Wellies, you say?

From the letter I sent in November:

"After the meeting there will be an opportunity to join Lovely Warden for a guided walk along the new nature trail. Please be aware that the terrain will be muddy and uneven so suitable footwear is essential!"

From the Christmas get together in December:

"And don't forget, after our pre-season meeting there'll be a chance to see the new nature trail. It's a bit rough and ready at the moment, so do bring your wellies."

On the morning of the pre-season meeting:

"The trail is particularly muddy at the moment, so if you are joining us this afternoon wellies are a must."

After lunch:

"Right, those of you coming on the walk, please gather in the courtyard. Can I just re-emphasise, the walk is exceptionally boggy in parts, so if you haven't brought wellies or walking boots I wouldn't attempt it."

On the walk:

"Ok, this is where it starts to get really muddy and churned up. I can't stress enough just how muddy it gets. Those of you in ordinary shoes, bail out now!"

"Is it muddy then?"

"Yes, very."

"Will it come over the tops of my shoes?"

"Most likely."

"I'll risk it." And with that, she rolled up her trouser legs and strode on.

I have to say, I am proud of my volunteers. I had wellies on, and I carried a stout stick to assist me through the worst of the slippery, boggy parts of the track. Yet I had a couple of older ladies with me who managed to traverse the entire swamp in their sensible shoes and whilst carrying handbags. It had to be seen to be believed. This is the kind of can-do attitude that makes Britain great.

Our volunteers are a formidable crew. I do love them.

And Smile!

I had sent out numerous press releases, not expecting there to be much, if anything, in the way of a response.

Volunteer recruitment days are never terribly newsworthy. Each year I have an open day or a coffee morning where I try to lure people in so I can persuade them to volunteer with us. Each year I sit there, surrounded by plates of biscuits and volunteering brochures and no one turns up. If I'm exceptionally lucky a rambler may stray past, and I'll drag them in and give them a leaflet, but that's about it really.

McColleague was setting up the room, putting out an optimistically large number of cups and saucers, while I finished up in the office. The phone rang. It was the local press photographer!

"Can I come out and get some shots of your volunteer coffee morning?" he asked.

"Yes. Yes!" I exclaimed. "Though, I must warn you, I may not actually have any volunteers to photograph."

He was undeterred by this. "I'll be there at 11," he said.

I hurried over to the volunteer room and McColleague. "The photographer from the local paper is coming!" I explained.

"What will he make you hold aloft this time?" she wondered.

"A volunteer?"

The coffee morning offically began at 10am. By 11 am McColleague and I were still the only people in the room. The photographer arrived.

"Hello," I smiled. "I'm afraid we're having a bit of a lull at the moment."

"No problem," he said. "Let's just have a picture of you, Doris, in front of the house."

And so another photo for my collection is taken. Me, in front of the house, holding aloft a Volunteer Welcome Pack, the sun in my eyes, my hair blowing over my face. I await the torrent of calls to flood in as people all over the county flock to volunteer for me.

I really look like I need help.

Top Table

As regular readers may be aware, I have long had logistical problems with the volunteers sharing my office for their lunch and tea breaks. This year sees a major milestone achieved as the long-awaited New Volunteer Room is finally completed. Yea, and there was much rejoicing.

So, the room is complete. The finishing touches are not. McColleague and I are poised with all the little extras that make a volunteer/staff room so appealing. We have all the usual tea making paraphernalia along with a noticeboard, a clock, a comfy chair, some nice pictures for the wall and so on. The one thing we didn't have was a table. Not to worry though. Lovely Warden was making one."Now before I show it to you," said Lovely Warden, about to open the door of the warden's shed to display his handiwork, "the correct response is 'that's a beautiful table'".

McColleague and I nodded dutifully as he looked at us, then exchanged meaningful glances as he turned away.

As expected it was very large and made of wood.

"That's never going to get through the door!" exclaimed McColleague.

"It's very big," I said. "Oh, and beautiful, " I added, hastily.

"It'll be fine," said Lovely Warden. "I'll bring it down tomorrow, on the trailer. I can't fit it in my van."

As predicted, it was too big to fit through the door. The top of the table had to be removed and reassembled once inside.

It takes up quite a lot of the room. It is so big that McColleague was able to wax and buff it usuing the electric floor polisher we use in the house. Lovely Warden is unrepentent. He says it is such a lovely table he wants it to be the focal point of the room. And it is.

Mighty Mallet

This is Lovely Warden's latest creation. McColleague and I discovered it in the bird hide. It is a massive, hand crafted wooden mallet. I do not know why Lovely Warden has made it and am reluctant to ask (it takes all the fun out of guessing, for a start).

Is it for giant games of croquet? Dealing with the squirrels who steal the nuts meant for the birds? What uses can there be for a giant wooden mallet in a bird hide?

Pressure

Until very recently the house was supplied with spring water. There is a very efficient filter system in place and I was more than happy to drink delicious non-chlorinated spring water that would cost a bomb if it was bottled and put in the shops. Granted, the system wasn't perfect, as the spring water also supplied the cattle troughs, and if any of the cattle troughs got kicked over by a frisky cow, our water supply would slow to a trickle and then stop.

Whenever the subject of mains water was raised I was informed that we couldn't just change over because of the difference in pressure. Our spring water system just wouldn't cope with mains water. All the ballcocks and pipes would need replacing first. It made sense to me.

So imagine my surprise when my water supply was changed from spring to mains a month or two ago.

"Don't we need to change the pipes first?" I asked, in some concern.

"It'll be all right," said my Boss.

"Right," I said.

So imagine my surprise when, on my way to bed at midnight, I discovered a river of water running through the house.

The water pipe outside my kitchen window had burst and was fountaining gallons of water up through the drain cover and subsequently into my kitchen. I phoned my Boss who duly arrived with his brother-in-law, Colin, our resident plumber and builder. We all stood outside, in our wellies, torchlight reflecting off the bubbling water.

"Nothing we can do tonight," said Colin. "I'll just turn off the water supply for now and be back first thing in the morning".

When you've spent the night having to fetch buckets of water from the courtyard to flush the loo, it is a wonderful thing to see a yellow digger outside the kitchen window. It gives you hope.

After much excavation the offending broken piece of pipework was found and replaced.

"I reckon it was the change in water pressure that did it," mused Colin.

"You reckon?"

"Oh yes. It'll be all right now."

Imagine my surprise a few days later when I discovered the overflow from the cold water tank in the roof space pouring out water just outside my back door. To exit the house you had to go through a small waterfall. Colin came to investigate.

"It's the ballcock. It's not designed for this kind of mains pressure. I'll fit a new one."

"Will it be ok now?"

"Oh yes."

I am already imagining my next surprise.

First Aid Made Me Sick

"Right, you all remember Resusci Annie, don't you?"

We did. We were all there for our First Aid Re-Qualification. Once you have completed the original five day training course you are then qualified for three years. Once those three years have passed you need to attend a further 2 day course to maintain your qualification. We had all locked lips with Resusci Annie many times before.

"Well, this isn't Resusci Annie, this is Fred," continued our instructor, unzipping the case before him.

"Blimey," I muttered. "Fred's a bit scary, isn't he?"

Our instructor went on to tell us that while Annie is modelled on a petite woman, Fred reflects a more modern trend and is based on a 19 stone man. He was therefore a lot more demanding on the arm muscles when performing CPR.

My knees felt the strain too. Two days of crawling around on industrial nylon carpet, applying bandages and the kiss of life meant I was sporting a couple of impressive carpet burns, despite the jeans I wore.

I passed the exam at the end of day two and went away with a renewed qualification and the beginnings of the flu bug that knocked me out over Christmas. I am convinced someone breathed their germs into the chest cavity of Fred or Annie and I subsequently breathed them in. The medicated wipes used to clean the doll between each use only sterilise the surface. I am convinced Fred gave me flu.

House of Wool

My nearest town is small and full of interesting characters. I very much like it. One of the characters is a lovely lady called Olive who has a wool shop. She is an accomplished mistress of the knitting needles. Jumpers and cardigans, scarves and gloves, socks and hats - these no longer present any sort of challenge for her. For Olive is famous locally for her skills in making woolly worlds, knitted alternative realities. She knits people. And animals. Even vegetables.

Her creations can be found displayed in vacant shop windows along the High Street. On my first visit to the town, when I originally moved here, I was perplexed as to why there were life-sized knitted figures in random shop windows. Since then I have come to understand that this is a local tradition and have grown to eagerly anticipate her next flurry of knitted activity. McColleague and I always text each other with updates on the knitted figures situation whenever one of us spots a new display.

So it was that I found myself outside her wool shop in the days before Christmas, gazing in awe at the knitted Widow Twanky in her shop window, and boggling at the knitted paper chains draped overhead. Next door stood an empty shop, but instead of the soaped windows and a few dead flies you might expect to see in a normal High Street, this housed an impressively random selection of Olive's finest knitted figures. You see, that's one of the things I enjoy the most - the fact that there is no theme, no common element to these displays that I can discern. To my delight I could see a Land Army Girl, an Arab and a person in a white coat - a vet? A doctor? Who knows? Oh, and a donkey. And a collection of knitted mice, carrots and even a woolly turnip, scattered across the floor. I fumbled in my bag for my mobile. I needed to send visual evidence to McColleague at once.It was as I took the picture on my cameraphone that I heard a voice behind me.

"Hello! Photographing my knitted people, are you?"

Eek! It was Olive! I was caught.

"Yes," I replied. "I always take a picture to show my friends. We love your knitting."

"Are you local?"

Olive asks me this every time she meets me. I explained again that, yes, I only live up the road at the manor house.

"Would you like to see more of my knitted figures?"

"Um....well I'm a bit pushed for time."

"I've got loads more in the back of my shop, come and look."

It was hard to refuse. The shop was right there and I had been caught showing an interest. Olive ushered me through, into the dark recesses beyond the counter. The bell above the door jangled as someone else came into the shop. "I'll leave you to it," she said.

And so I found myself alone in a room surrounded by life-sized knitted figures. Apart from what I think was a knitted mayor. He was half the size of all the others. I don't know why.I wondered how long was the politely correct amount of time to spend on my own among the knitted people. My cameraphone pictures weren't doing them justice, my hands were far too shaky with the excitement of it all.I texted McColleague. "I am in the back of Olive's wool shop! If I appear in knitted form in a shop window in a few days time you will know I fell to the House of Wool." And I sent an accompanying picture to illustrate my predicament.After a while I decided to venture back out again. Olive was serving some customers in the front of the shop so I was able to call out a cheery "Well, thanks for that, I've some lovely pics now to show everyone!" as I made for the door without slowing or making eye contact.

I must return the favour when the house re-opens and invite Olive along to see our Nursery Rhyme Trail. I've a feeling she'd really like it.

Tis The Season to be Poorly

For some strange reason I just couldn't get warm all afternoon. We'd sat around the kitchen table, on the last Friday before Christmas, eating a selection of party snacks and drinking the damson gin that Lovely Warden had been brewing in his shed for the past few months. Well, I say eating and drinking. Lovely Warden and McColleague were. I, on the other hand, was not. My appetite was oddly absent and I was mostly sipping water, the alcohol not appealing to me as it usually does.

When my guests finally left I collapsed into an armchair, shivering.

Turned out I was coming down with a bout of festive flu and by the time I returned to normality Christmas was all over. I am not sure if this is a good thing or not, to be honest. I feel like I missed out on a proper big Christmas dinner and the whole drinking, merriment thing, but, then again, I didn't have to cook or make small talk, as I was in a feverish sleep and therefore excused. Swings and roundabouts really.

Deck the Hall

"I want lanterns," I said. "On sticks. You know, like the ones carol singers tradtionally carry in old pictures."

I needed to illuminate the path from the ticket office to the house for our evening event, and apart from our solar powered outdoor lights not looking as historically correct as a nice lantern, they also tend to be entirely deficient in the light emitting department.

Lovely Warden was very excited. Not only had I requested something involving bits of wood, I had also introduced the element of fire, which is always a winner.

Once I'd handed over the paraffin and a box of matches he was away.

Meanwhile McColleague and I put our finishing touches to the house, which, come to think of it, also involved bits of wood and the element of fire. We'd decked the hall with as much foliage as we could gather, and arranged it artfully around the many candles needed to light the house in the evening.

"Beautiful," we agreed, once we'd lit all the candles, and stood back to admire the effect. Flickering flames, ancient timbers. "Best keep the fire extinguishers within arms reach," we concurred.

Next came preparing the refreshments for the evening. The mulled wine was rigorously tested for temperature and flavour. "Needs more wine," said Lovely Warden. We couldn't be bothered to rigorously test the mince pies, we were sure they'd be fine. Besides, we were still sick of the bloody things from last year.

Our catering this time was spot on. Every morsel was consumed. It was slim pickings for McColleague and I at the end of the night.

"Do you want a clove-studded orange, or a walnut?"

"Are there any nut crackers?"

"No, I didn't want the public eating the display."

"I think I'll leave it."

I have promised something much more appetising for our staff gathering (me, McColleague and Lovely Warden round my kitchen table) next week.

Plan B

For when reindeer are not available. You'd never know the difference.

Festive Cheer and Two Reindeer

Everything was organised. The stalls were allocated, the banner was up on the main road, and press releases and adverts had been placed in all the local media.

All was accounted for and in its rightful place.

My Boss arrived and looked around at the preparations approvingly. "Oh, and I've got us some reindeer," he announced.

"Reindeer?"

"Yes, they're pretty tame now."

"Um...are these the reindeer that were entirely wild the last I heard?"

"They'll be in a pen."

I watched the erection of this pen in the courtyard. I had concerns about its efficiency, concerns which were allayed with liberal applications of baling twine.

"How big are they, exactly, these reindeer?"

"Oh, not fully grown yet. Not that big. Quite small. The older one's only just come into rut. Which has made him a bit boisterous, but he's had a hormone jab and he'll be fine on the day."

I duly went off to rewrite my press releases to highlight this exciting new facet to our festive event.

As it turned out, the reindeer were hugely popular. The nice thing about them is that while most children are wise to the fact that Santa is just some bloke in a poorly fitting costume, a reindeer is undeniably a reindeer.

"Is reindeer shit as good for the garden as horse shit?" I idly asked McColleague as we watched the hordes of happy children stroking the furry defecating deer.

"Let's hope so," she replied.

"Ah well. Shall we go back to the brazier to get warm? We might be given more rejected chestnuts."

"What are we waiting for?"

We returned to the fire, eyes watering in the smoke, waiting to be offered those chestnuts which had burnt and/or been on the floor. We are not too proud to eat chestnuts which have had their flames extinguished by being stamped upon.

Natural Materials

McColleague needed an implement with which to apply the floor polish so that it went on in a smooth, thin layer.

Lovely Warden suggested a paint roller.

"But it will knacker my back, having to kneel down to use that," she protested.

"I'll make a handle for it," he countered.

McColleague showed me the finished product today.

"Other properties get proper high tech conservation equipment," she said. "I get a big stick affixed to a paint roller."

"What did you expect from Lovely Warden?"

I was reminded of a classic Lovely Warden moment the week before. McColleague and I had been with him in the landrover, as we zipped about the estate making final preparations for our festive events. "I just need to get some more diesel," he announced as we pulled into the forestry yard. The storage tank is equipped with a meter and readings are to be noted before and after fuel is taken. Lovely Warden rummaged fruitlessly in the landrover for a pen and paper. There were bug collecting jars, magnifying glasses, CDs, chainsaws, rope, toolboxes, batteries, torches - everything imaginable, other than pens or paper.

In the end he found a small, flattish piece of wood and scratched the meter readings into it with a nail. "You are such a warden," I told him.

Winter Games

It is the time of year we prepare for our annual Christmas events. Without fail the weather is glorious the week beforehand and then changes as soon as we need to go outside to set up. Last year it was extreme winds which decimated our gazebo, our trees and marquees. This year it was unexpected snowfall.

"I have to say," I announced to McColleague as I looked out of the office window at the slowly melting snow, "that I am not overly keen on the concept of foliage gathering today."

"Lovely Warden is on his way," said McColleague, closing her mobile phone firmly. "Get your waterproof trousers on."

I did indeed put my waterproof trousers on. They are a fetching olive green colour and smell very much like plastic. McColleague has an identical pair, only in a smaller size. We were issued with them last year as part of our emergency salvage kit. They do very well for wearing in wet, muddy and scary conditions, but they do restrict your leg movements. Once we have put on our green jackets, wellies and gloves there was only one thing left to complete the ritual - the Foliage Gathering Hat.

Mine is green and deerstalker style, with handy ear flaps. McColleague had forgotten hers (oh, the shame!) so had to wear the only hat we could find, which was a furry Santa Hat.

"Do I look stupid?" she asked.

"No," I lied. "You look very festive."

Lovely Warden arrived in the Gator. He was admant that before we went foliage gathering we had to go to the bird hide and restock the bird feeders.

McColleague and I waited patiently while he did his rounds.

"Come on! It's cold!"

"And where's your foliage gathering hat?"

"I left it in the Warden's shed."

We detoured back to the shed. Lovely Warden reappeared with an exciting fleecey hat, with very long ear flaps.

"I feel inadequate," I wailed. "His flaps are bigger than mine!"

"I haven't even got any flaps," pointed out McColleague.

"I have also brought a safety modification for the Gator," announced Lovely Warden, brandishing a length of orange webbing.

At this point I must stress that under no circumstances would we make an impromptu passenger seat for the Gator from an office chair and a length of orange safety strap. We certainly wouldn't drive it around the estate with someone claiming to feel like "king for a day" and we would not laugh about "catching some air" as we went over molehills at high speed. We would simply gather our mistletoe and holly, safely and sensibly. And anyone who says otherwise is lying.

Blind Ambition

Earlier this week I went on a training course, where I learned all about the various aspects and issues pertaining to disability.

In our organisation we pride ourselves on making every effort to provide as enjoyable an experience as possible for all our visitors. If people are unable to access rooms upstairs, for example, we provide a virtual tour instead (or, in my smaller, less affluent property, a photograph album depicting the the rest of the house). For the visually impaired visitor, properties are encouraged to compile a sensory list of items which can be touched, or plants that have a particular scent, or sounds to listen out for, like the chiming of certain clocks, and so on.

Our trainer on the course was blind himself, and had a wonderful tale to tell of a visit to one of our properties (thankfully not mine) where he was relentlessly persued by a room steward who could not fathom why he didn't want to touch Winston Churchill's walking stick. He personally does not get a great deal out of handling items, but the fact that properties have items specifically for handling by the visually impaired, or have constructed a "feely box", has led to some volunteers believing these have to be utilised. In our trainer's case, having politely declined the offer of a feel of Winston Churchill's walking stick, he was then followed through three further rooms by a mystified volunteer, urging him to "go on, just touch it!"

I did have to point out that this was not discrimination due to him being disabled, but that our room stewards will cheerfully pursue anyone. "They were taught that on a different course," I said. "They must engage our visitors at every opportunity. If you don't want to be engaged they're at a bit of a loss."

Mind you, I wouldn't stick my hand in an anoymously presented "feely box" either, if I couldn't see. Actually, I wouldn't even though I can see.

Hide

"Have you seen Lovely Warden's bird hide yet?" asked McColleague.

"No. What's it like?"

"Well, it's big.....and made of wood."

This came as no surprise. Lovely Warden is very good at making anything you need, as long as you need it to be big and made of wood. The Wizard's Staff we commissioned him to make as one of our Halloween props must have been 8 feet tall. He did cut a bit off the bottom at our request, but you'd still need to be a 7 foot tall wizard to wield it properly. The bicycle racks he created could stop a tank. "Sturdy" and "robust" and "that's somewhat bigger than I imagined it would be" are the words that spring to mind when you witness one of Lovely Warden's creations.

The bird hide in question is part of the new nature walk that is being created over the closed winter months. "Do you want to come and look at it?" asked McColleague.

So I donned my welly boots and set off with McColleague into the woods.

"There," she pointed, as we reached a clearing. "Behold, the Bird Hide!"

"It's a bit bigger than I expected," I said.


"Yes," agreed McColleague. "When I'm inside it I can only just see out of the window so he'll need to build some kind of step for kids to stand on."

It is a good height for me, though. We went inside and waited for the birds to appear. Lovely Warden has nailed many of his handmade bird boxes to the surrounding trees and crafted mighty, monolithic bird feeders and tables to install in the clearing. If you wait, patiently, quietly, in his bird hide you may be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the man himself, putting out food for the birds, to lure them to his avian Eden.

Halloween Happenings

Here you see McColleague hard at work, making final adjustments to our Grim Reaper mannequin. We had decided he was a tad over-stuffed for someone skeletal, so she is removing some bubble wrap. It was a pose that begged to be recorded for posterity.

Our hanging creations are complete, and now in place in the trees. They have proved hugely popular with visiting children, and I have spotted many having their picture taken with our various creatures. We call this one Spike.
This is Swampy.
This is Grunt.
This is Yvonne.
And this is the Bad Bishop.

I have since received a comment card. It reads:

"My husband and I enjoyed the tea room and the house but we felt that as practising Christians the witches and corpses depicting Halloween weren't quite what we were expecting!"

I have many thoughts on this point of view, but the one I shall leave you with is that it's still a lot less scary than the Nursery Rhyme Walk.

Bonus Features!

Yes, much like those fascinating bonus features on DVDs, giving you insights into the special effects and creative processes involved in a major film production, I am delighted to give you a peek behind the scenes in our Halloween Creature Workshop!

It's hard to credit, I know, but our extensive props are not bought in at great expense from professional events companies.

No, believe it or not, we make our creatures ourselves!

Behold, a monster in the making! It looks, at first glance, to be a couple of rubber eyeballs nailed to a piece of wood. OK, while it is a couple of rubber eyeballs nailed to a piece of wood, once we add a mask and a bit of a body it will be transformed into an amazing creature of the night, to delight and terrify!
See? Here's one I prepared earlier. Isn't that incredible? Personally, I find there is no better way of assessing how effective your finished creature will be than to dress it up in a bit of muslin and put it on a sit and ride lawnmower in the courtyard.

Thriller

It's that time of year again. The time when I become very excited about Halloween and spend a lot of time making or buying new props. I find it hard to resist showing off my new acquisitions in the scariest ways I can imagine. This means I spend a lot of time waiting in shadowy corners so I can leap out for encounters like this:

"WooOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOOOooooo!"

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!"

"Bwahahahahahahahahahahaaaaa!"

"You utter, utter cow. I almost had a heart attack."

"Sorry, Mildred. Ooh, is that Derek coming up the path? Don't tell him I'm behind the door!

WooOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOOOooooo!"

And so on.

Glove Affair

I went over to the Ticket Office to offer my Visitor Reception Assistant a tea break. He gladly accepted and headed off to get a drink while I stood at the desk, poised to welcome our visitors and issue tickets as necessary.

In a quiet moment I looked on the shelf under the desk. This is where newspapers and magazines tend to accumulate. A book or a crossword puzzle are useful tools to help keep boredom at bay on those long wet Wednesdays when nobody visits.

What could be better than something to read to keep you company on a lonely afternoon?

Behold Gert and Colin! It appears there is an entertainment alternative to books or newspapers after all.

OK, so he actually keeps these on standby to entertain families with young children as they come through the Ticket Office, but I prefer to imagine the scenarios he enacts with them when he is unobserved.

Skirmish

"What's going on today then?"

I smiled through the screaming in my head and answered without a trace of irritation.

"It's our 17th Century Weekend."

Every single bleeding event this happens. I have banged on about it before I know, here and here. It's just so hard for me to fathom how they can sign their name beneath the event listing on the rota and then walk through a sizeable civil war encampment on their way to the house, and still have to ask what's happening. I mean, I was even in full 17th century costume myself. Was it really likely it was going to turn out to be the Autumn Walk or something?

Once the volunteers had established exactly what was going on the rest of the event went entertainingly well. The highlight was, as is often the case, entirely unplanned. Part of the scenario was the skirmish that took part outside the house, by the moat. I, and the rest of the household, would watch from the house as Parliamentarian and Royalist soldiers clashed. Cannons roared, muskets fired, swords clashed. It was all very colourful and noisy. The first skirmish had gone without incident earlier on in the afternoon, and now it was time for the second one.

I was sat at the table in the Great Hall, the rest of the household in character with me, playing cards, while the servant children swept and tidied in the background. Then the sound of gun fire is heard from outside and the men of the house grab their weapons and rush outside while the women and children look anxiously out of the windows.

By the moat soldiers were fighting in hand to hand combat. The public were safely cordoned off on the opposite side of the moat, facing the house. The fight progressed, a sword was thrust, the losing soldier fell to the ground and should, at this point, have just played dead for the rest of the battle. However, he fell with some momentum and rolled....and continued rolling, straight into the moat. There was an almighty splash and an "ooooh" from the audience. He later told me that his thought, as he fell, in full armour, was "just how deep is this moat, anyway?" Fortunately the water is pretty shallow and he immediately re-emerged, spluttering and covered in mud and pond weed. The public were unaware of this, as there is a five foot drop into the moat, so from there vantage point he had simply vanished from view.

In the house we were doubled over laughing. What made it funnier still was that the children were laughing in that infectious, purely joyous way they have, pointing and telling me "That's my dad! He's got to stay there now for the rest of the battle!"

And he did, crouching there, back to the wall of the moat, while the skirmish continued around him.

One of his daughters gleefully informed me how she'd been messing about by the moat the evening before and had slipped and put her foot in the water. "He sent me back to the tent to get changed and said I had to stay there until he said I could come back out again." No prizes for guessing what she said to her dad once the event had finished.

At last the scene ended, the audience dispersed, and two strong men helped to haul the unfortunate moat diver back out again. "I'll have to go back in again," he gasped. "My sword's still in there."

So, back he went, to fish around in the murky depths. He did find his sword eventually, raising it aloft triumphantly while we stood on the bank, laughing and shouting "Behold Excalibur!"

I do feel for him though. Getting the smell of disturbed moat sediment back out of woollen and leather garments is no easy matter. Authentic though.