Living History

This exploration had been on my radar for months, a gem hidden away in overgrown 18th Century landscaped gardens that was now wild untamed woodland. Close by lay a once prosperous but now abandoned village which had served the house. Whilst researching the site I had become intrigued that every modern photograph of the library showed a sparkle emanating from the mantelpiece. That sparkle implored me find it and explore. It is often something unexplained which piques my interest in the site, not always the contents or the crumbling grandeur or the entropy. I appreciate that history speaks, if you are prepared to listen.

The last four rooms were in a better state of repair than the first two. Once I’d negotiated my way through the decay in both the ballroom and music room, where the lavish wall frescos were now nothing more elegant than discoloured stains draining down decrepit walls, the roof had remained intact. And under large age-coloured white sheets rested the rotting furniture waiting for the next party season to arrive. There were footprints in every room, from their positions I knew which photographer had made them. Yet the footprints also had a covering of dust over them, nobody had been here in months. I approached the last door on that side of that wing. A panelled door, like the others. This one was painted a light colour each recess decorated with animals, mostly mythical and some farm or fertility symbols. The room was a bedroom, a bed still in the alcove. I flashed my torch at the drapes to reveal pale motifs of exotic birds. This room looked pristine and compared to the previous rooms, it also felt warm. The temptation to look under the covers was strong. I refrained. I was here to record the death of a house, era, and lifestyle. Leaving only footprints and weaving myself into its history.

As I left the bedroom and stepped beyond the decorated door. Finally, I entered the library. There was a new smell here, it was the musty scent of old books, though not damp. The room was still alive. There was warmth here too, I could smell it. And pipe tobacco, mingled with the unmistakable aroma of an open fire. My mind could still hear the distant sounds of Harpsichord and voices from the echo of the parties in the ballroom. The library was calm and serene, if not overly friendly. The shutters were still functional though streaks of light streamed through damaged areas causing specs of dust to catch the light and dance like fireflies. The dust on the floor was not as thick as I had encountered elsewhere, then again, this room was not open to the elements. The dark bookshelves added to the dimness of the room, to some it would feel heavy and oppressive. This was the type of room I felt at ease in, an added delight was that the shelves were still full of dark leather-bound books. I cautiously began to move around the room, taking in my surroundings through my mind and memory card. I noticed there were some gaps on the top row of books, adjacent to the library ladder. My blood boiled, thieves! Not all explorers left sites alone, some did touch and in rare cases remove items. A shaft of light caught my face reminding me to look for the mystery light on the mantel piece. Turning my head I saw a small statue on the mantelpiece, it was hard to tell the material though it appeared to have a dark patina with a silver sheen on the top, possibly pewter. I moved closer and could see the shape of a Bull, the family symbol. The shaft of light which had attracted my attention shone into the fireplace, creating a warming glow as if relighting long extinguished embers. The light allowed me to pick out the details of the symbolic carvings and motifs present in both the stone and plaster work. Instinctively I reached out to touch the head of the statue, it was smooth, shiny and worn from wear and tear; also, warm as if recently handled.

As my hand connected with the statue, I received a static electric shock as the open fire roared into life with such ferocity I jumped backwards banging my thigh on a wooden desk, candles that had not been there a moment ago flickered into life, intricately carved furniture filled the room, dust no longer covered every surface, the previously unseen floorcovering was vibrant. Vivid swagger paintings of nobles, where empty walls had been just moments ago, looked out with scrutinising eyes. And staring straight at me was an angry young man silhouetted against an un-shuttered window. On the Oak desk between us lay an open book, and in his hand, he clasped a clay pipe.

History never truly dies.