Many years ago we went to live in a rambling old manor house situated in the Brendon Hills. It belonged to my old friend, Sir Edward Malet, and I had lived there before in one of the apartments at the rear of the house.

Befriending Sir Edward Malet in a Servant’s Flat

That is when I’d befriended the old Knight of the Realm. And I lived there quite happily—in what was a rather small and dingy little flat—which had once been occupied by the servants. It was during my tenure there that I befriended Sir Edward. I used to go down into the main house for a glass or two of whisky once or twice a week, partly because I felt sorry for the old man as he seemed so lonely, and partly because I used to love sitting there listening to his tales.

Moving Out After Starting a Family

Eventually, after we’d had our son Harry, we moved out to a house down the valley. The flat was too small and damp to house a family. But after a couple of years, Sir Edward’s son phoned from Australia, immediately after the old man’s death, asking if I’d like to return to live in the main manor house. He needed someone the family could trust to move in and keep an eye on the massive old place—and as I’d lived there for a few years without causing any kind of upset or trouble, he thought I’d be the right person.

Moving Back to the Manor

Right then and there, I did the only astute bit of thinking I’ve ever done. Sir Ned’s son wanted to pay me to live in the place and become a kind of caretaker, fixing anything that needed mending—but I knew full-well that the entire place required a great deal of love and attention and that looking after it properly (as in rebuilding walls and re-laying roof areas) would be a full-time job.

I had my own career to look after—so did my wife Sue—so I suggested that we should pay the estate a peppercorn rent (while, of course, looking after all the normal bills) while fixing anything quick and minor, but that if anything major required repairing I’d have to call in the builders.

Raising a Family in a Historic Manor House

So that was the agreement, and we lived there for 15 years. What a place for the kids to grow up in…

Harry had the best of it, with his own indoor football pitch in the ballroom and a kind of race-circuit which he used to belt around on his tricycle. Our daughter less so, in that she was born there but was quite young still when we eventually moved out.

Capturing Memories: Returning to the Manor House

I took these black and white photographs on the day we started moving back into the manor house after Sir Ned had died.