When I was eight or nine I remember a ghost coming to see me as I was lying in bed. It had a great booming voice and it whisked me out of bed on a terrifying aerial journey. It was a bit like in the Snowman but not as nice and without the involvement of choir boys warbling in the background. Then the ghost dumped me back in the bed, and I remember sitting up straight sweating. I may or may not have been wailing, I cannot remember now.
Of course there was no ghost and it was all in my unconscious imagination. But it was particularly intense and stressful because what was happening to me was a case of sleep paralysis something which I suffer from occasionally. The ghost flight is the earliest time I remember it happening.
If you watch a dog or cat sleeping you can often see the muscles twitching away but the animal doesn’t move. We are the same. When we dream it would not be good if we tried to act out our dreams so effectively the muscle actions are overridden and we are largely paralysed. Normally we do not notice, but for some people like me every so often it goes a bit wrong.
Basically we start waking up and we are still paralysed. It is only for a tiny period of time, but enough to cause us to panic. For me this always takes the form of some kind of nightmare. In particular a nightmare where there is a feeling of oppression, of someone or something leaning over me or approaching me. Of course I am unable to move/push it away/get away and that adds to the fear and panic. When I wake up I am perfectly fine – a bit stressed maybe! – But those few moments are some of the most unpleasant I have had to go through.
I remember reading about this some years ago and one of the theories for people who believed they had been abducted by aliens – and then returned to their beds – was that this was a way of explaining cases of sleep paralysis. I can certainly vouch that the combination of the physical feeling and your imagination can conjure such a scenario quite easily. Also, apparently it can happen regularly or maybe only once in a lifetime so the latter case could well feel more of an event. Considering I had two incidences in the same night recently I must be very popular among abducting aliens.
Actually the last time I was trying to fight off a homicidal stuffed fox in my dream so maybe my Close Encounters of the Third Kind days are behind me. Maybe raving about the Natural History Museum at Tring last week had caused some unwanted connections in my subconscious.
Still, it could be worse. I would rather have this than sleep walk for instance.
My lovely wife – who is incredibly supportive of me when this happens of course – has noted to me that sometimes I try and climb into the wardrobe in the middle of the night before realising that while it may be an entrance into Narnia, it is not the bathroom. But that is the effect of alcohol, unfamiliar surroundings and being half asleep, rather than fully asleep. That I would struggle with I think, unless somehow it could be put to good use – I hate ironing so maybe that could be the nocturnal activity.
Would that make them night shirts?

‘I’m starting to think that we’ll never get that reward, Calgacus,’ Antonius moaned.
Calgacus just grunted and slapped lime mortar on the previous brick course.
‘I mean, it’s been several days now. Little bitch is probably dead.’
‘Probably,’ said Calgacus,’ yes, she’s probably dead, so no reward for us or anyone else. So we can stop talking about it and get on with the work that we are being paid for.’
‘You’re in a mood today. Got turned down by the Vicus trash again?’
Calgacus thought for a moment. Antonius was an idiot and a gossip. And that was possibly just what he needed to spread lies indiscriminately around the town.
‘Antonius,’ he sighed,’ can I let you in on a secret?’
‘Of course, you know I won’t say a thing to anyone.’
Calgacus wondered if the other man really believed that was true. Probably he did. We cannot often see our own faults, Calgacus reflected before taking a deliberately dramatic deep breath.
‘I have just found out I have a son.’
‘What!’ Antonius’ eyes were wide. Calgacus had to make an effort not to laugh.
‘Yes, it’s true. Some prostitute I went with… Years ago when I was a boy… Seems she got pregnant and hid the child from me. Well, then she found out that she’d caught something and was dying of it, so she was desperate to find someone to look after the kid – he’s only about nine, you see.’
‘And?’
‘Well, she found me!’ Calgacus exclaimed,’ my bad luck again. Then she promptly fell into Hades.’
‘So what are you going to do,’ Antonius said, half checking the plans for the next wall, but clearly more interested in the unfolding domestic drama.
‘What can I do? I have to look after the kid.’
‘That’s awful. What’s he like?’
‘Oh, he’s OK. Nice lad, a bit, a bit…’ Calgacus suppressed a grin,’ a bit of a girl, if you see what I mean. Not very manly…’
‘Yeah, they often are at that age,’ Antonius laughed,’ he’ll grow out of it.’
‘Um, maybe…’
‘So where is he?’
‘Working – found a job for him at the Disconsolate Hyena.’
‘That’s the Gaul place, down near the North Gate?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Good sausages, I hear.’
‘Apparently,’ said Calgacus. His fish was hooked.
‘Well, um, congratulations, I guess,’ Antonius said after a few moments hard thinking.
‘For?’
‘Well, for being a dad and all that,’ Antonius replied,’ Mariana and I have been trying for years for one, and you get a little boy fully formed from nowhere. I guess the gods must like you for some reason.’
Calgacus suddenly felt terribly guilty for reasons he did not quite understand.
‘Thank you Antonius.’
‘No problem.’
There was a difficult silence.
‘Is it just me, or are there a lot of soldiers about today?’ Calgacus said, really for a way of changing the subject. Although the more he looked the more it was clear that there were indeed a lot more legionnaires running around, and most of them looked stressed.
‘No, you’re right. Maybe they are having an exercise this week.’
‘Maybe,’ Calgacus said doubtfully.
‘Well, we can always ask… Look, that’s Sextus just there, I run into him at the theatre sometimes, decent enough bloke, for someone from Hispania. Sextus!’
Antonius left his charts and ran over to the soldier who smiled in recognition, but only briefly. A short conversation ensued which ended with Sextus running off towards the Forum.
Antonius walked back slowly, a grim look on his face.
‘Not good news my friend,’ Antonius said,’ you’d better look to that young boy of yours.’
‘Why?’
‘A rebellion is started. The Iceni have burned Camulodunum. Killed pretty much everyone, and now they are apparently marching on Londinium.’
‘And if they aren’t stopped there…’ Calgacus felt himself cold.
Hiding Vita was suddenly exposed as the small game it was in comparison to this calamity.
‘Then we’re next,’ moaned Antonius.

I confess that I am an addicted to Springwatch.
I only knew this on Sunday evening, as we had been catching up with the instalments we recorded during the week in an intensive festival of baby bird drama. Now, I know that I could watch the cameras online, but it is not the same without the quirky commentary, especially from Chris Packham who is delightfully weird. Now there is a man enjoying his job.
But we were left bereft. I guess part of it is my largely latent zoologist tendencies, which were further reconnected by a weekend visit to the marvellous Natural History Museum outpost at Tring (http://www.nhm.ac.uk/tring/ ).
It is an amazing place, always full of small children gasping at the size of a stuffed polar bear. I have been many times now and still find what is basically a massive collection of largely Victorian stuffed animals fascinating – not at all what you would expect. But the fact is that there are some aspects that make this collection unique.
First there is the odd stuff, the rare things. The extinct animals like the passenger pigeon and a personal favourite (can you have a favourite extinct animal? I guess so) the Thylacine (or Tasmanian Tiger)… the oddities such as some rare crossbreed animals and then the famous ones – you have to pay your respects to Mick The Miller, who for a stuffed champion Greyhound is not looking as, ahem, dog eared as some of his compatriots. Does anyone else remember him turning up in gloriously static form on “They Think It’s All Over” in the Feel the Sportsman round (and amazingly David Gower guessing his identity correctly)? Oh dear, it is just me again.
Anyway, you can’t mock a dog that won as many races as he did in his short career.
With my zoologist hat on however, the real joy of this collection is scale. Not only getting close to some massive creatures – I am very happy the collection’s polar bear is very dead. But being able to get close means you can see just how big a fully grown tiger is; or how small a hummingbird can be, which I don’t believe you can when you see it on screen, no matter how good the BBC are at bring Nature’s wonders into the living room.
Also, they have nicely grouped the displays so creatures from the same group are displayed close together. So you can compare the size of an adult lion and its various big feline relatives in a way you never could in a life situation. One of the best cases has the various British birds of prey. A lot of people see buzzards and are impressed by their size (and sometimes in an over excited moment think they are seeing an eagle) but once you have seen a buzzard next a golden eagle, as you can in Tring, you realise that you would know if you had really seen an eagle – the golden eagle is about four times bigger and frankly, very scary. There are times you are glad you are not a rabbit.
But I cannot talk about getting enthusiastic. When you look out in the garden and see a bird of prey – exciting enough – you would rather it was a Goshawk or maybe a Merlin rather than a Sparrow hawk. Chances are it is really a pigeon. But there is also a lot of amusement to be gotten out of pigeons, especially as the attempt to try and get food off our birdfeeder in increasingly desperate ways.
On the train down from St Albans today I swore I saw an egret at the side of the rails just outside West Hampstead. Of course, on a second glance, it was just a white plastic bag caught on some long grass and fluttering in the wind.
Maybe I should not watch next week? Not a chance. I’m happy to see any number of false alarms or disappointments because if you keep your eyes open long enough sooner or later I’ll look out the window and the waxwings will be occupying our apple tree.

‘So Castor – what have you got for me?’
It was morning, and the sun was bright.
Aquila blinked at that brightness in some annoyance. He had not slept well. He had drunk too much wine and had dream constantly, mostly of Roman blood flowing, war chariots and too much screaming.
But, apart from that, he felt quite cheerful for reasons he was not really clear on.
‘Nothing specifically on the girl, yet sir,’ Castor admitted,’ some interesting people who might be worth more investigation, but my contacts here have drawn a blank. She’s either dead, or good at hiding – and in the latter case she is probably being helped.’
Aquila looked thoughtful.
‘First, concentrate on the girl. She is all that matters. I appreciate that there may be other people with things to hide here, but we don’t have the time. So – if something you uncover is not directly relevant or a threat to the Empire, just leave it – for now at least.’
Castor nodded, although he was clearly unhappy at the restriction.
‘Second. I really would like now to have the girl alive. What little I was able to glean seems to suggest there is something in her former master’s deals that might be outside Roman law. It could be minor corruption – Jupiter knows, that’s rife – but it could be something more. If she knows anything, I want to know it too.’
‘I understood… Do you want me to sniff around this Miletus and his household?’
‘Yes. Try and do it discretely, of course, but find out what you can.’
Castor smiled. This was more like it. And he would keep his own investigations running whatever the Boss said. There were such things as bounties to claim for those fleeing Roman justice, and he could smell fugitives were lurking in this place.
He just had to work out where they were. Those two Gauls would be a place to start, and those sausages had actually been rather good.
‘And thirdly… Send for news to Camulodunum. I want the latest update on what is going on. I want to know if there is any change at all in the situation. I like to see fear or respect in the eyes of tribal leaders, and I saw only hatred and cunning in the Iceni.’
‘And if there is a change for the worse?’
‘Then we tell the Magistrate the girl is dead and pay someone to testify, because we’ll have far more important things to worry about.’
Castor looked at his Boss in amazement.
‘Really sir..? That’s not at all like you. You must be very worried.’
‘I am. Very worried indeed… Castor, I advise you to keep your bag packed and ready. I want to be able to move quickly. I feel a storm coming and I if I cannot stop it, well, I don’t want to be caught up in it.’
Castor nodded.
‘I understand. Anything else you want me to do?’
Aquila picked up his own Gladius and hefted the short sword. It had been a while since he had used it in action. But he could remember how and the weight was reassuring in his hand.
‘Keep your sword sharp and handy, Castor. Keep it close to you. You may need it.’
‘I’m a knife man, myself, ‘Castor replied looking fixedly at the weapon,’ but I do see your point.’

We went to see Star Trek Into Darkness recently (fun nonsense but far too many fan references for me, I just found them distracting) and were forced to sit through the trailer for the new Will Smith movie After Earth. It looks a load of tosh, but that was not what struck me at the time.
The tag line for the movie appears to be “Danger is real, Fear is a choice”. It has got me thinking about fear and how much it increasingly dominates our life. Cue this week’s ramble.
I consider myself pretty lucky that I have not found anything yet that terrifies me out of my wits. By that I mean that kind of paralyzing fear that just stops you in your tracks and means you cannot do anything other than possibly scream or whimper. Instead I seem to have a low grade wariness of many things; I don’t like the dark (too much imagination + dark = monsters), I am not a fan of spiders and I am not too keen on heights or enclosed spaces. But I can cope with them better than some people I know, including people very dear to me. The bruise on my arm from being gripped by my dear wife on a high platform at Barnard Castle lasted for quite a while. But I think I understand why some of these things can scare people, although I’m still not sure how people can be scared of mice. Mice are just cute (although I don’t want them in my house, before you say anything. But then I don’t want ducks in my house either and I really will be amazed if anyone is afraid of ducks. Or penguins or bunnies for that matter… It’s the twitchy noses, you see… Incidentally there is a 1970s horror movie called Night of the Lepus which is about giant killer rabbits, but I don’t think The Ducks of Doom has been made yet.)
I think a lot of phobias are like a virus that we pass onto each other when we are young. Some fears I think are deep and primal. The dark is threatening because there may well be someone or something out there waiting to get you – if not now, certainly there were in our ancestry. Also, I can easily see how not wanting to be looking over the edge of a tall building can be something that might appeal. For others it is less obvious, but there is reasonable evidence to show we infect each other and our parents have a huge influence in what scares us. This makes perfect sense really. If you as a little child see your mother or father (who, as you recall can do anything and are infallible for the early years of your life) leap, screaming, onto a chair as a tiny spider walks past then even unconsciously you will probably be chair jumping yourself in later life at the sight of some poor little arachnid.
Is it important? I think it is. It struck me that we have a responsibility not to screw up the next generation by passing on our fears to them, and we are increasingly doing that with the risk adverse nature attitude which is becoming increasingly prevalent.
Now – to be clear – as Mr Smith’s movie tagline says, danger is real. One of the basic principles I had to get around in terms of my work is to understand the difference between hazards and risks. A hungry lion is a known and clear hazard. If I am in a small room with said lion then the risk to me is high. But if the lion is in a nice sturdy cage (in the same small room) and I am outside the cage, the risk to me is minimal. But the lion is still the same hungry feline he was in the original scenario. We can be around danger and not come to harm if we can try and control the risks.
So when I was helping a nervous young girl climb over rocks at the sea side as I was the other week, I should be pointing out the bits of rock that are particularly slippy so she can take special care climbing on them or avoid if she can. But I shouldn’t scream at her how dangerous it is and use lots of verbal exclamation marks, or she’ll react as if she is walking on burning coals. Keep calm, learn to judge risks better (that probably means you have to do some research and understand your limitations, but that’s not a bad thing) and go out and enjoy life more. After all, you don’t want to be stuck inside afraid of everything. After all, inside is where all the spiders are waiting for you.

‘There is something about that man that gave me the creeps,’ said Exuperatus. He popped a piece of sausage in his mouth and chewed furiously, as though it would make him think clearer.
‘The old scholar, the one who like your sausages quite so much?’ Vita asked, ‘I thought he was sweet.’
They sat together in the now empty Taverna.
Senodo said nothing but quietly continued to clean tables. It had been a good night for business. This however meant a lot of clearing up and the big man whistled cheerfully as he did so, to his partner’s stressed annoyance.
‘What you made you think that he was a scholar?’ Exuperatus gave up on chewing and washed the gristle down with some wine,’ to me he looks like that rare thing – an old street rat. The very fact he’s a stranger and looks like the type who should have been dead in a gutter with a knife in his back when he was twenty makes me very suspicious.’
‘His hands are covered with ink stains,’ Vita replied smugly,’ so that means a scholar or a scribe. Maybe like you, he started bad and made good?’
‘That makes me more worried as I know me too well. I don’t want to be looked at by me as he was looking at me.’
Vita just looked confused at that and shrugged.
‘I don’t think he saw through my disguise. I know who he was talking to though.’
‘Yes,’ said Senodo from the other side of the room,’ I know him too, at least by reputation. Cunomoltus, I think his name is. Local trouble maker, thief and thug for hire. ‘
‘Not the kind of person a scholar would obviously spend time with, then,’ Exuperatus said triumphantly, fixing Vita with a glare.
‘Do you think he is the Imperial spy?’ Senodo mused.
‘No. He’s definitely low born and Investigators tend to be aristocracy. But he could be one of his lackeys.’
There was a knock at the door. The two men looked at each other suspiciously as Vita walked over to it.
‘Who is there? We’re closed,’ she said through the keyhole.
‘It’s me, Calgacus,’ was the whispered reply.
Vita opened the door. The young man came in. He then gasped as Vita, having shut the door and locked it again, and hugged him tightly around the middle.
‘Well?’ sighed Exuperatus,’ what do you want?’
‘Escape route,’ said Calgacus simply,’ I’ve got one. But it is not easy.’
‘They rarely are. Well?’
‘The new bath house we are building. The outflow pipes go down through the wall of the city and into the river. That’s my construction area. I’ve left some loose bricks down near to that point under the hypocaust. With a little effort we can push them aside, and crawl out and into the river.’
‘Just as well none of us are scared of small places,’ said Exuperatus.
Senodo had gone quite pale.
Exuperatus saw the reaction and groaned.
‘It’ll be alright,’ said Vita to the big man, ’I’ll help you.’
‘Just so it’s clear,’ Exuperatus said,’ I go first. Sorry old friend, but if I am going to crawl through a dark and hot hypocaust I don’t want you freezing up in front of me.’
‘Hopefully we won’t need to use it at all,’ said Calgacus.
Exuperatus shook his head.
‘We think they are sniffing around us already. We had all better start packing as we’ll have only a few minutes warning – at best – when the soldiers come for us.’

Note: the following is purely my personal view and should not be taken as any kind of official policy or attitude of organisations mentioned…

Right, back at Wrest Park again this week in Blog land, and just wallowing in a bit of nostalgia… Well I’m not, but a lot of people do come to the gardens and allow the memories to flood back.
What I think is different about Wrest Park, compared to a lot of historic sites is that people have been working here for all of the life of the place in some capacity or another and it has never stood empty. After it stopped being a family home at the outbreak of the Second World War it was the wartime HQ for the Sun Insurance Company and then the Silsoe Agricultural Institute. Between former employees of the Insurance firm and the students and staff of the institute a lot of people have lived and worked at Wrest.
So every time I do a stint, I can be pretty sure that someone I will meet will have memories of the place, or have visited many times before. They are often some of the most fun visitors too, both because they often are amazed and delighted at the state of the place now, and also the stories that they have to tell (given half a chance).
Sometimes it is the practical stuff of people who worked or studied here. We had the man who claimed to have put in the boiler that heated the place forty years ago – we could not check if it was still the same one, but according to him the chimney looked the same. There was the former student, who commented how weird it was when he was studying here to be sat at functional institutionalised plastic chairs and tables only to glance up at a gloriously decorated high ceilings and grand portraits high on the walls.
Then there are the childhood memories. Last week we had a man whose father used to be a handyman for John George Murray, the industrialist that owned the house between the wars. Apparently, his father had less happy memories of the place, because he was once badly savaged by one of the three massive dogs that lived in the Lodge house. Not surprisingly, after the initial incident his father never lingered much in that area and would hurry past as soon as the barking began.
More fun though were the couple in the nineties who were on what they called their farewell tour. They’d both lived in the south of England as when younger and they were now were resident in Scotland.
They had hatched on a rather sweet plan of touring all the nostalgic places they remembered from that time while they were still fit enough to do so, and were clearly having a whale of a time. For the lady, Wrest Park was special because when Sun Insurance had been there the caretaker’s family and her family had been friends and they had often come to stay in the house with them.
If you are a volunteer at Wrest you will know that down below there are two parallel tunnels complete with cellar rooms that open off them at intervals. These tunnels run the length of the main house and connect to the service wing, where the kitchens and other utilities were, and have intermittent staircases to allow for the servants to access the main house discretely as needed.
I get a thrill walking through those tunnels every time although now they are clinical and brightly lit. When this lady used to visit, at the age of about twelve, she told me that she and the caretaker’s kids used to have free run of the tunnels and cellars. Typically that meant running round in the pitch black, screaming their little heads off and being simultaneously terrified and delighted in the way that only children can manage to achieve.
Honestly, her eyes were alive at that point. She was delighted to be back and it was clear that all the happy memories were back to for that afternoon. I got to share them, which was something very precious.
I cannot say I’ve run along the tunnels screaming yet, but I cannot help imagine the kids doing that now as I walk among them (and the kids that visit today would pay extra for that privilege I am guessing. OK, get their parents to pay extra. Maybe I should suggest it to the site supervisor…).
Is nostalgia a good thing? I think people have a tendency to attach the concept of “wallowing” to it too much – as though you have to keep looking forward and to look back will result in you turning into a pillar of salt. However I think that nostalgia is just reconnecting with things from our past. It is part of what we are; why shouldn’t we look back and enjoy those memories again?
Then we can smile and get on with making new ones.

Marcus Aquila had sat through the Magistrate’s briefing with a patience he was impressed to find he still possessed.
He hated his dealings with these jumped up provincial officials. It astounded him that they could spend so long talking about something of such little importance.
‘So you see, Miletus – terribly nice chap, good breeding you know – tells me that this little brat tried to steal from him and then made off; well that would be just a normal situation for some of these slaves brought from the North – they’re all barbarians up there you know – but in trying to get at his possessions she may have seen some documents that included, well should we say, some family business dealings. Miletus did not give any details and I’m not going to pry.’
‘Surely she cannot read, this “barbarian” child?’
The Magistrate shifted on the stone bench.
Aquila was not sure if he was uncomfortable about his answer or just lacking in the cushions he normally required.
Sometimes Aquila really missed Castor’s ability to read people. But the old dog was more use to him out sniffing around among the detritus.
‘I don’t think he wants to take the risk. I mean the Governor’s name is apparently mentioned…’
‘And the dealings might be considered, by those of a cruel disposition, to be not entirely legal?’ It’s the old story, Aquila thought. Give men power, and they’ll just line their pockets at the first opportunity.
‘I am sure everything is above board,’ the Magistrate admonished.
‘Oh, I’m sure,’ Marcus said calmly,’ but it is amazing how you can misinterpret the most innocent of phrases if you are so inclined, is that not so, Magistrate? And why is this Miletus not here in person?’
‘He is attending to his duties, like any loyal official,’ the Magistrate said dismissively as though this somehow answered the question adequately, ‘ and so you will find the slave?’
‘Yes. I will find her – if she is still alive of course.’
‘Good,’ said the Magistrate as he got off from the bench, rubbing his backside.
Aquila smiled. Ah, it was cushions rather than conscience then, as he’d suspected.
‘You will give me nightly reports of your progress.’
‘No. I don’t think I will, Magistrate.’
The Magistrate looked at Aquila in the same way you might look at a cooked chicken that was in the process of crawling off the dinner table.
‘Pardon me?’
‘I said no, honoured Magistrate,’ Aquila sighed,’ look, let me be straight with you. I will remind you that I am an Imperial Investigator and I report to the Imperial staff and their appointments. Here in Britannia that means the Governor. I will report to him and to him alone… Not to this Miletus, not to you, and not the idiots commanding the Ninth Legion stationed here. If you want to see me, you can make an appointment to meet me in the Mansio.’
Aquila got up, trying hard not to suppress a feral grin. Finally he was starting to enjoy himself.
‘Goodnight. I must go and rest now, considering the important work I have defending the Empire in the days ahead. And I want to meet this Miletus myself. Make it happen tomorrow.’
He walked out of the Basilica without looking back at the Magistrate.
Mainly this was because Aquila was frightened of bursting into laughter at the man’s expression of open mouthed shock.
He was making enemies here but he didn’t care. If they made things difficult for him he would bring them down. They all had secrets to expose.
Aquila’s nightmares were not filled with the wrath of minor officials wrapped up in their own little games and perversions.
What did worry him were sword wielding natives he saw around every corner, pretending to be Romanised but just waiting for something to help unleash their anger against their still so recent conquerors.
He would send to Colchester for news of the Iceni. As long as Suetonius Paulinus was on the other side of the country with the bulk of the Imperial forces, new cities such as this one were terribly vulnerable.
He just hoped he was wrong about what might be coming. Or at least that he could be out of the province when the disaster finally came.
‘Damn it child,’ he said to himself as he drank one of several cups of wine back at his lodgings,’ give yourself up quickly, for all our sakes!’

Note: the following is purely my personal view and should not be taken as any kind of official policy or attitude of organisations mentioned…

Once a month I try and fit into that hectic thing called life a volunteer session at Wrest Park Gardens in Bedfordshire, an English Heritage property. Please visit it sometime if you’re nearby.
Typically for me, on a site that is rightly famous for its gardens – the tulips were magnificent at the weekend – I like being in the mansion, a marvellous confection that looks like an Eighteenth century French chateau but was actually designed and built by Thomas, 2nd Earl De Grey between 1834 and 1839. It is largely unfurnished due to the family having sold it in 1917 and spending most of the last century as Silsoe Agricultural Institute who moved out eventually in 2007. Since them EH have progressively been turning the site into one of their most major properties in the South and it looks much the better for it.
I love room guiding, but I appreciate it is something that suits people who like talking and don’t mind repeating yourself constantly and answering all the same questions. “Is it the Earl Grey who invented the tea?” Is my favourite one at the moment (it is not the same – the tea man was former Prime Minister the 2nd Earl Grey, and he lived up in the North east of England. He invented the tea because the hard water up there made the normal stuff taste so dreadful). But it’s a great question and it warms my heart because people are showing interest.
What also can amuse me are some fundamental aspects of human nature that come across a lot. The big one is curiosity. We are an infinitely curious species. If there is a shut door people want to be on the other side. I recognise this in several people I know well to whom a shut door is not enough unless it is actually locked. People always want to know why they cannot go upstairs in the house. In fact there is nothing really to see (bar two examples of wonderful original wallpaper that are so fragile they can only be viewed on monthly tours) as years as a business and then a college means the bedrooms are offices and most features there may have been are long gone, but people still can often react as though you’ve cheated them somehow when you tell them that. In the end we are lucky to have the house at all to enjoy. The fact most of the rooms you can access are unfurnished also gets commented on. I don’t know what the official reason for not trying to reinstate interiors actually is (well, apart from the fact that the gardens are more important nationally than the house so that is where the money goes) but from an entirely personal point of view to fill these huge rooms with knick knacks would (1) cost a fortune (2) detract from the magnificent architecture – and decoration and most importantly for me – stop the kids from being able to run around the rooms like mad things filling them with the far more impressive room contents generated in their imaginations.
That said, the Staircase hall at Wrest is stunning; something that still makes me smile was watching a girl of five or six looking up at the ceiling of the hall, many feet above her and just uttering a simple, quiet, “wow”.
Or another little girl who was over the moon to find that one of the previous owners of the house was, like her, called Jemima (and a fine lady she was too, the 2nd Marchioness Grey was a supporter of the great David Garrick and a lady of letters and must have been quite an unusual lady for her time).
These are the kind of moments that make a 3-4 hour shift fly by.
Like the evocative ruins that decorate out countryside so wonderfully it really is sometimes better to have less than more when you are a child, and it is the children who will hopefully remember the day spent cavorting through grand rooms and running amok through the magic gardens far more than their parents probably will – and hopefully those children will bring their own offspring in time.
It’s a balancing act of course to manage any historic site, but as someone who was a fan of places like this throughout my childhood this is the side of the fence I prefer to land on.
And as I sometimes tell them, I’m not a guard; rather I’m a guide (together with a host of other wonderful, enthusiastic volunteers). I want to tell them the stories I’ve learned, and show them the cleverness of the design so that they can see the place in a different light, and connect with it better. So they can get all nostalgic.
Ah, the nostalgia revellers. Now that’s an entire different class of wonderful visitor at Wrest Park, but a topic for another day.
The house has just closed you see… Yes, you were told it closed at five, sir.
I’m terribly sorry, do come again and next time I’ll show you the drama I believe is played out in the decoration of the Countess’ sitting room… Don’t worry – it has a happy ending…

‘So you are sure you have not seen this girl? You are really sure?’ Castor asked the man at the table.
Castor sipped his wine. He had drunk worse. At least the sausages were good at this bar. He could do with some more.
‘Boy, come here.’
A young blonde boy with delicate features came over and stood attentively. He was a pretty boy too. As it happens Castor wasn’t interested in such things and the child was too young anyway, but he had come across plenty who did.
‘More sausages boy, and, yes, more wine I think.’
‘Yes sir,’ said the boy as he took the coin and ran over to large, big nosed man who seemed to be one of the owners. He looks like a Gaul, Castor thought, rather than a local man, which was a little odd. His partner, who busied around the bar like a mother hen and could not seem to stand still for a minute, also had a foreign look for these parts.
Unlike the man sat at the table with him, who had that ingrained stupid look that most of the British tribes seemed to possess.
‘No. Not yet, we are still out looking for her,’ the thug said,’ most of my – well shall we call them associates?’ He leered, ’have been quite enthusiastic considering the side of the reward. But no dice, to my mind she’s either hiding or dead.’
Castor looked at the man in front of him and successfully hid his disdain.
The man was a criminal, a thief and probably a murderer too. But his sort knew the underworld of the city better than anyone, and Castor was sure that if the brat was still alive that would be the pit in which she would be hiding. So it meant dealing with people like this.
People like he had been before he had taken his chance and pulled himself out of the gutter.
‘Well, you can add another ten denarii as a finder’s fee in addition if you make sure that the news gets to me first. Double it if you can bring the girl to me. She doesn’t have to be alive, but you’ll only get the reward for a corpse if you can really prove it is her.’
‘So you do mean you want her alive then?’
Oh, he was not quite as stupid as he looked. Castor had no doubt that this man would happily kill another innocent and try and pass the body off for this level of reward. Or even for much less, he sadly reflected. He just nodded.
‘Do I bring her to the Mansio?’
‘No, but you can contact me there. We’d do the exchange somewhere else. Somewhere like this place for example. I’m sure the owners would take a private booking for a small fee.’
‘You mean Exuperatus and Senodo? Probably, though my sort don’t come here much,’ the man said glancing over at the bar,’ I don’t think they like trouble.’
‘None of us like trouble. Although I thought it came with bar trade. Oh, thank you.’
The boy had returned with the food and drink.
‘Good lad. I don’t suppose you’ve seen the little girl everyone is looking for.’
The boy looked away as though the question had surprised him.
That’s a little strange, Castor thought. Was that just shyness or was there something else?
‘Uh… No sir. I’d be after the reward myself, sir,’ said the boy, still not making eye contact. He scurried away before Castor could ask another question.
‘How long has that boy been working here?’
‘What? Oh that lad. Don’t know really. Not long though. Does it matter?’
Castor shrugged.
‘Probably not… Now, leave me to my wine.’
The man left. Castor stared over at the bar and watched the boy talking to the smaller man. He guessed that was probably the one called Exuperatus. People tended to fit their names, Castor had found, and Senodo fitted the big nosed man much better. Either way the little man seemed to have become quite agitated. He kept glancing over towards where Castor was sitting.
‘Interesting…’ Castor said into his wine,’ I think I will find out a little more about this place and these two Gauls.’
And that boy, he thought. Catch a thief with a thief, catch a child with a child, perhaps?
He downed his wine. It was time to go and meet the Boss at the bath house.
He certainly felt he needed a bath after spending time with the city scum. And no matter how urgent the investigation, there was always time for a nice hot bath.