission to strike you, then?"

"Only if it's something unhealthy," I specified, somewhat concerned at this eager response.

"Have you got a cycle helmet?" asked Gardener.

"No, but I do have big hair," I replied. "I'm sure it must have some protective qualities."

I set off. The slope is gradual, but relentless. My goal is to get a bit further each time I do this before having to get off and walk for a bit. I was about halfway up when I heard a van approaching. It was Lovely Warden and Gardener off to the top to get more equipment from the forestry yard.

"How's it going?"

"It's really hard," I puffed and panted. "If I have a heart attack, will you pick me up on the way back down?"

They assured me they would and went on their way. I went on my way, only rather more slowly. There comes a point when you're cycling uphill, really slowly, in the lowest gear possible, when elderly people overtake you on foot and it gets a bit embarrassing. I paused again in the shade, sitting on a fallen tree trunk and gratefully drinking the water I'd brought. The Gardener's van pulled up alongside me again.

"Almost there then!" he cried, cheerfully.

"Almost," I wheezed.

I waited for the van to depart before resuming my slow crawl to the top of the estate. I weaved my way between the sheep and lambs on the road. They had no need to fear my approach

today!

At last I reached my destination. I stuffed my letters into the post box triumphantly. Yes!

The ride back down made it all worthwhile. The road spun out beneath me, the sheep were woolly white blurs, I rattled over the cattle grids and I remembered to stand up on the pedals as I did so.

By the time I'd put the bike back in the shed Lovely Warden and Gardener were back by the moat again, continuing their good work in fixing the leaking water supply. I wandered over to see how they were doing, my legs still somewhat achey and my face feeling like it must be as red as the post box.

"Did you win," they asked, "or are you still fighting?"

"Still fighting, a bit," I answered, truthfully. "Shall I get us all an ice cream?"

(In case you were wondering, I had a Calippo, which was the healthiest option available, so avoided having it smacked out of my hands with a muddy shovel).

Careful Now!

"We'll need an extension lead," mused my Boss, thoughtfully. We were stood around an unplugged freezer in one of the outbuildings we use for storage up at the Estate Office.

"Is there a socket anywhere?" asked McColleague.

"Yes, at the other end of the building. We could make a hole in the ceiling in the tea room stores, and thread a lead through the roof space."

Lovely Warden arrived with an extension lead.

"Up you go, Sam," said my Boss.

("Sam" is not Lovely Warden's name. My Boss calls all men "Sam" and all women "Gert". It saves him from having to remember too many names.)



I watched in trepidation as Lovely Warden stepped up onto a swivel chair, wedged in amongst the junk, balanced on a plank of wood on top of a step, and then progressed up a pile of rather flimsy-looking boxes, before wriggling through the small gap into the roof space.

Much tapping, and knocking ensued, as Lovely Warden and the Boss married up the end of the lead with a hole in the ceiling.

He emerged, backwards, some time later, lead in hand, covered in cobwebs and grime.

"Coming back out was the hardest part," he said. "I couldn't see my feet. It's hard enough when there's a ladder, but with just boxes and a swivel chair..."

McColleague and I nodded. We had seen just how tricky it was. I had only managed to capture one image without camera shake, due to laughing so much.

"Well, at least you're down safely! No more health and safety concerns for us."

"Here, Sam," said the Boss, fiddling with the plug he was attempting to reconnect to the lead hanging from the hole in the ceiling, "you'd better check this. I can't see a bloody thing."

I gave McColleague the look that means "get ready to dislodge him with a broom handle, should this go horribly wrong".

There was no big shock, no sparks, however, just a satisfying thrum of a functioning chest freezer. Hurrah. Now we can store more bread rolls than ever before! Worth every exciting moment, I'm sure you'll agree.

A Change of Pace

Today I have been in the company of my 20 month old soon-to-be-godchild. All my dealings with staff and volunteers today were conducted with a littl'un balanced on one hip, or sat on my lap bashing away quite happily at the computer keyboard.

We went on an adventure through the orchards, across the meadows and down to the brook. We climbed up molehills and peered under bridges for trolls. We squeezed into Snow White's dwarf-sized cottage and spread out on the giant chess board.

We ate ice cream and strawberries and had chocolate smiles and sticky fingers. There was talk of poo and bogies.

It was so nice to spend the day with someone completely on my intellectual level for once.

Duck Attack!

I like ducks. They are nature's safety birds - rounded beaks, webbed feet. There is a reason why duck fighting never caught on.

They can still startle you in their quest for stray grains though.

The Slippy Slidey Slope of Doom

That's what I call the long, muddy incline that features on one of the walks through the woods.

McColleague and I take the occasional bike ride together when the weather is warm. Usually we cycle to the local pub, have a couple of beers and some chips, and then ride home again, full of lard and lager.

Running out of steam halfway up the Slippy Slidey Slope of Doom, I dismounted and decided to push the bike the rest of the way. As I slid back down past McColleague, the bike on top of me, I realised it wasn't going to be that simple.

"Are you all right?" called McColleague.

"I'm ok! I'm all right!" I assured her as I continued my descent. "Just a bit muddy. Can you help get the bike off me?"

I may need to re-think the route for next time.

Whodunnit?

The Evidence:

Found outside the gatehouse, moments before letting in the visitors.

The Usual Suspects:

Janet

Age 17

Special moves: eating chicken, dribbling and staring.

Jules

Age 2

Special moves: using my leg as a scratching post, getting stuck up trees and sitting in people's trousers while they're on the toilet.

Vince

Age 2

Special moves: dangerous rooftop manoeuvres and killing small creatures with ruthless efficiency.

Time Off

I am taking a couple of days in lieu this week, seeing as though I worked a six day week, including two bank holidays, over Easter.

So far on my day off I have:

• Organised volunteer cover for tomorrow.
• Bought cake and biscuits for the volunteers.
• Brought through their cups, milk, kettle etc.
• Completed the end of week returns and faxed them to regional office.
• Banked the takings.
• Bought a new ink cartridge for the printer.
• Got change for the tea room.
• Sorted out the floats for tomorrow.
• Washed up all the volunteers cups and plates.

But by far the most bizarre interruption of my day off was from McColleague. I was sat in my living room, sketching, when I heard her call from outside the door.

"Doris! Do you know where (something something) is?"

"What?" I put down my sketch book and pencil and opened the door. "Do I know where the what is?"

I stopped short. McColleague was stood there with our young volunteer. Both had tiny ducklings clutched in each hand. "Peep!" said the ducklings.

"Do you know where the mother duck is?" repeated McColleague.

"Um...no...she's not in here with me, anyway." I was confused. Why were my colleagues outside my living room, holding tiny fuzzy ducklings at me?

"We found these all by themselves near the chapel, and there was no mother duck anywhere near. I was afraid they were going to get run over by the builder's van. We've walked right round the moat but not found the mother duck."

"Could be on mini-moat," I ventured, "or the slurry pit."

Eventually we did track down mother duck, with the rest of her brood, on mini-moat. The tiny, peeping ducklings were set down carefully by the water's edge, and mother duck immediately took off to the other side of the moat. She is a bad mother duck. Shirking her responsibilities like that. After we backed off and some time had passed she finally accepted them back into her brood. A happy ending! I returned to the house and attempted to resume my sketching.

Tomorrow I am going to go out.

A Grumble

I was covering for my Visitor Reception Assistant, on the desk in the ticket office. The sun was shining brightly and everyone had a smile. Everyone, that is, except the woman now standing before me.

"Hello!" I said.

"You don't have any shady parking areas for people with dogs."

I looked over her shoulder at the car park. It's just a big field, really.

"No," I conceded, "but it's a new car park and we have planted lots of trees, so in a few years there'll be more shady areas."

She gave me a look and "Hmmm"ed at me.

"I can't make them grow any faster," I assured her. "But in the meantime why not bring the dog with you? We allow dogs on leads in the grounds."

Honestly, who brings dogs out with them for the day just to leave in the car anyway?

The Sunday Whinge

This is what happens when I foolishly leave my breakfast unattended for a nanosecond.

I am particularly tired and drained today and had hoped to have a quiet day behind the scenes. I really didn't feel up to being front of house for five hours straight. I looked forward to leaving it in the hands of my volunteer who, naturally, didn't turn up. I wouldn't mind, but she didn't turn up when she was last meant to be on duty either. She was most apologetic, mind you. Sent me a card to say sorry, explained that she has lost her diary, and then came to my office in person to sign up for her next shift. "Let me write these dates down for you," I said, "seeing as though you haven't got a diary." Why I thought a couple of post-it notes were going to remain in her possession any longer than her diary managed to I have no idea. I must have been in a wildly optimistic mood. Maybe it was when I ate that entire Easter egg in one go.

I hardly dare phone her now, to see what happened this time. Assuming she's fine and just forgot, she will be so mortified I'll wish I never mentioned it. If she isn't fine, then I'll feel mortified. I'm not quite sure what the ideal outcome to this scenario could be...Suggestions?

A Flurry of Activity

"Where's the tin?"

"What tin?"

"The cash tin for the desk?"

"It's there," I said, indicating the donations tin.

"But what if people want change?"

"We don't give them change, it's a donation. We haven't had a cash tin on the desk for the past three years, remember?"

My volunteer gave me a blank look. It was his first time back in this season. He'd obviously jettisoned all prior knowledge as surplus to requirements over the winter. He's not alone in this.

...

"Where are the laminated sheets about the guns, they don't seem to be in the drawer?"

"No, we're not having laminated sheets out on display any more, we've put them in the folder, remember?"

...

"Do you want the centre light on, or the lamp, in the Business Room?"

"Um...it seems really bright and sunny to me today, Mildred....I don't think we need a light on at all. Remember the damage light can do?"

...

"Mildred's just fallen down the stairs!"

"What? Our stairs?"

"Yes, she was halfway down, missed her tread, and fell down the rest of them."

"Is she ok?"

"Yes, but a bit shaken."

"I'd better do an accident report. What was she doing up the stairs anyway?"

"Think she was putting the lights on."

...

"Can you read this?"

McColleague was pointing to a tiny inscription on the handle of an old umbrella from the Business Room. I looked up from the accident report form for Mildred.

"Um...no...why?"

"A visitor wanted to know. I'll get the magnifying glass."

...

"No, I still can't see anything. It's too small. Who on earth wants to know stuff like this?"

"Tell him it's a manufacturers stamp."

"Ok."

....

"Umbrella Man says your drain's blocked."

"What drain?"

"The drain outside your bathroom window."

"What's he doing looking at that?"

McColleague shrugged.

"Ask Lovely Warden to poke it with a pointy stick, that usually does it. It's probably just leaves."

...

"Bloody hell."

"What?"

"I've just bumped into Umbrella Man again. This time he says there's a lamb separated from its mother outside - couldn't we hear it bleating?"

Just then the radio squawked into life.

"Ticket Office to Doris - there is a lamb running up the drive."

"Yup, OK, we're on it!"

...

Outside the house a small black and white Jacobs lamb was indeed out on the road, racing toward the horizon.

"It's one of yours," I said to my Boss, who happened to be on site at the time.

The ensuing chase was the highlight of my day. Lovely Warden came at it from one end of the road, my Boss from the other. There was running and jumping, leaps, bounds, falls and shouting. McColleague and I watched the whole thing from our vantage point on the front lawn. We doubled over with laughter. The whole event was drawing quite a crowd. At long last the lamb was finally persuaded to run back into the field and was reunited with its mother. The Boss walked back to McColleague and I, holding up a bloodstained hand.

"Need the First Aid kit," he smiled. "I dived for the lamb, missed, and grabbed the barbed wire fence."

"Aw, I'll have to do another accident report now."

"The thing is," confided the Boss as he dabbed at his wound with an antiseptic wipe, "what I usually do when I'm trying to catch one of my lambs is kick its feet out from under it as it tries to run past. But I couldn't do that with everyone looking."

McColleague and I nodded understandingly. Kicking lambs never goes down well with the visitors over the Easter holidays.

It's All Gone Quiet Over Here...

Oh, the luxury. All day off today. Even if the next Bank Holidays are as busy, at least they are in isolation, rather than the Good Friday to Easter Monday four day marathon.

In many ways we were victims of our own success. Taking the view that if you don't do well at Easter you never really get a chance to catch up, I embarked on an extensive marketing campaign. That, combined with the warm, sunny weather, led to unprecedented numbers making their way to the house.

I know the financial types at Regional Office will see the statistics and rub their hands with glee. And, yes, it is good to make some money. However, I feel the house was at its limits over the weekend, with numbers so high as to detract from the experience for everyone.

The house suffered a great deal of wear and tear. I noted with dismay a broken piece of the spinning wheel, simply discarded on the table. The crewel-work bedding on the oaken four-poster has chocolatey stains on it, and I picked up everything from discarded food wrappers to nappy bags and stickers from the floor. The ancient typewriter in the Business Room had its keys jammed down, pot pourri had been scattered liberally through the bedroom and anything small and moveable had been moved. It saddens and frustrates me, as I am loathe to litter the house with "Do Not Touch" signs. Many parents feel that the typical country house experience is an unfriendly one, with everything roped off and room stewards frowning upon boisterous behaviour from children. Yet, here, where nothing is roped off, we find that some parents seem quite happy to allow their offspring to leap upon the bed, bash away at the old typewriter or break bits off the spinning wheel. When we are not so crowded it is easier for us to engage our young visitors and explain why we mustn't treat fragile objects so harshly, but when we are crammed to the rafters it just isn't possible. You'd hope people would have a little more respect for their surroundings.

The crowds also meant managing the event was a tougher job than usual. Last year we ran tractor and trailer rides at Easter and the public responded with apathy. I had to wander around the grounds trying to round people up to fill the trailer, and the poor farmer just sat there, waiting, for hours. This year it was like a scene from Alton Towers. The queues were huge! I couldn't believe how many people had assembled at the boarding point. There was no way they would all fit on to the trailer. I began to think I should have introduced some sort of ticketing system, rather than the "first come, first served" approach which had always stood me in good stead previously. "Are you ok to squeeze in a few extra tours?" I whispered to the farmer. Thankfully, he was.

So, the people in the queue began to board the trailer for the first tour of the day and there came a point where I had to say "Sorry folks, that's it for this one, but it will return in just under an hour! In the meantime, please enjoy the sunshine, the giant games, the falconry and animals, and the farmer will be back as soon as he can!"

All well and good. About 50 minutes later the tractor could be seen a good quarter of a mile away, returning back to the house for the next tour. I went to meet it and manage the queue. Already there was a horde of people waiting for the next one. God, it was hard. Trying to stop people from standing directly in front of a reversing trailer and tractor, trying to stop them trying to surge onto the trailer before the current occupants had disembarked, trying to get them to stand back far enough so that people could get down the steps safely. Trying to get them to move aside so that they were no longer obscuring the disabled parking area. All very trying. At last the next load of people had swarmed onto the trailer and I was giving my apologies to those who had failed to make it on board this time. One lady was not happy.

"We didn't get onto the first tour, and now we've not go onto this one. We've already waited an hour! I don't want to tell you your job or anything, but maybe you should look at some sort of ticketing system."

This situation repeated itself on a hourly basis. Finally closing time came around and as I waved the last trailer tour of the day off site and walked back to the house another visitor intercepted me. "Can I just make a comment?" she asked. Escape was not an option. My feet ached too much to run far. "Yes, of course!" I beamed.

"We've just done the trailer tour and it was excellent, really good fun, the kids loved it."

"Great!"

"Yes, thing is, I don't know if you've done these before, but maybe you should look at some sort of ticketing system?"

Next time I am going to introduce some sort of ticketing system.

Oh, and the cows did shit all over the giant chess board and several of the pieces.

Ducklings Do Not So Much Fly, as Plummet

Yesterday evening the duck eggs in the hollow oak tree finally hatched! Mother duck had left the nest and was circling the base of the tree, quacking incessantly, while her fluffy ducklings teetered on the edge of the hole and refused to jump. Round and round went mother duck, her quacks become increasingly plaintive.

I spotted increased movement in the hole in the tree and then one bold duckling went for it. He kind of plummeted head first to the ground and landed on his back, bounced a goodly way in the air, and then took off after his still-circling mum, apparently none the worse for wear. The other ducklings obviously saw his bad landing and thought "no way". They refused to budge.

As the evening drew on, my other half could stand it no longer. "I'm going to hoy them out of there," he announced.

"But, that's not part of nature's plan," I protested.

"Yeah, well, I don't see that falling on their heads is part of nature's plan. I'm going to get them out."

So, up he climbed. "Oh wow," he said, peering inside the hole.

"Take a picture," I cried. Precariously, hanging on with one hand and trying hard not to fall out of the tree and into the moat, he did:

One by one, he handed down a duckling to my outstretched hands, and I then put them on the grass, where they were happily reunited with their mother. We counted out thirteen ducklings in total, and each and every one of them crapped in my hands. Can't say I blame them.

Our intervention doesn't seem to have done them any harm. They drew crowds all afternoon at the Easter event. There may have been giant games, birds of prey, exotic reptiles, insects, mammals, tractor and trailer rides, quizzes and chocolate eggs yet the ducklings were proving to be strong competition.

Unprecedented numbers of people turned up today. Our trailer rides were so popular they were totally over-subscribed and we had to shoehorn in an extra couple of tours. There isn't an ice cream left in the shop. My feet hurt. But, this is what makes it all worthwhile - a lovely couple of comments cards left for me this evening:

"By far the best place I have visited - lovely surroundings and good walks. The children enjoyed the games and quiz - a perfect day"

and

"I think it was the best I've ever been to - Emily, age 7".

And best of all, I get to do it all again tomorrow! Pass the wine...

Chess, Calves and a Broody Duck

The public did indeed play with the chess set today. All our outdoor games were very popular. My main problem now is keeping the escapee calves away from it all. I don't want them to crap all over the board. They are very interested in the big games. And the dog keeps making off with the croquet balls.

This duck has also decided to go where she can cause maximum disruption. This weekend we proudly unveiled our new exhibition in the courtyard. A wonderful collection of new interpretation panels and interactive displays on 700 years of forestry and farming on the estate. One of our key exhibits was our "listening post", where you can press a button on the display and hear various people talking about various aspects of farming on the estate through the ages. This was in an alcove of its own. The last week has seen countless men in heavy boots clumping in and out, sawing bits of wood, wiring up the speakers, shifting out the junk. And, lo and behold, a broody duck decided this was the ideal spot to lay her eggs.

Her nest is a bizarre mix of an old latex glove, a used tea light, some plastic bags and feathers. Unperturbed by the activity around her she has sat stoically on her nest all week. I was concerned she'd get trodden on, being so well camouflaged, so McColleague brought in a fireguard to put around her (leaving space for her to get in and out, of course!)

I have roped off the alcove altogether, with a little sign saying "Do Not Disturb. Nesting Duck." She is proving far more of an attraction than the listening post, which, somewhat unsurprisingly, turned out not to work properly anyway.

Hours of Work for Sheer Seconds of Pleasure

Assembling a giant chessboard is neither quick nor easy. It is frustrating, hurts your fingers and takes well over an hour, even with four of you working on it. It takes longer to put together than to play an actual game of chess.

The manufacturers of the Giant Chess Game are sadistic bastards.

The public better bloody well play with it now.

Bunny Girl

I have worded my press releases very carefully this year, in the run up to Easter.

If I am not careful, I can end up having to portray the gist of my press release for the benefit of the local press photographer. This leads to scenarios like these.

My press release this year emphasises all the other attractions we have to offer visitors this forthcoming weekend. The many activities and special features that cannot be illustrated by me holding an Easter Egg aloft or grinning like a maniac at a small fluffy chick. Anything to avoid having to wear a bunny costume about four sizes too small for me ever again.

Great Expectations

I have long needed extra help in the house. McColleague is a one woman wonder, a dynamo, and does far more than the actual six hours a week she's actually paid for. Still, no matter how far we stretch those six hours, they in no way cover all that needs doing. This means that when McColleague isn't here, I fill in the gaps. When I fill in the gaps, my important managerial tasks involving files, reports, budgets and other bits of paperwork, do not happen. When vital bits of paper don't arrive on Important Person's desks on the appointed day, I receive terse little emails, stressing how very important it is that the visitor statistics are received on time. I then have to send terse little replies about how very important it is to have the house open on time for people to visit in the first place. Before you know it we're all being terse, and where is the love?

Of course money is always the problem. No finances for extra hours for McColleague, let alone for an additional member of staff. So, I put out a plea for conservation volunteers to help in the house.

To my utter astonishment, someone was interested! A delightful young woman applied to become a full time volunteer conservation assistant. The question was, would she be put off by the actuality of the job itself? The perception is that there will be lots of wearing white cotton gloves, cleaning ceramics with a cotton bud or dusting with a pony hair brush. The truth is that interesting, meticulous tasks like those take up a tiny proportion of the working year, with the vast majority of the time taken up with boring old hoovering and dusting. There just isn't time to do anything else before the house opens to the public each day. The basics are dull, but necessary. Bat poo needs to be hoovered up, dead flowers need to be replaced with fresh ones, litter bins need emptying and loo rolls replacing.

All of this was explained in advance, in great detail to our New Girl, and, to her credit, she still turned up to give it a go. Along with the conservation side of things, she was also interested in learning about how a heritage site is managed, so at least she's getting an honest experience.

I hope she finds it has been worthwhile. (There is a tendency to worry you're not giving your volunteer interesting enough tasks, so you end up emptying the bins and doing the hoovering while they get to do something more glamorous or fun. Several of my counterparts at other properties have fell into the same trap. I am trying hard not to let it happen this time. The job is what it is, after all.) She keeps coming back, and she's still smiling, so it bodes well.

A key educational moment came fairly early on in her volunteerhood. Myself, McColleague and the New Girl were outside installing solar powered lights along the path, ready for an evening event. The lights were mounted on the end of a black plastic stick, with a pointy end, so you can just push them into the ground wherever you need them. Well, in theory, anyway. The ground was proving too hard.

"McColleague, " I yelled down the path. "Fetch the hammer and a bit of wood!"

I turned to smile at the New Girl. "There," I said. "When you hear me call for the hammer and a bit of wood, you know that's proper conservation."

This week I have told her to bring her wellies, as I have another conservation project in store. If she sticks with it, I may break out the cotton buds and white gloves, as a treat.