Today was wet. The rain fell relentlessly, unceasingly. And it was cold too. For the first time I felt a pang of regret at choosing a career in the outdoors.
I let out a sigh as I zipped up my jacket, lifted my hood and ventured out to face up to this miserable day.
I drove along the Wath road - less of a road, more of a lake patched with tarmac - and the water sprayed up above my windscreen.
The snowdrops to the West side of the house lay jewelled with shimmering droplets and the daffodils were beginning to unfurl their sunshine - much needed on a day like today.
As we dropped off our belongings, the mood was that of dread. We looked to Giles - where would we be working today?!
Giles must have seen the desperation and pleading in our eyes, and taken pity on us; we were to give the garden's benches their annual linseed oil treatment in the Bothy. We were all delighted at this news - the mere prospect of working indoors was quite exciting; it didn't really matter what we would be doing!
As I opened the door to the bothy for the first time, a dead Woodland Jumping Mouse (Napaeozapus insignis) was revealed in the entrance on the gravelled floor. Plum hadn't found it - yet. It could have been sleeping - such was its almost perfect, clean fur. Bex picked the poor dead creature up and buried it.
A roll of steel wool was gathered, along with a bottle of linseed oil and a few rags. The benches were positioned in the dull bothy, and we split into pairs. Balls of rough, crunchy steel wool were rolled and scraped along the wooden surfaces, removing debris and damp grime.
Next, the two groups battled for one bottle of Linseed oil - its sweet and fragrant aroma quickly filling the bothy. Oil was rubbed into every crevice, before the bench was turned over and the process repeated. Leather wasn't a good choice of glove for this task; they quickly absorb oil, so the yellow material quickly turned black.
And, so the benches would be fit for another year in the British weather.
I headed towards the apple store next to treat the garden tools. A knife was needed to scrape of layers of dried mud and soil, peeling back the layers of different days in gardens.
The oil was applied, and also to the metal ends. They looked sharp, new and shiny - pieces of equipment to be proud of.
However, before my work was done, Alan arrived, and set to work dismantling the greenhouse outside the apple store. I would be needed to help him with this process. A ratchet was used - quickly
whipping out nuts and bolts and the frame was soon dismantled - going into storage for the time being, with potential for relocation in the future.
We returned to the Orangery for our tea break, which was welcome in this cold, saturated atmosphere. I warmed my hands on my cup and let my jacket drip-dry on the back of a metal frame. Following a rest and a chat, Giles lead the way into the adjoining peach house. The peaches were beginning to blossom, and a robin sat on the branches, before darting away.
In the absence of the helpful bees in the cold weather, we would soon need to pollinate the peaches ourselves.
The gooseberry bushes still needed pruning. We had started the previous week, and it was a job none of us particularly looked forward to. The thorns are sharp, hard and abundant - spiking straight through gardening gloves and into tender skin. The job was huge - it took three of us two and a half hours to complete, wheeling barrow loads through to the woods.
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| Gooseberry Bushes |
After lunchtime, Alyson was recruited by Giles to start a fire in the old tennis courts outside the garden walls. They were built in the 1950s, but have seen decline over the last 30 to 40 years. It is now a useful area, which I believe was cleared at the beginning of this year. A well-contained space, it was perfect for a fire.
The fuel, and reason for the fire? Junk wood from the stables. Giles was in 'clearout mode.' It's fantastic to see a space being transformed, but also to bear witness to snapshots of peoples' lives; objects were left in the stables by individuals - most of whom would now certainly be dead. Bex drove the tractor - full of wood and earthy detritus, along the edge of the walled gardens. I followed with an old, broken ladder on my shoulder.
The fire burned - with pallets, table legs, broken boxes, ladders, earth - and Beth and I soon returned to the courtyard - I hitched a ride on the back!
After ridding the stables of the main debris, we looked around to see what else we could find. Old turpentine and linseed oil bottles; fire buckets; a beautiful page from a 'His Master's Voice' calendar from Harrogate; chains; small tools and bits of metal - all would have had their place and use in days gone by. Recovered items from the stables were later arranged in the bothy.
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| Items recovered from the stables |
I took a barrow of junk metal to the yard, and on my return popped in to see Walter's horse. She is a smashing, noble creature. Tame and faithful. We rubbed our heads together and I stroked her warm velvet nose.
Shortly after this, Giles received a call from the house; Sir James had spotted a sheep in the grounds! We ventured towards the front of the house - it stood, proud of itself in the distance. It kept this distance as we advanced; I soon realised that pace was needed. I marched forwards - beyond the house and through the woods, gathering speed as I went. The sheep disappeared. I ran in its direction, hoping that I would lead it towards a break in the fence. Sadly this was not to be the case.
I caught up with the sheep on the edge of the estate. It was skittish and lively - they are fast creatures! Thankfully I was faster, and had more stamina. I wouldn't catch it - I would exhaust it. After cornering the creature two or three times (it scarpered on all occasions), it soon began to tire (and so did I). As we darted from side to side, the creature finally realised it could not escape; it fell to its knees, in white flag surrender. I held it down and waited for backup. The sheep was huge - a heavy mass of matted cloud.
Giles, Beth and Bex arrived, and two of us lifted the sheep into our arms, before heaving it to the fence. It took three of us to lift the massive creature over the barbed wire and back into its pasture. The sheep ran off in pure joy and relief, bleating merrily to its grateful family.
We all wondered how it had managed to get into the grounds at all!!
We made our way back to the gardens - myself quite exhausted from the exertion. Giles pointed out the huge ice store on the edge of the estate. As I approached it, I was given no sense as to its sheer depth - a huge bricked wall inserted into the earth - an echo of unrefrigerated times.
Giles pointed out a 200 year old Sycamore tree on our way back, explaining- "It may still live for another 30, 40 years" he said. He also showed us a badger village, which lay along this route - multitudes of setts raised above the earth.
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| Sycamore tree |
A Pet Graveyard lay nearer the house , with 19th Century pets being given particular prevalence. "Tiger, Died 15th June 1896, Aged 4 Years" "Nigel J.S. Graham" was the inscription.
And so, as another day drew to a close, I could again be thankful for the sheer variety of the work that I was undertaking. The girls went home; I stayed with Giles and pressure washed the pond. The moss flew into the air, and the dirt removed itself from the sides of the pond begrudgingly. It cleaned up nicely - even if it does need resealing later this year!
I returned to my car wet, muddy and hungry, but with a deep sense of satisfaction in my heart.
This was another varied day, but I never thought I'd be a professional sheep wrestler!!
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