Nothing can prepare you…

Nothing can prepare you for Chatsworth House.

First though, getting there can be fun. Despite local buses having a timetable, clearly there’s some fiend who considers it fun to give the service a miss on a rainy day, with no warnings on the website.

But Bakewell locals are onto it. Stand at the bus stop long enough and someone will notice. They might even call a local taxi driver friend to see if he’s not terribly busy. Ten pound later, welcome to Chatsworth:

I discovered that if I waited patiently in a corner, the coach tour with it’s crassly disrespectful selfie-snappers will move on, allowing a centuries-old peace to re-emerge, and enabling quiet contemplation of the treasures on display, and to enjoy the sensation of sinking into the plush carpet as you ascend the stairs.

Guess what these four-feet-tall delph-ware are for… and no, it’s not some form of illicit smoker as one lady suggested!

Tulips were so prized, the above are vases designed specifically to showcase blooms singly, so the discerning viewer could admire without the distraction of arrangement.

Some rooms have guilded leather lining the walls; imagine the hours (and eye strain) involved to create just a square metre of this, let alone whole rooms.

Some treasures are less obvious, like the little pictures on this chest; each is made from tiny shards of stone:

In a home filled with numerous beautiful paintings, it’s difficult to identify a particular example as suitable for the memory bank, but this portrait of the artist’s daughter, by Cornelis de Vos (1585 – 1651), really did stand out:

After all the warmth of timber and fabrics, walking into an orgy of statues shocks the senses. The magnificence of the pieces in the ‘room’ is undeniable, and yet I felt slightly displaced.

Outside, there’s just too many acres to cover in a single day. Fortunately the guided buggy tour isn’t just for the weak limbed. Fortyfive minutes around the park on four wheels allows visitors to get an overview, and hear some insights not otherwise available. Afterwards, you can select places of interest to visit in more detail.

The kitchen garden:

One of the compost ‘bins:’

In the glasshouse, a tree the gardeners have bred by crossing a lemon and grapefruit. Monumentally tall, it’s dinner-plate-sized fruit is used for marmalade.

Water is gravity fed from lakes, down through the cascading steps and into the gardens. By the Emporers fountain a hydro turbo system lies under the lawn, through which the water flows on it’s way to the rive, thus providing approximately one third of Chatsworth’s electricity.

But the cascading steps are in a bit of bother. They leak. The steps must be dug up for the underneath to be fixed. Fundraising has begun, so if you have a spare seven million pounds, consider giving it to the National Trust to get the work done more quickly. Who knows, you may get a mention on future tours! But seriously, all donations, large or small, would be gratefully received.

When Capability Brown was planning a change to the gardens, he didn’t like the view of the local village. He persuaded the Duke of the day to pay for it’s relocation. I can’t quite imagine how the conversations would go if someone knocked my door and explained they wanted to shift the house to improve their view!

Nevertheless, the village was moved, brick by brick, across the road and out of sight. What Capability Brown couldn’t have foreseen though was the ‘ghost garden’ which occured during a recent drought. Patterns appeared from under the South Lawn’s sunburned surface, and thus it was that today’s gardeners got to see the layout of centuries-old designs. The four quarters showed clearly, as did the central fountain area.

But all droughts end (thankfully). Rain came, revitilising the lawn, thus banishing the ghost garden back to it’s place beneath, quietly lurking until next time.

And speaking of seasons, in the days before freezers, the garden held an ice mound. In the depths of winter, ice slabs would be covered in straw, then more ice, more straw etc. Come summer, when guests desired cold refreshment, the ice would be retrieved. But it would be slimy with rotting straw. Apparently the Cooks hated cleaning the ice, especially as only about a third of it would be recoverable enough for serving.

Each generation has had some effect on Chatsworth House, but perhaps few as strong as the current Duke and Duchess, who, despite crippling death duties taking it’s future to the brink, found a path to guarantee it’s wellbeing for the next hundred years.

Other impacts they’ve had include updating wiring, doing restoration work, new security measures, and adding pieces of modern art. But does modern art have a place here, in the garden of an historic home? In a hundred years time, how woeful if the current encumbents would be remembered as adding nothing. Chatsworth House is a living home, requiring updating through respectful attention, to reflect the era of today alongside the treasures of before.

A day visit to Chatsworth House barely gives it the attention it deserves, but there’s a bus to catch. Or is there…

One will come, to take home those sensible enough to be heading towards Derby, but not back in the other direction to Bakewell. The cunning traveller will realize that getting onto a bus heading in the wrong direction may actually improve their chances of finding a service to the right place. A short ride to the next village, where a stone bus shelter protects folk from heavy rain, is soon rewarded with a bus heading in the right direction.

One thing about those Transpeak buses; every one of them has ‘Supporter of Ukraine’ stickers prominently displayed.

And what’s on offer in Bakewell is so worth the effort! Upstairs in the original Bakewell Pudding shop, indulge. Served warm with custard, Bakewell pudding is indeed a delight.

Apparently some like it cold, with whipped cream, but then there’s no accounting for taste.

Bakewell pudding came about when a lowly maid misunderstood the cooks instruction regarding a distinguished guests pudding. With no other option, the pudding was presented anyway, surprisingly to much acclaim. A local woman saw an opportunity, and the Bakewell pudding, not to be confused with the tart, has been served from these premises ever since.

What a way to finish a day full of treasures large and small, each glorious in their own way.