The Slaughters and the Lords of the Manor

Strikingly Pretty Villages and a Fine Wedding Anniversary Dinner

The Slaughters, Upper and Lower

Gloucestershire

Cotswold District

Like Moreton-in-Marsh, the Slaughters, Upper and Lower, do not have encouraging names, but they are actually a pair of Cotswold gems, stretched out along the little River Eye.

Upper Slaughter previously appeared in this blog in 2012 when we walked through Little Sodbury on the South West Odyssey. Little Sodbury is a ‘Thankful’ or ‘Blessed Village’, phrases coined in the 1930s for settlements that lost no servicemen in the First World War. A 2010 survey established that there were 54 civil parishes in England and Wales which were so ‘blessed’, three of them in Gloucestershire (none in Staffordshire). The only village in Gloucestershire to be ‘doubly blessed’ (i.e. 'blessed' in both World Wars) is Upper Slaughter – suggesting God has a macabre sense of humour.

Lynne in Lower Slaughter, a lovely village on a dire July day

In fact, the name derives not from death, destruction or abattoirs but from the Old English ‘Scolstre’ meaning a wet place or slough. I attended a preparatory school in Slough from 1958 to 1963. That much maligned town has changed a great deal since, but not then, not now, nor at any time in between has it ever remotely resembled the Slaughters.

The Lords of the Manor, Upper Slaughter

Dating from 1649, the building that now houses the Lords of the Manor Hotel in Upper Slaughter, was once much smaller. Unlike Chastleton House, its near contemporary, it has been frequently altered and extended, serving for a time as a rectory and becoming a hotel in 1972. The restaurant was awarded a Michelin star seven years ago and has retained it ever since. [The star was lost in 2019, though The Lords of the Manor still has 3 AA Rosettes. The struggle to win back the star continues but was not successful for 2020]

The Lords of the Manor, Upper Slaughter, The oldest part of the building

Dinner at The Lords of the Manor

Aperitifs and Canapés

We checked in, took a stroll, changed and arrived in the bar for aperitifs and canapés. They make a good dry martini, though not as good as the Sheraton in Hong Kong, though that may be impossible; my memory has enshrined that drink as the Platonic Ideal dry martini of which all others are inferior copies. After the unfortunate ‘drowning of the gin’ at our last wedding anniversary meal, Lynne was pleased that they left her to pour her tonic herself.

Our room, Lords of the Manor, Upper Slaughter

Canapés involved a mini-egg sized ball of smoked fish, which was good, a petite cylinder of paté shot through with hazelnut, surmounted by a little crisp disc and a nut, which was excellent, and a tiny chicken manifestation - I wish I could be more precise - which was spectacular.

The Lords of the Manor, Upper Slaughter, the modest original building has grown into this.
On another day we could have enjoyed our pre-dinner drinks outside, but even July cannot be trusted

We moved through to the restaurant, a newer wing at the back of the building.

Lords of the Manor, Upper Slaughter, the restaurant is in the extension on the left hand corner of the photo

Amuse-Bouche and Crab Starters

A tiny bowl of mushroom soup arrived - there was more to it than that, the well-informed waiter talked us through the details, but his accent was thick and I thought he mentioned peanuts. The mushroom flavour was intense, the texture warm and tongue-coating, and there did seem to be a peanut lurking in the depths, but exactly what it brought to the party was unclear.

Choosing from the five starters (two of which involved duck liver, not maybe as a main ingredient, but surely punching above its weight) we both selected crab. Professional restaurant critics don't do that, but I am only a blogger writing about a meal I paid for myself, and as we both fancied crab, we both had crab.

I last ate crab in a self-styled gastropub on the borders of Lancashire and Cumbria; it was utterly tasteless. The first nibble of the white meat of this Cornish crab was a revelation; it was fresh, it was clean, it was crabby (in a good way) and it tasted of the sea, a flavour echoed in the oyster cream. This was as good as crab gets. The tasty brown meat came in crisp little tubes which might once have been potato. Oscietra caviar sat on blobs of very different potato, a single fish egg on each of the four blobs. Oscietra retails at about £80 for 50 grams, at that price there should be enough on the plate to taste it, this was just wasted.

We drank the recommended wine, an Alsace Pinot Blanc. A smidgen off dry, with crisp, fragrant fruit, it was a fine partner to the crab. {David seems to have drawn the short straw here. Yes, there was very little caviar, but mine had several fish eggs on the blobs and I gathered them all up to eat together. Excellent, if miniscule. Lynne}

Mains of Pork and Guinea Fowl

Main course menu, Lords of the manor, Upper Slaughter

From the five choices of main course Lynne had guinea fowl, while I selected pork. I was disappointed when the food arrived. The guinea fowl involved sizeable slabs of meat and a little pile of vegetables but beside it my pork looked meagre, small islands of food adrift on a vast dark plate. I was unlikely to go hungry, but the disparity between the two plates struck a discordant note.

The two roundels of pork fillet were tender, with just enough texture and a delicate porky flavour. They sat on the sole vegetable, a couple of leaves of wilted spinach. The single cuboid of belly pork was much more gutsy, something to chew and crunch. The menu promised black pudding but I did not recognize that it in the little frustum of black jelly. The boudin, though, was in a different class, in fact the best thing on the plate; despite looking like a cocktail sausage it had a beguiling porky scent and a flavour which somehow contained the taste and soul of France. The smear of pork jus was just that - if there is going to be a sauce, let's have a sauce. Overall it was a plate with some delights, but disappointments too.

The Old Mill, Lower Slaughter

The recommended Loire Valley Malbec (isn't Malbec known as Côt on the Loire?) was well chosen; a lightish red, but well-built and full of fruit. It was not, though, half as good as the outstanding Austrian St Laurent that accompanied Lynne's guinea fowl. I have only come across this grape once before and that was a long time ago - I wish I had seen more of it.

Lynne had a good slab of breast meat, perfectly cooked and well flavoured, but it was the ‘croustillant of leg’ that was memorable, with a satisfying crunch and a rich confit flavour. Lynne, too, had a leaf of wilted spinach, but she also had some leek, the sort of baby turnips that made you realise why all Baldrick wanted was a little turnip of his own, and girolle mushrooms, the size and shape of the plastic studs used to cover the screws in flat-pack furniture but so full of themselves they demanded to be noticed.

Pre-Dessert, Dessert and Cheese

The pre-dessert was a thick glass bowl with a pleasant panna cotta at the bottom covered with orange-coloured granules. Mango and coconut were mentioned by the waiter, he may have mentioned freeze drying as well, though even after four courses I was no better attuned to his accent.

The strongly flavoured tiny 'micro-coriander' was probably unnecessary, but the sharp, tangy mango lingered on the tongue, and as it faded the flavour of toasted coconut kicked in. Mango and coconut are among my favourite foods and these strong flavours were just what I love. ‘I don't like that,’ said Lynne putting down her spoon. I thought she was referring to the coriander, which she dislikes, but then she said, 'The mango is too sharp for me.' ‘What a shame,’ I said, and ate hers too.

The village defibrillator, Upper Slaughter. Finding a use for a redundant red phone box.

The smallish pork course had the happy by-product of leaving space for cheese. I so often only have room for a dessert that slips down easily, but I had clocked the cheese trolley on the way in and judged it worthy of further examination.

Despite being over-faced last year by the cloying richness of the chocolate option at the Harrow in Little Bedwyn, Lynne backed hope over experience and chose chocolate again. If anything the Lords of the Manor erred in the other direction, but she was well pleased with her generous brick of white chocolate mousse, teamed with blobs of lavender cream, violet jelly and gold sprinkled raspberries.

On closer inspection the cheese trolley was as fine as I had thought, and made better by all the cheeses coming from Britain or Ireland. I have nothing against French cheeses – quite the opposite - but it is pleasing to know that the reborn craft cheese-making of these islands now produces the quality and variety to stock a first rate cheese trolley.

I chose four cheeses, the first two involving more than a nod towards France. Brie is a much abused word; most supermarket Brie is dull, under-ripe, factory produced and unworthy of the name. I avoid ‘Somerset Brie’, because if the manufacturers of France have forgotten how to make it, I doubt a factory in Somerset would be any more successful. I knew at first glance, however, that Simon Weaver's Brie-style cheese was something else. Startlingly white it oozed gently and the rind was cracked like ripe Brie de Meaux (a reliable name amid all the dross). Misshapen and slightly flattened this was no factory cheese - in fact it is made on Kirkham Farm in Lower Slaughter, solely from organic milk produced on the farm. It is also made from unpasteurised milk (and I don't know a really fine cheese that isn't). The French like to use the word ‘onctueux’ to describe such a cheese - it sound so much better than 'unctuous'. This was the most onctueux cheese it had been my privilege to eat for a long time.

Simon Weaver Brie

Isle of Avalon, confusingly made in Surrey, is based on the recipe for Port Salut - the favourite French cheese of people who do not like French cheeses. All the rind washing and extra maturing this was subjected to certainly improved it, but it never got far enough away from Port Salut for my taste.

The third cheese, a softish ewe's milk cheese with a slightly crumbly texture, was pleasant without being exciting, but my fourth choice took me back to the heights. Admiral Collingwood is a semi-soft cheese made from unpasteurized milk by Doddington Dairy in Northumberland. It is matured for seven months and the rind is washed in Newcastle Brown Ale. I used to drink Newky Brown in my youth, but gave it up long ago, now I have found the perfect use for it. It is claimed to give the cheese a unique tangy aftertaste - it does and it is wonderful.

Admiral Collingwood, Doddington Dairy, Northumberland

Back in the comfy seats in the bar we had a so-so cup of coffee, petit fours - nicely made sweeties - and an excellent glass of Calvados. And so ended this year's wedding anniversary dinner, and a fine dinner it had been, too. It was expensive, as such meals are, but then this is Michelin starred cooking and the high points were high indeed – as they should be at this level. There were a couple of disappointments too, as we have learnt to expect at one Michelin star level - there are two and even (should I ever be able to afford it) three star levels above this.

27/07/2015

Breakfast

Restaurants do not win Michelin stars for their breakfasts, but it is interesting to see what they do. Cereals are just cereals, but the fruit juices were fresh. Lynne had fried eggs, two of them cooked in a neat and tidy ring in butter, she prefers oil but that is a matter of taste. My scrambled egg was excellent, though not quite up to the standard of the Yorke Arms in Ramsgill (though that is beginning to take on the same mythical stature as the Hong Kong Sheraton martini). The mushroom - (half?!) a large field mushroom this time - had almost as much power as the girolles, and the bacon was of the quality you should expect in such an establishment. I hoped the black pudding would make up for one of yesterday's disappointments but although this time it was a proper slice, it had too much cereal and not enough blood and spice - I suppose that is what you get for eating black pudding this far south.

'Fine Dining' posts

Abergavenny and the Walnut Tree (2010)
Ludlow and La Bécasse (2011) (restaurant closed, post withdrawn)
Ilkley and The Box Tree(2012)
Pateley Bridge and the Yorke Arms (2013) (No longer a restaurant, post renamed Parceval Gardens and Pateley Br)
The Harrow at Little Bedwyn (2014)
The Slaughters and the Lords of the Manor (2015)
Loam, Fine Dining in Galway (2016)
Penarth and Restaurant James Sommerin (2017) (restaurant closed, post withdrawn. JS has a new restaurant in Penarth)
The Checkers, Montgomery (2017) (no longer a restaurant, post withdrawn. Now re-opened under new management)
Tyddyn Llan, Llandrillo, Denbighshire (2018)
Fischer's at Baslow Hall, Derbyshire (2019)
Hambleton Hall, Rutland (2021)
The Olive Tree, Queensberry Hotel, Bath (2022)
Dinner at Pensons near Tenbury Wells (2023) (restaurant closed Dec 2023, post withdrawn)
The Cross, Kenilworth (& Kenilworth Castle) 2024

Moreton-in-Marsh, Chastleton and Adlestrop

A Wedding Anniversary Involving A Cotswold Town, a Jacobean House and Village whose Name Inspired a Poem

Gloucestershire

Cotswold District

Scary Photos

Lynne and I were married on this day in 1975.

It has taken us 40 years to get from this (were these two old enough to know what they were doing?)…

Wedding Day, July 1975

...to this. too late now.

Us in 2015
Is it time we talked about the elephant in the room? It seems to be creeping up on us.

Moreton-in-Marsh

This year our annual wedding anniversary glimpse into the world of fine dining took us south into the Cotswolds.

Moreton-in-Marsh

We stopped for a light lunch at a cold and rainy Moreton-in-Marsh. The town was called Moreton-in-the-Marsh until 1930 when the ‘the’ was unaccountably removed - though even locals often re-insert it in conversation to make it easier to say. With or without its article, the name suggests a grim sort of place but, of course, it is not. It is a typical Cotswold small town, built entirely of the local stone which is routinely (and a little tediously) described as ‘honey-coloured’ and ‘mellow’; there is even a house called 'Mellow Stone Cottage'.

Curfew Tower, Moreton-in-Marsh

It is full of square Georgian buildings occupied by banks, younger and older buildings (it is not always easy to tell) housing antique shops, cutesy tea houses, artisan butchers, serious cheese shops and solid-looking, dependable pubs, the sort that have been there for years and are not likely to close down any time soon.

Tea House, Moreton-in-Marsh

We had a half pint of Hobgoblin Gold and shared a ham baguette in one such pub, the Redesdale Arms, built in 1650 of ‘mellow Cotswold Stone’ (I quote their website).

The Redesdale Arms, Moreton-in-Marsh

The 2nd Baron Redesdale, of Redesdale in the County of Northumberland, forsook the frozen north for the gentler climes of the Cotswolds where he brought up his son and six daughters. Each of the daughters achieved a measure of fame, eminence or notoriety under the family name of Mitford. The Mitford sisters are all dead now. Diana, the last of them, died in 2014 and was the only one who did what the daughters of aristocrats are supposed to - marry another aristocrat. As the Duchess of Devonshire she lived at Chatsworth House in Derbyshire (where else?).

Chastleton House

Oxfordshire

Vale of the White Horse

Just far enough away to be buried in the Cotswolds countryside is Chastleton House. Walter Jones came from a family of prosperous Welsh wool merchants but made his pile in the law. In 1604 he bought the Chastleton estate from Robert Catesby, shortly to become the leading conspirator in the Gunpowder Plot, demolished Catesby’s house and built the present Chastleton House. Walter Jones had every hope that he, or his descendants, would become at least baronets, but building the house turned out to be the high point of the family's fortunes.

Chastleton House

Their finances took a serious hit when Arthur Jones, Walter’s grandson backed the wrong side in the civil war. He escaped with his life, due to the quick thinking of his wife when parliamentarian soldiers came to arrest him after the battle of Worcester, and went into exile. He was able to return only after payment of a substantial fine and when the restored monarchy failed to show its gratitude by refunding the money, the descent into penury amid grand surroundings began. It was slow, inexorable and extraordinarily long drawn out, the family finally relinquishing ownership to the National Trust in 1991.

The Great Parlour, Chastleton House

As they never had the money to extend or remodel the house, or even afford much in the way of new furniture, the National Trust inherited a time capsule of Jacobean life. They decided not to attempt to restore the house to a former glory it never had but to conserve it as it was. It is thus a somewhat down-at-heal time capsule (insofar as a capsule can wear out footwear).

The Long Gallery, Chastleton House, At 22m the longest barrel vaulted room in England

Photography is permitted inside, though flash is not, so taking pictures in focus required a steady hand.

The Fettiplace Room, high status bedroom, Chastleton House

The distance from the basement kitchen to the dining room on the far side of the house is striking - they could never have eaten hot food. The large high-ceilinged rooms must have made it almost impossible to heat the house never mind the food, and with oak panelling round so many of the walls, winters must have been cold and dark.

Kitchen, Chastleton House

Outside in the stable yard is a second hand bookshop with a somewhat cursory Wolf Hall exhibition. I have read the book but not seen the television series in which Chastleton played the title role, as well as Thomas Cromwell’s childhood home in Putney. Hilary Mantel’s historical research was meticulous but the television producers were more cavalier as the house was not built until 65 years after Thomas Cromwell was executed.

Stableyard, Chastleton House

Adlestrop

Gloucestershire

Cotswold District

It is only a few minutes drive from Chastleton to Adlestrop.

I do not know when I first encountered Edward Thomas's poem, but it was longer ago than I care to remember. It probably stuck in my memory because of the name, Adlestrop which, at first I believed to be made up. It took me longer to appreciate the poem as more than a piece of pastoral fluff, but I have gradually come to see the point - except for that clunky last line. Adlestrop is right on the boundary of Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire (and Warwickshire for that matter) but did he have to crowbar in this geographical factoid?

Adlestrop

Yes. I remember Adlestrop
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat, the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop—only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire

                                                            Edward Thomas

Adlestrop, pop 120, is real enough - a line of Cotswold stone cottages, all beautifully kept with cottage gardens and hanging baskets full of flowers - but the station, a victim of the Beeching axe in the 1960s, no longer exists. The station sign and one of the benches were saved and now sit in a bus shelter on the edge of the village.

Adlestrop station sign. The plaque by my left elbow is a copy of the poem

Thomas’ train stopped in Adlestrop on June the 24th 1914. The date the poem was written is unknown, but it was published in 1917, the year Edward Thomas was killed in action in the Battle of Arras. The contrast between the rural idyll of Adlestrop and the hell of northern France is extraordinarily poignant.

Edward Thomas was there on a very different day from us. His sunshine was our rain, on a day which was colder than any July day I can remember.

We drove on through Stow-on-the-Wold and towards Bourton-on-the-Water, turning off towards Lower and then Upper Slaughter, two more Cotswold gems, the latter the home of the Lords of the Manor Hotel and Restaurant, our destination for the wedding anniversary meal, and the subject of the next post.

West Wycombe

A Post Intended to be about the Village, but Sir Francis Dashwood Took it Over

Introduction

Buckinghamshire

I think I can legitimately boast that I have done a bit of travelling. Recent journeys are detailed in this blog but there were many more in the decades before blogs - or the internet - existed.

But it was not always like this. I was born in 1950 and for many years holidays meant two weeks with my grandmother in Porthcawl on the South Wales coast. The drive from Iver in Buckinghamshire to Porthcawl, Google tells me, is 157 miles and takes 2½ hours. Back then, when there was no Severn Bridge (it opened 1966) and no motorways, the journey was 180 miles and took over five hours.

From 1951(ish) to 1958 my father owned a grey Standard Vanguard, very similar to this one
(Credit to Wikipedia and Redsimon for the picture)

The first of several bottlenecks was High Wycombe. Just beyond the town on a bare hilltop above the village of West Wycombe was a church with a large golden ball perched on its tower. My mother would mutter something about the 'Hellfire Club' in an appropriately disapproving manner and then say, 'We must go there someday.'

The Hellfire Caves

We never did, but now, over half a century later, I have. The church is still there, though trees have grown up to partially hide it, the road through West Wycombe is still designated as the A40, though it is no longer a trunk road, and the child who bickered with his sister in the back of a Standard Vanguard went grey long ago.

St Lawrence's Church is now hidden by trees, but the golden ball is still there

The Hellfire Caves, lower down the hill, were built between 1748 and 1752. A run of bad harvests threatened starvation and Sir Francis Dashwood, the 2nd Baronet Dashwood, who owned pretty much all there was to own in West Wycombe, saved the day by personally paying the destitute to mine chalk and flint to rebuild the road from West Wycombe to High Wycombe.

Humanitarian as his motives may have been, it would have been cheaper and easier to use the hillside as a quarry than to laboriously scrape out 500m of tunnels linking some seven or eight chambers. And why finish it with a Gothic entrance?

Entrance to the Hellfire Caves, West Wycombe

Sir Francis Dashwood and the 'Hellfire Club'

Like many rich young men of his time Sir Francis Dashwood finished his education with a Grand Tour. Between 1726 and 1731 he visited Italy, Russia and the Ottoman Empire and earned a certain notoriety, not least by attempting to seduce the Tsarina Anne while in Russia. He developed an interest in the religious practices of classical time and a profound disrespect for the Catholic Church.

The Hellfire Caves
500m of tunnels laboriously hacked out by hand

In 1746 along with John Montagu, 4th Earl of Sandwich (and the man who first stuck a slice of meat between two pieces of bread) he founded the Knights of St Francis of Wycombe, dedicated to the veneration of Bacchus and Venus. The knights met at Medmenham Abbey a little way along the Thames from West Wycombe, and seemed to enjoy dressing up, mock rituals and of course the more practical applications of the worship of gods of wine and love. Gentlemen were encouraged to bring lady guests who should be 'of cheerful, lively disposition, to improve the general hilarity '(wanton scarlets, I'll be bound).

In time the club became known as the Hellfire Club. Stories of Black Masses and Satanic rituals began to circulate but they were probably just stories, the members merely had a healthy interest in sex and alcohol (drugs and rock 'n' roll not yet being available). With their understandable aversion to record keeping it is not known who participated in these meetings, but references in correspondence suggest John Wilkes, the radical journalist and politician, was associated with the club, as were engraver William Hogarth and American polymath and diplomat Benjamin Franklin.

To reach the club room guests had to cross an underground stream, the River Styx
Hellfire Caves, West Wycombe

The association of the Hellfire Club with the Hellfire Caves is problematic. It is believed that one or two meetings may have taken place there but much of the association with the caves was made later and probably to promote tourism. But the question remains: ‘Why build the tunnels and the entrance?

Deep in the caves the Hellfire Club is still in session - at least in effigy

I am far from averse to a boozy dinner, but walking through the caves on a warm summer's day was a decidedly chilly experience and I would hesitate to accept a dinner invitation which came with the instruction 'wrap up warm'. A roaring fire might solve the problem, but I doubt the caves have sufficient ventilation. The alcoves off the dining hall were allegedly curtained off for amorous activities but although they could be made comfortable, if not spacious, they could not be made warm, a serious disincentive to the removal of clothing. I suspect, though this is only my hunch, that Sir Francis Dashwood built the caves with his club in mind, but found they did not suit.

West Wycombe Hill

We left the caves and warmed up by climbing West Wycombe Hill.

Lynne climbing West Wycombe Hill

On the way we had a view down the dead straight road to High Wycombe built using the contents of the caves. I suspect it has been rebuilt several times since and the traffic lights are probably not Georgian.

The long straight road to High Wycombe built by Sir Francis Dashwood

We could also see West Wycombe Park, the home of Sir Francis Dashwood.

West Wycombe Park

The Dashwood Mausoleum

On the top of the hill is the Dashwood Mausoleum. Built in 1765 it was financed by a bequest from a friend and is a vanity project if ever there was one. The satirist Paul Whitehead, who had been Club Secretary, left his heart to Sir Francis Dashwood when he died in 1774. The incinerated remains were kept in an urn in the mausoleum, until they were stolen in 1829 – a gift for promoters of tourism who then claimed that his ghost haunted the caves.

The Dashwood Mausoleum, West Wycombe Hill

St Lawrence's Church

St Lawrence's Church behind the mausoleum was built, also by Sir Francis Dashwood, in 1761 though there had been religious buildings on the site since the 7th century. Questions were asked at the time why he should build a church at the top of the hill for the benefit of a village at the bottom of the hill, but it still functions as an Anglican Church, even though a more convenient alternative was built in the village in 1875. The golden ball, 8ft in diameter, can seat six, though what six pople might do in there is a mystery. It is, though, currently closed and I was disappointed to see it was in such poor condition.

St Lawrence's Church, West Wycombe

Lunch in West Wycombe

It was lunchtime, so we descended to the village in search of sustenance. Many of West Wycombe’s buildings, which were constructed between 200 and 400 years ago, are owned by the National Trust and have not been modernised, at least externally.

West Wycombe

The high street is busy and full of parked cars so my photographs do not do it justice. Inevitably it has been used as a film set, most notably in the Importance of Being Ernest in 2002 (Colin Firth, Rupert Everett, Reese Witherspoon) and as Cranford in the television series of the same name.

West Wycombe

Lunch in the George and Dragon, an 18th century coaching inn, was a half of IPA from the Rebellion microbrewery in nearby Marlow and an omelette. It was pricey, as might have been expected, but my bacon and goat's cheese omelette was excellent, the softest and fluffiest I have eaten in ages.

The George and Dragon, West Wycombe

West Wycombe Park: The House

West Wycombe Park was donated to the National Trust by Sir John Dashwood, the 10th Baronet, in 1943, though the Dashwoods retained ownership of the contents. Sir Edward Dashwood, the 12th Baronet, still lives there.

The house is approached through parkland surrounding an artificial lake. In 1698 the estate was bought by Sir Francis Dashwood, the 1st Baronet (and father of ‘Hellfire’ Francis Dashwood) who demolished the existing manor house and constructed the forerunner of the current house. The younger Sir Francis, inspired by his travels in Italy, rebuilt it. It took him 60 years and consequently ‘...encapsulates the entire progression of British 18th century architecture from early idiosyncratic Palladian to Neoclassical...’ (thanks, Wikipedia). It looks a bit of a dog's breakfast to me (noted architectural critic as I am not) with stands of trees cunningly concealing imperfections in symmetry.

The front of West Wycombe Park (which appears to be round the back)

I also have a feeling that houses should have a front and a back and the main entrance, whether you are important enough to use it or not, should be at the front. The entrance to West Wycombe Park feels like it is round the back, though which is back and which front is open to debate.

Lynne sits in the entrance, West Wycombe Park

The guided tour was conducted by a venerable lady who might have been patted on the head as a child by Sir Francis Dashwood himself and seemed to remember every member of the family since. It is a very liveable house, for its date, many of the rooms are manageable in size and unusually well lit.

The ceilings, painted by Giuseppe Bornis, are direct copies from Italian palaces, mainly the Palazzo Farnese in Rome, while the entrance hall ceiling is a replica of a ceiling in Palmyra that had impressed Sir Francis when he visited Syria on the Grand Tour. It is a sad thought that, given the current situation in Palmyra, these copies may be all that survives.

There is some corner cutting: the marble walls of the entrance hall are marble effect wallpaper and, as at Stowe House, the ‘marble’ columns are scagliola.

West Wycombe Park: The Grounds

Like the village, the house and grounds had often been used as a film set. Austenland was filmed here in 2012 as was the forthcoming Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. It has also featured in Downtown Abbey.

The house is surrounded by acres of well-tended greensward dotted with extravaganzas like the Temple of Music on an island in the lake….

Temple of Music, West Wycombe Park

…. and the Temple of Venus. I can only speculate about what Sir Francis intended to do in the cavern beneath the Temple, but it is a dark and dank space, so I expect he did it somewhere else.

Temple of Venus, West Wycombe Park

West Wycombe Park is a less ambitious version of Stowe, its approximate contemporary. The house is much smaller, the gardens have fewer pseudo-classical monuments and the view of the house across the lake is barely Championship compared with Premier League Stowe

West Wycombe Park across the lake
(this is the back, which looks like a front, maybe?)

The Dashwoods, though wealthy, were paupers compared to the Temples of Stowe, but the Temples ran through their fabulous wealth and in three generations went from being richer than the king to the biggest debtors in the land. They were also notoriously arrogant and when they fell few mourned. The Dashwoods have had their ups and downs but they are still here.

I rather like Sir Francis Dashwood. He may have been a rake and a libertine, but he also found time for a serious political career. In 1747 he introduced a bill for poor relief by the commissioning of public works. The bill failed, but he put his money where his mouth was, tunnelling out the Hellfire Caves to save the people of West Wycombe from penury, and he was credited with other humanitarian acts. He was a disastrous Chancellor of the Exchequer for a year in the 1760s but was later a more successful Postmaster General.

For me to criticise a man who enjoyed a good dinner and a glass or three of wine would be immensely hypocritical – and at a time of stifling social conventions when marriage was a business deal, I would not want to judge his horizontal recreations too harshly.

Fun guy - Sir Francis Dashwood in Hellfire Cub Regalia
by Adrien Carpentiers

This post was supposed to be about West Wycombe, but it has almost entirely been about Sir Francis Dashwood, but then he was West Wycombe and to a certain extent he still is. He was a fun guy, but he had his caring side and I am sure he would be pleased, and probably amused, that the villagers he helped in their time of need, today live in a village notable for its affluence.