Big Red

"So, you want to build a gingerbread cottage on the Nature Trail?"

"Yes. Just a temporary one. It's for my exciting new interactive Halloween event I have planned. I want to tell the children the story of Hansel and Gretel and have them actually discover this amazing house made of sweets and lollipops as we walk the trail. I want to inspire awe and wonder."

"I've got a shed, some off-cuts of wood and a bit of leftover paint."

"That'll do."

                                       *   *   *

A few days later saw myself, McColleague and Lovely Warden bringing these mundane entities together to create magic.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I think it looks amazing."

"Compared to the old Nursery Rhyme Trail a couple of garden gnomes and a plastic windmill would look amazing."

"True. But once we're in costume and the group are in the right frame of mind, I am quite sure this simple garden shed with painted bits of wood stuck to it will be utterly convincing as a magical gingerbread cottage in the woods. Don't look at me like that. It'll be fine."

The day of the event was a perfect October day, sunny and crisp. I planned to take three guided walks over the course of the afternoon, each one telling the tale of Hansel and Gretel.  I wanted it to be as interactive as possible, so the children were actually part of the story. So many guided walks and tours are hugely dull for adults, let alone children, and I wanted this to be anything but.

I was the story teller and guide, Big Red. I used to be Little Red Riding Hood, I informed the groups, but I grew. I had personal experience of these woods but not to worry, the big bad wolf wouldn't be bothering us today (at which point I showed them the wolf's head prop I had cunningly stashed in my wicker picnic basket.)

The picnic basket also contained a big bag of breadcrumbs which the children were encouraged to dip into so we could leave a trail just as Hansel and Gretel did and which would be obligingly eaten by ducks, sheep and, on at least one tour, a visitor's dog.

 McColleague was a part of each group, coming with us from the start, nonchalantly carrying a large shoulder bag. As we drew nearer the gingerbread shed I paused for a while in the orchard, to recreate Hansel and Gretel's fearful night in the woods. "Close your eyes," I instructed, "and listen. What sorts of noises can you hear? What sorts of noises do you think you might hear in the night?" Some of the children were entertainingly creative with their hoots, growls and comedy parps.

While all this was going on McColleague would leave the group and hurry on ahead to the shed, where she would complete an amazing transformation using only the contents of the big shoulder bag.




After sufficient time had passed I would move the group on to the next chapter of our story. Hansel and Gretel, tired and hungry, finally stumble across  a dwelling in a clearing. Hooray, they are saved! It looks like a shed, but no, it's a totally edible and completely realistic gingerbread house!

The children would eagerly gather round as I recounted the delight with which Hansel and Gretel broke off pieces of chocolate and biscuit and  gorged themselves silly. But what they didn't know was that in this house lived.....a witch!

And bang on cue McColleague would come flying out of the shed and chase the children, cackling madly. The kids never failed to shriek and run while their parents collapsed in laughter.

Eventually things would settle down again and we would finish the story, with Hansel being slowly fattened up and the short-sighted witch being fooled into thinking he was still too skinny to eat when he hands her a bone instead of his finger to squeeze through the bars of his cage. We re-enacted this with a small plastic dog bone from the pet shop as I didn't want to risk upsetting anybody with a real one.

The tale finally ended with clever Gretel tricking the witch and pushing her into her own oven. I did the pushing for this bit. Interaction is all well and good but knowing how keen over-stimulated children would be to shove a wicked witch headfirst into a painted fireplace I thought it best to cover this part of the roleplay myself so that McColleague and her pointy hat would survive to perform another day.

By 5 o'clock we were all interactived out.

"There aren't any more tours now, are there? Please tell me that was the last one. Please don't put me back in the shed."

"That was the last one, McColleague. All that remains now is to close up, cash up, put more lippy on, open the wine and partay."

I am a great believer in balancing hard work with an equally demanding level of play. Some people might say that having been on their feet all afternoon, talking non stop, having to do it all again tomorrow, they might prefer to have a quiet evening in on the sofa, resting. Those people are sensible and have probably never known the pain of having to open a visitor attraction the morning after with a head full of ball bearings. However, these people do not get to go to my after-event parties, so who's the real winner here? Answers in the comments, as per.

Big Red

Animal Corner

The Boss wanted to put on an Animal Corner as part of our Country Fair.

"I've got this cockerel," said McColleague.

"Great, bring it!"

"It's not very big," she confided as the date grew nearer. "It's only a bantam. I'm worried that if Animal Corner is relying on it as the main attraction it could be disappointing."

"Trust me, any disappointment in this event won't be solely down to your cockerel."

Things weren't looking promising at this stage. Animal Corner currently consisted of McColleague's cockerel, some ducks, a few rabbits and a couple of sheep. The rest of the Fair was also remaining at the distinctly low key stage, with most of the exhibitors we wanted dropping out and leaving us with a couple of vintage tractors to display, a gazebo from the Local History Society and a trestle table with some pots of jam on it.

McColleague and I marked out the exhibition area with our finest quality orange baling twine and some pointy sticks. "It's not exactly the Three Counties Show, is it?"


"It'll be fine."

And, against all expectations, it was fine.

The day of the event dawned sunny and dry and the public turned up in their droves to experience the free and simple rustic charms of the Country Fair we had so kindly laid on for them.

Who could resist the lure of the balloons on sticks, an irresistible gateway to Countryside pleasures?



As for McColleague's cockerel, it never did make an appearance in Animal Corner.

"I couldn't catch the cockerel this morning," she confessed.

I was unable to mask my disappointment. "You've let the team down, you've let the event down, and - most importantly of all -"

" - I've let myself down. I know. I brought three chickens and some ducks instead."

"Well, that's all right then."


"That's quite a display," I nodded approvingly at the chicken wire and timber construction, resplendent with Union Jacks. "The flags just set it off nicely. And the child's paddling pool is a nice touch."

From Animal Corner we could see all the rest of the Fair. The wardens had an enclosure of their own, in which they showcased their talents. I must say that I have often wanted to know more and it is good to know that the wardens are open to questions and won't savage my ankles.

Successful Event Planning, the Stately Moans Way

When we first had the idea to hold a Fairy Tale Trail it seemed relatively simple. We'd held one before, after all. Apart from the trail itself, and our cunningly concealed creations, we only had to prepare an area for the activities we had promised - wand making, mask making, that sort of thing. A couple of tables in a marquee should do the trick.

Lovely Warden and my Boss duly arrived a couple of days before the event and put up the marquee. They hammered in the tent pegs and tethered it well. "Safe as houses," they declared.

"It looks a bit bare inside," McColleague mused, once it was up .

"We could get some material to create swags," I said, over-confidently, as if I knew about this sort of thing. "And hang up some fairy lights. It'll be a Magical Wonderland!"

So, we went into town and bought acres of pink material and returned, triumphant, ready to work our creative magic.

We were intercepted on our way to the office by a colleague. "Go and look at the moat!" she cried.

The problem was immediately apparent. My Magical Wonderland had developed a definite aquatic theme. Putting the swags up now was going to be a challenge.


I hastened to reassure bemused visitors and volunteers alike that we did not actually erect the marquee in the moat and that it must have blown in. After the tenth repetition I got bored with that and started telling people it was for a duck wedding instead.

Eventually help arrived, in the shape of our gardener, Lovely Warden and assorted other estate staff. They donned waders and climbed into the moat. Progress was not simple, due to the knee high mud and dense vegetation. I gamely assisted by taking photographs and calling out helpful comments like "Careful now!" and "I think it's going to tip over."

It tipped over. It was bit like a warmer, muddier version of Titanic.

"It's not going well, is it?" said McColleague, somewhat redundantly.

"Never let go!" I shouted, but it was too late. Several of the leg poles sank to the bottom of the moat, never to be recovered. That's really going to confuse the Time Teams of the future.

At last the bulk of the marquee was dragged out of the moat and onto dry land. Several key elements were broken, bent or entirely missing. The plastic covering was covered in foul smelling mud and pondweed.

"I don't think I'm going to bother with a marquee for Fairy Day," I decided. "Let's put a couple of tables in one of the buildings in the courtyard instead."

It was at this point we discovered that every single trestle table we owned had been taken away to one of the tenant farms, where they were hosting a wedding party. And that the building in question was full of a disassembled shed, some rusty metalwork and a rickety old piano.

If it wasn't for all the hot wardens-in-waders action the day could have been a tad on the frustrating side.

Doris' Creature Workshop

On a budget of £0.00 I have created a Fairy and Ogre event! Yes, if you enjoyed the Nursery Rhyme walk you'll love the magical world I have conjured up for our Fairytale Trail.

Witness my impressive troll, fashioned from just a green balloon and a mask, hidden in a tree, at great personal discomfort and risk of falling in the moat, by me!

A fairy in the flowerbed. There are rather a lot of these dotted around the gardens and orchards. The gardener will be finding them for months. I just printed and laminated a bag full and hid them in trees and under bushes. I did not keep a record of how many I produced or where I put them.

Of course, the first thing a visiting child asked me was "How many fairies are there to find?"

I waxed lyrical on the nature of fairies. They come and go as they please. Could be seven, could be seventy.

"You don't know, do you?"

"No."

There was some concern, after my fairy frenzy, that there was nothing for the boys to spot, hence the boglin, situated, appropriately enough, in the wall outside the bogs. He has since vanished without trace, so I suspect he may have been nicked. This stands to reason, since he was the one of the few pieces of quality kit I had.

We also installed the Troll Feet and, bizarrely enough , a crocodile under the bridge.

And after all that effort, it bucketed down with rain, and the marquee was crammed with small children in bedraggled fairy wings making magic wands and getting covered in glue and glitter.

Magic.

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.

Who'll Eat all the Pies?

I am all festived out. Three consecutive weekends of Christmas themed events has left me with a mince pie disorder and the ability to sweat essence of cloves.

Last night’s event was excellent. An evening extravaganza of candlelight and costume, music and mayhem. Well, some of my elderly visitors became a little giddy on the mulled wine and had a second sausage roll, and that qualifies for mayhem round here.

I had a couple of musicians in full Tudor dress to play authentic period music on authentic period instruments. I had not heard them in action prior to their performance here, but half of the duo was an ex-colleague of mine who had offered to play for free. This was all the recommendation I needed at the time, though subsequently I did wonder if I should have asked a few more questions. I formulated a plan B in case they turned out to be awful.

“McColleague,” I said, “if it’s rubbish, get out there with the wine and keep everyone’s glass topped up”.

As it turns out, my fears were groundless, and the Tudor musicians were fantastically good. McColleague was happily able to remain at her station by the mulled wine and top her own glass up in comfort.

Once the audience had dispersed and the doors closed behind them, the after-gig party ensued. There was witty and in-depth discourse around the kitchen table long into the small hours. Most of the party-goers had gone by then, admittedly. Zed regarded me mournfully, his super advanced sense of smell detecting the scent of cloves and alcohol and knowing that did not bode well for a timely breakfast.

My conclusion today is that the human body can only cope with a limited amount of cloves, heated up with orange juice and the kind of red wine that comes in a 1.5 litre bottle with a screw top lid. Mulled wine is just one of those substances that was never meant to be imbibed in great quantities, much like marmite or advocaat. Insane amounts of the stuff, gleefully blended in, and dispensed from, the tea urn, is just not a sensible idea. To then polish off a bottle of port before bedtime, just to be sociable, is also verging on the silly side.

That said, when I ambled back through to the Parlour this morning I was delighted to find we still have several gallons of pre-mulled, cheap Spanish red wine left over and a few bags of crisps! That's my Saturday night in sorted then. I was not quite as delighted to discover we also have about 600 mince pies left, with a rapidly approaching use by date. Over the last few weeks I must have consumed my own weight in mince pies. My recuperative powers only extend to the wine, I’m afraid. I have enough faith and optimism to re-try the wine and womanfully finish it off, but I can't stomach another mince pie. I gathered up our artfully arranged mince pie pyramids and pondered their disposal. I lobbed a few out of the window for the ducks, looked in vain for passing ramblers so I could lob a couple at them, lobbed some to the sheep, but what the hell am I going to do with the rest?

Another door on the Advent Calendar

A successful event, yesterday, despite:

• The total destruction of all our marquees
• The tree being denuded of all its decorations save a red bauble on one branch and a small fake robin, hanging upside down from another
• The cows escaping into the woods, and from there making their way onto the road
• At least three cars getting stuck in the mud and having to be towed out
• The constant rain
• The saddest man in the world on festive duties

So, that’s two down.

Only one more Christmas event to go.