Tasting Laird and Ladyship…

19/03/09

We awake today to a rosy glow peeping out under the clouds and over the hills. I, unlike me at all, bounce out of bed and fling the heavy curtains open, padding out onto the damp balcony in my bare toes. Andrew joins me and we look out over the dewy, rainy, fern-covered valleys and hills and listen to a few quiet birds. We photograph the sunrise, hazy and delicate, in the soft, gentle rain. It smells just like Iona here, and you could definitely be forgiven for thinking that you were in Scotland. It is exquisitely beautiful, wild and unspoilt, new and green.
We, after some lazing about in that lovely room (we are on holiday after all!), get up and go to have breakfast in the Stables opposite. There is a fine spread, based on the Full English though, of course, it begins with porridge! We eat heartily in this pretty, draughty, high-ceilinged room, served with perfectly wobbly fried eggs and glossy sausages that bite with a satisfying pop, by a friendly local lady. There is toast to follow and I decide to have marmalade (after playing with the toast machine; I like public toasters, they’re more interesting than domestic ones, and you get the added excitement of possibly accidentally pinching someone else’s toast or returning to find that nothing is left to show of yours but a pile of crumbs). I also decide to try the local Antipodean Marmite. Now, last time I came to the Antipodes I tried Vegemite. I wasn’t entirely convinced by the thick, heavy, acrid, soya-style flavour, but I had to keep trying it to see if I liked it but now I enjoy and crave it just as much as our own yellow-topped Marmite. The two bottles sit next to each other on the shelf, awaiting my fickle pleasure. Australian Marmite confused me – It is neither Australian Vegemite, nor English Marmite. It is some interesting new beast.
So it is with the same interest and anticipation employed by the keen early naturalists when they arrived in the Antipodes that I approached the little serving-sized peel-back pot of local Marmite. The packaging is rather different, being red instead of yellow, but it’s definitely the same word and a similar substance. I stick my knife into the thick brown goo and smear it eagerly but sparingly on my waiting toast.
Squish
Crunch
Squelch
Mmm, butter…
*eyes open wide*
*nose crinkles*
The stuff makes contact with my taste buds…
!!!
My tongue is clearly now trying to work out what it has done to deserve my displeasure to such an extent as this.
Australian/Kiwi Marmite is utterly foul.
It’s how I imagine English Marmite must taste to those people who are in the ‘Hate’ category. I hardly dare imagine what it has been made with; squashed spiders boiled in salty soap with a rotten cabbage perhaps.
Mouldy swede and snails?
Frogspawn and stale lentils?
Either way it is completely revolting, and the best way to describe it to other Lovers of Marmite is that it is Marmite with the goodness taken out; it is all the bad things Marmite manages not to be; Marmite made by someone who only had the concept vaguely explained to them and tried their best but didn’t quite make it.
It is a parody of true Marmite and as the abomination it is should not be allowed to exist…
I gulp milk frantically and place the rest of my contaminated slice of toast on the side of my plate.
The marmalade, I am pleased to say, is excellent, and takes away the taste of the ‘Marmite’ nicely…
Once we have finished breakfast we pack wistfully. It is a shame to have missed the opportunity of dinner in the castle, and we are disappointed, especially since we have a licence to explore for free as guests here. After piling our bags into the car, we head up to the Castle, sitting happily in front of its pool and manicured lawn, and wander in, waving our key at the lady on the door, we will have to give it back soon.
However, after we have meandered through a few of the lovely rooms, including the dining room, we decide, after all, to just see if there are any free rooms for tonight… Just out of curiosity. We do, after all, have a car for the next few days, rather than having a coach to miss…
We head back into the lobby and ask the lady there if there are any rooms free for the night, as we have fallen in love with the place and don’t want to leave just yet.
We’re in luck!
We gleefully head off to put our bags in our new room, the Kauri room, and decide what to do with this empty, crystal day that awaits us…
(There are also sweets… We snaffle…)
The Castle beckons us back…
Stepping gleefully over the green lawn and past a little stained glass pagoda, we enter this collection of treasure chambers once again. The first glimpse is very bright. The castle was designed with a large veranda (the designer wanted a veranda, so he blinking well HAD a veranda… Then glassed it in because his daughter complained it was too cold…). Rattan chairs nestle smugly under neat conservatory tables beneath sunlit spider plants as the daylight streams in, lighting every corner with a golden glow. It is bewildering and lovely and the nice little lady on the door sees us gaping and trots forward to help…
Then, simple guide in hand, we head for the shadowy, panelled interior. The first hallway is lovely, very baronial, with deep, rich, russet panelling, and an intricately carved and magnificent ceiling. It apparently took 6 years to carve, but it is clear to see why, with leaves and curlicues aplenty. There is a stained glass window here, all across one wall, which contains various emblems, all British, and also a Scottish wildcat. This goes well with the motto, ‘sans peur’ – this deliberate and subtle pun is a perfect illustration of the Kiwis having the humour of the Aussies, but the delicacy of wit employed by the English… Scottish wildcats are fearless, fearsome and generally quiet.
We head deeper into the castle. The next room is a dining room, full of interesting things, including a wonderful clock and a large but dainty cornucopia-style sculpture made entirely of dried flowers. The clock ticks amiably and we think of dinner, which we will be allowed to have in the Castle! We admire the sleek ginger colouring of the table and chairs and move on to the next room, the Music Room, which houses some very interesting paintings as well as a spinet, a virginal and a couple of pianos (Andrew may have to correct my terminology here, but they were definitely keyed instruments of varying sizes!). I see Andrew’s fingers twitch, but there a polite little notices on each of these asking people not to touch or play them; but I hope someone does sometimes, it would be rather sad if they were left completely unplayed… If there are many people for dinner, then this room will be used instead, as it is larger, and they bring tables in here.
The Castle, including this room, is full of ephemera, magpie collections of bits and pieces collected from car boot sales, antique shops and handed down through families and by donors to the Castle. In the music room a cabinet catches my eye. It is a beautiful set of needlework equipment, bobbins, tape measures, neat little scissors, thread, needles, odd things for making other odd things… What catches my eye is a familiar surname, ‘Tape measure and needle cases presented by Mrs. Jackson-Purdie’. I wonder what her story was (I surmise she is no longer with us as the handwriting in the cases is rather ancient), how she acquired the double-barrelling and if she has any connection to the chap I know…
The drawing room is plastered in mint and peach and has a mint-imperial-white plastered ceiling. There is an impressive image of a castle hanging on the wall above the fireplace. Perhaps it is the one in Scotland which inspired Larnach Castle? It is inlaid with slivers of Paua shell which make it glow in the light in the room. We wander in this room and I sigh happily, thinking that we are staying in New Zealand’s only castle! I admire a lamp in the corner, a simple, cream, standard lamp and go closer to investigate. It has a lovely carved marble base and a neat little shade on top.
Hang on.
That can’t be right.
No way!
The ENTIRE lamp is carved from one piece of marble. It is a lampshade-shaped globe carved from the rock and even has a slightly uneven fringe decorating the bottom. Another piece of ephemeral whimsy, yet expertly carved from the best of materials. This Castle keeps showing evidence of the ‘no expense spared’ attitude of its original owner, of which more later.
We head for the next room, past a delightful little brass gong sitting on the floor with its soft, wooden hammer tied next to it. It bears a polite notice, ‘Please don’t gong the gong’. This is another example of how trusting this place is, how accessible the current owners have made it all. There is a distinct feeling of homely welcome about it, rather than ‘keep out, this is all for show’. Someone has really thought about this and has decided that ropes and finger panels are not the way forward. Mind you, if you are a visitor who has trekked all the way down here specifically to look at the castle, you’re not going to be the kind of ignorant tourist-type who’ll put sticky pawprints all over everything and pinch the silverware. Well, I haven’t seen any yet anyway!
The next rooms are study and library, the men’s retreats…
There are cabinets here containing various curios, including the following:
A collection of eggs, real ones painted, stone ones carved, wooden ones whittled and others eclectically bedecked.
A book with a clock embedded in the cover (I could really use one of those!).
A fatly-bound book bearing a lovely etched and inked set of strawberries, flowers, leaves and fruit, in which nestles a silver spider in a delicate silver-embossed cobweb.
A moustache cup. A peculiar teacup, right-handed, with dainty blue and pink flowers, and a little lip out over the inside of the cup to stop a gentleman’s whiskers dripping in his tea!
There is a lovely collection of books here – Bibles, songs, stories, reference, Britannica – all lovingly encased in thick gilded and embossed leather. There are other books too, in a revolving shelf, with nothing but a discreet slip of string to suggest that perhaps you would prefer not to touch them. I itch to pull one from its home and dive into its musty, ancient depths, but to remove it from its fellows would not be right, so I content myself with admiring their covers.

Onward and upward, quite literally in this case. The square stairwell is lovely, all swooping, rich wooden curves, and a plaster ceiling, way overhead. I run my fingers along the banisters as we go up, admiring the rich russet carpet and the pale walls. These stairs are clearly the centrepoint of opulence, and, while they wouldn’t be any good for sweeping down in a beautiful ballgown, they are very beautiful and impressive yet homely. They are vaguely reminiscent of the stairwells at the old FCO building on Palace Street in London – all rich wooden curves, thick carpet, stained glass and pretty plasterwork.
Upstairs, one can enter every room; nowhere is cordoned off. In fact, the only barricades are thin cords over very delicate furniture. Not that the owners don’t have a sense of preservation for the place and the articles within, quite the opposite. One room, a lady’s bedroom, is heavily curtained. We wonder if it is maybe closed for maintenance, but there are voices coming from within and as the curtain shifts slightly, we see that it has printed on it, in gold, a message asking that you come in.
We comply…
Inside, it is a mini world, a cameo of a Victorian lady’s life, through her clothes. There is a nice smell in here, old, but used and not fusty at all, spicy and fragrant, maybe the ghost of perfumes long gone, favourite scents worn by a girl who danced out to a rare party and floated back on Cupid’s wings…? There are petticoats and gloves, hairbrushes and mirrors, a little place for keeping combed out hair before it can be made into a switch, and, crowning glory of this room, a tiny, tiny wedding dress, made for some diminutive person no more than 4”6’ high, and terribly slim. Someone with a wry sense of humour has dressed a simple model in a petticoat, given it long flowing hair, and hung her from the ceiling over the bed in a ghostly pose wearing a suitably ghastly expression on her pallid face.
The castle so far has a delightfully cobbled-together feel about it, as if someone has lovingly restored what they could and then collected further items which seemed to fit the style and period of the place, like a very specific magpie. The next room is a bathroom, with an ancient and hefty toilet. It is all wooden panelled around the wall, particularly noticeable around the bath. Behind the ‘new’ sink (with ancient but working taps) is an interesting feature: a little hinged panel. I wonder what it was before the old owners had the sink put in…?
Upwards again!
The stair banister on this level is silky and cool to touch, and the stairwell is brighter, being closer to a window. Pictures, paintings and silk panels adorn the walls. The top floor was evidently the children’s realm. There are children’s bedrooms, simply decorated, with large windows and good views out over the children’s garden kingdom. The bathroom contains two sinks and an enormous stone bath on a plinth. It apparently weighs a ton… I hope the floorboards are sound! Opposite these rooms is another, smaller, Spartan room: Nanny’s quarters. Containing little more than a small bed, simple cupboard and elaborate portmanteau with drawers and hangers, it looks out to the children’s rooms… It would be interesting to imagine the lady who lived here with the kids – a slim, young lady with a sense of style and fun? Or perhaps a matronly type with sensible shoes and an apron for wiping noses and grubby spots on?
The tower room up here is lovely, though the tiles, seemingly laid on wood, not stones, are a little wobbly! It is light and airy and full of plants, maidenhair ferns and suchlike. It is more like a conservatory than a tower room. I can imagine the children having lessons in here, aching to be outside, but stuck indoors, staring longingly out of the windows at their expansive playground, only to be told off for not paying attention by the governess…
There are greasy nose prints in here too, where people have peered out and admired the view; I can’t imagine the children here would have got away with that, at the very least they would have been told off and sent to wash their dirty noses! Maybe it was a practice room for musicians in the family: Andrew and I hum; we find the resonant frequency, a delicate, creamy pitch, and then vary it, harmonising delicately, listening to the resulting rainbow of sound dancing through this small room and weaving around the plants. We make an ethereal song between us, befitting the location and mood. We reluctantly leave playing with the hidden music here though, as more people come in and we head onward and upward again. The next place is the turret itself, up a long and windy spiral staircase, with minute windows every few feet. I am not particularly keen on the small worn steps, but it is worth the climb. There is a lovely view from the turret, once we work out how to open the door! (It takes a bit of a shove…) This small, tiled roof would make a perfect place to bask in the sun, or have a drink or a picnic (if you could get the butler up here of course…).
We stare out over the warm, grey crenellations, admiring the grounds and the view over the Otago peninsula beyond. Some kind of raptor zooms over the trees as I admire the gardens, heading away from the gas plant (an amazing innovation for the time – capturing methane from silage to pump into the house for light). A pigeon-type creature flies fatly between the trees, a grey, sludge-green and russet bird. We look out over the other side and play with shadows on the ground, waving to people below. We admire the neat gardens in front of the castle; they look every bit as good from up here as they do close to. One of the best displays is in front of the Castle Ballroom Café (a room originally designed as a ballroom for the owner’s lonely teenage daughter) and, as if on cue, my stomach rumbles… Lunchtime it is!
We head into the Ballroom and through the pale-yellow-painted lobby into a massive baronial-style hall. The deep, rich, wood floor is echoed in the high beams in the ceiling, which soar away into the smoky haze from the fires lit in the massive fireplaces. There are a few hunting trophies, though not enough to put me off my lunch; they stare balefully and smokily down the length of the enormous hall at each other. Chandeliers glimmer down through the gentle, fragrant haze, scintillating and vying with the weak rays of sun slanting down from above. We don’t really spend much time inspecting the room just yet though, there is food to be had!
We head towards the counter and there is a tasty array of things on the menu and things on plates… I decide I want a quiche, so does Andrew, so we order two different sorts and experiment with interesting juices…
While we wait for our lunch to arrive, we admire the room. Large fireplaces pour forth heat and smoke gently in the light cool of the Kiwi autumn. The gentle smell of sweet woodsmoke pervades the atmosphere and hazes the light gently, making it feel as ethereal as film sets always seem to look… So it is possible to get this feeling and atmosphere without artifice! I always wondered if the directors were creating a dream that couldn’t exist, but I think maybe they aren’t… The chandeliers high above, twinkle in the sunlight, flashing a myriad tiny rainbows off the walls and tables, and my hands and nose! Lunch is good – juice is interesting and quiches delicious and most welcome.
We take a few pictures, playing with the smoky light and Andrew’s star filter (which can be persuaded to work with my compact camera with judicious applications of a steady hand), before heading outside again into the slightly drizzly wonderland of Larnach castle grounds.

And Wonderland it is. As I wander out into the front garden, I notice a chunky, lichen-covered sculpture and wander around to look at it. I exclaim in delight as I realise who it depicts. It is a perfect replica of the Duchess, looking as grandiose and grumpy as she ever has in Tenniel’s etchings for Carroll. Andrew emerges from the café and tells me, to my delight, that there are other characters lurking in the grounds. I bounce off, gleefully, and spend the next little while peering around trees and flowerbeds in the perfectly manicured gardens. As I potter, I find the Cheshire Cat grinning insanely on a tree branch, a random cow peering out from behind a peony, red rose bushes with hearts on top by the glasshouse and, the girl herself, Alice, cast in chestnut and gilt metal, holding a flamingo under her arm while her foot prevents the escape of a rather funny-looking hedgehog… I suspect the artist may have added a little of the local equivalent to his design!
We finish exploring the garden, including a little stained glass gazebo that looks as if it once belonged to a ship and a trailing walkway with autumn crocuses, a pond and a stuck duck (she couldn’t work out how to get up the sides of the pool – we wanted to help!). The grass in the walkway was apparently being ‘rested’; I wonder how this is achieved – comfy blankets at night and a good watering with camomile tea perhaps…?
We decide to head back to our room and get ready to go out to Dunedin centre again. The Kauri room is bright and airy and has a loo with a view and a four poster bed! Sadly, just as I fancy one, I realise that the Valentine’s chocolates that Andrew so carefully brought all the way from Hotel Chocolat in England were left in the fridge in the other room…
:’(
We ask one of the chamber maid ladies if she can help and, bless her, Rowena has a look in the fridge for us, checks the cupboard where they might have ended up if someone had pocketed them and even has a rummage through the bins… But they are nowhere to be seen. Apparently policy dictates that they aren’t allowed to keep anything found in guest bedrooms – rather a shame really; I’d rather have thought that someone was enjoying them than wasting them, but there it is, they’ve gone, so I’ll just have to be more mindful next time…
*sniff*
*sniff*
Waaaah!!
We wend our way towards the car and I smell in the air the sweet, sad, damp, mossy scent that heralds impending autumn. There are even Autumn crocuses.

We drive down to Dunedin around the Otago peninsula again, but on a higher road this time. We can see the bay on the way; it is funny how I’ve never appreciated before quite how the ocean’s colour is changed so much by the depth of the water or the stringy mats of seaweed.
We arrive in Dunedin and park the car – spaces are not particularly easy to find but simple enough when you have a small car! We stop in the sun (the weather is lovely now) and leave the car, walking along to see some of Dunedin. St Paul’s Anglican Cathedral is worth a look and we admire the outside, rising pale and simple in the sun, bedecked here and there with carved bishops. It is also known as the First Church of Otago. Next stop railway station for a look at it in daylight. It is delightfully stripey and very Scottish, squatting demurely and bulkily in its little grassy patch. We go in again and admire the stained glass and tiles cleverly wrought so as to have accurate pitures of trains all over the place, including the centre of the main concourse floor, where hundreds of feet must pass every day. I potter upstairs on my spore knees to see what the view is like from the balcony overlooking it all.
There is a little artisan shop up here too – wax-dyed silk scarves, sheep pepper-shakers, triptych local photos, greetings cards… I reluctantly leave after it gets a little later and decide to pop to the loo before taking my camera on a walk around the rest of Dunedin.

Disaster strikes!

As I retrieve my camera from where it is hanging on the door in the loo for safety, it slips from my fingers and I fumble it! It tumbles, in horrifying slow-motion from my cold fingers and lands on the tiled floor.
It might be ok, I inspect it, having put the battery back in from whence it fell. There is no external damage to lens, viewfinder or screen and when the battery goes back in, the pictures are all retrieved from earlier in the day. Phew!
But it is not long before I realise that all is not well at all…
So much for the sturdy aluminium casing, my poor little Fuji’s brains have been too rattled and are now addled… It takes odd pictures of purple stripey smudges in a green world; the sensors are clearly too damaged to work. The red/blue/green has all gone wrong…
*wails*
My poor faithful Fuji, who came nearly all the way around the world with me is no more!
Stupid, stupid me!
I berate myself soundly and persistently; my head is full of ‘if only’s.
Eventually pragmatism kicks in (after I’ve tried everything up to and including percussive maintenance several times) and I shall just have to empty my mobile phone’s meagre memory for tonight just in case. I shall get my Fuji sent back to them in the hope that they can fix it for only the cost of replacing it… At least I had the foresight to get a phone with a half-decent camera built in for just such an emergency…
*sigh*
In the meantime I shall look for a temporary replacement one. Nice but cheap I think.
In Dunedin.
Hum.
Where the shops are either shut or full of tourist tat made from squashed possums…
Ah.
*wails*
I feel as though someone has removed one of my limbs!

However, after being lost in a reverie of camera-induced mortification, we are back at the Castle. We Change for Dinner…
He he!
Dinner…
In a Real Castle…
With candles and waiters and everything!
I dribble…
I accidentally met the chef himself earlier, when enquiring about menus (which we have inspected, dribbled over and selected from) and he seemed extremely nice. He is a very accommodating chap, large and very tall, sporting the proper hat, jacket and checked trousers, who assures me that there is no red wine in anything except the lamb (which I wasn’t going to go for anyway) and says he will make sure everything is safe, bearing in mind my spectacular reaction to all things red-grape-based. I am reassured and looking forward to dinner…

Dribble…

We arrive at the entrance to the Castle in the fading light, admiring the smooth, golden walls lit by watery sunshine through gentle drizzle and we are ushered in with the utmost courtesy by a lady dressed in a sleek black suit with a large neat bun piled carefully behind her head. We are introduced to the few other guests on the bright and airy veranda, all clutching drinks and talking quietly, and the sleek lady returns with a large winelist for us to peruse. She recommends to me a guest wine, which she has particularly enjoyed, and I rather like the sound of it, a simple, local Sauvignon Blanc, with no pretentions but plenty of class in presentation and claims of flavour. I decide to try that, whilst Andrew’s plea for a wheatbeer, despite not being well-represented on the menu, is quietly and rapidly catered for.
We seat ourselves and our drinks arrive about the same time as the last guests make their appearance on the veranda. They are American….
Loud and obnoxious.
Hmph.
Actually, that’s not quite fair.
It is a middle-aged couple, clearly intelligent, quiet, and slightly shy in modest but chic evening clothing of chinos and nice shirts. Their son, on the other hand, is a loud, boisterous and exuberant individual called Henry who sports a bright blue t-shirt and long shorts. They murmur at him periodically as he bounces around, shaking everyone by the hand, but his high spirits seem unquellable… I suppose he could be entertaining… Either way, he in no way diminishes our pleasure at our fine drinks…
My golden wine is smooth, light and fruity, with no unpleasant, ashy aftertaste; and Andrew’s beer is frothy, delicate and flavourful, also a local breed, we are told, with just the right amount of gentle bite to it. Our hosts are very solicitous and slide around between the few guests, checking that the drinks are all to our satisfaction and that we are all ready for dinner before ushering us through to the Music Room as there are too many of us for the Dining Room. This is rather a lush dinner party, for me at least. I am glad I changed into my best frock! They have certainly made every effort to make this feel just as opulent as it must have done when the original owner was in residence; and we feel as if we belong too, which is unusual in somewhere so grand; they have clearly picked their discreet but friendly staff with great care.
However, while dinner is neat, polite and impeccably courteous, it is not too formal; the staff are barely noticeable, and obsequious without being ingratiating. We begin to chat with our neighbours as the starters are served. I am next to a lovely, lively duo of ladies , Kate and Francesca, who are travelling around New Zealand peddling little pots of handmade perfume (which have nearly tempted me on a couple of occasions in various shops, particularly in Queenstown as they smell real and come in sweet little round wooden pots – which probably wouldn’t make it past USA customs… Sigh…). They have just been to the Moreki boulders, which is Andrew’s and my next stop, so I might take another sniff… It turns out one of them used to live in the UK and has been an occasional extra, so we chatter pleasantly away quite happily about that and New Age thought over starters and main course!

The starter (well, I suppose it’s an entrée as it’s a dinner party not a restaurant!) that I have chosen is a lovely, spicy, pepper vegetable soup. It is thick and warming and not too strong, but bursting with flavour. There are tasty bread rolls too, which are warm and crusty and have me salivating. I sink my teeth into the crispy, fragrant crust and feel the soft warm bread give softly beneath my bite.
Mmmm…
There is more wine and more cheerful chatting in the gentle light of the candles and a few chandeliers. It feels warm and baronial, and I find myself admiring the décor. It looks completely different from how I saw it earlier, all pale blues and marble surrounding the instruments. Now it is dark and welcoming, with deeply coloured paintings on the walls and friendly shadows stretching into the corners. The illusion of a Scottish hall is encouraged by the roaring fire at our end of the table. The low light, wonderful food and excellent wine make for an easy conversation. Even American Henry and his exuberance seem to become witty and good-natured rather than a nuisance… He is a well-meaning young chap, and we other dinner guests are taking him in our stride with a pinch of salt and find that he is very pleasant. Andrew and I chat to the meek couple opposite us and find that they are partly English and also on holiday – we all gush about the delights of New Zealand and look up expectantly as the second, main course is served.
There are many takers for the lamb, which does smell wonderful, and is prettily and elegantly presented. My sole fillet arrives in front of me with a light touch and a discreet whisper in my ear that Chef has remembered not to put balsamic vinegar on my salad and hopes I enjoy it. I am touched by the attention to detail – this is better even than showy Raffles!
We wait until everyone has a plate in front of them (which does not take long) in a unanimous and unprompted display of spontaneous courtesy.
The sole fillet is delicious. It is flaky and delicate, practically melting its citrusy fragrance over my tongue and blending so perfectly with its accompaniments that a whole new flavour spectrum is uncovered. This trip I am finding that good cooking, really good cooking, is a distinct art form in its own right. There is a world of difference between delicious and delectable when cooked by a true master! The dainty feta chunks hiding in the onion and pepper base are a stroke of genius, bringing it all together in a whole new way. We pass the little metal vegetable dishes to each other and spear broccoli and carrots to go with our main courses. There is, momentarily, nothing but the chomping of a dozen or so jaws, before the gentle murmur of conversation begins again, but clearly in second place to the food!

Only short while later (it really is extremely good!) we have all finished and a gentle murmur of conversation begins again with Henry blurting out a fresh and faintly amusing comment. There is a polite titter from his end of the table and he is shushed gently by his quiet mum. Our neat, black-clad hostess stands up at the head of the table, and tinkles a wineglass. We turn to her expectantly as silence falls over the table and she begins, in the gentle candlelight and friendly Scottish atmosphere, to tell the Castle’s story…

Its conceiver and partial architect was a wealthy businessman with a young family. It seems that they were all fairly determined in their own ways, he with a business life that extended into politics and his daughter with a wilful teenage temperament trapped in a remote hilltop castle. This appears to have made for a rather dysfunctional family despite his financial and political success! Still, he persevered with his life out here and poured his considerable wealth into making the place glorious. He even built the ballroom (now the café) to appease his daughter’s desperate teenage need for parties. Marble was brought from Italy for the floor, glass from Venice, whole sheets for the veranda to be closed in when his daughter and wife complained that it was too cold for a blinking open veranda in this climate and what on earth had he been thinking?! Materials of the finest quality for every aspect of building and living here were shipped from around the globe, as well as being sourced locally – there is a rare wood, Kauri, which is generally only used in small pieces or used as an inlay in something larger. There is an entire room furnished entirely from pieces of this rare wood which looks a little like walnut in colour but appears far more knotted and freckled. It is sturdy and extremely pretty.
Sadly, the Castle was eventually deserted and fell to ruin in the mid 20th century. It was apparently used for illegal parties and raves up until fairly recently – one of the New Zealand ladies remembers hearing about a rollicking good underground party here in the 60s, though she was quick to distance herself from it when she added that there may have been not-entirely-legal substances involved! However, the current owners bought and adopted it in the 1970s and began, with loving care and dedication, to get it back on its feet. Their joy at discovering it and putting it back together must have been akin to the delight felt by Tim Smit when he first unearthed the Lost Gardens of Heligan. The Castle’s saviour, now heading well beyond middle age, still lives here. She has an apartment in the basement and she and her family see to the upkeep of the place. She and they are keen that it remains accessible to anyone who wants to see it, they want it ‘…to be loved every day…’ and so it is. You can feel it in the way the walls glow at you happily, and in the lack of plush ropes and glossy finger panels. Nothing that is functional is tucked away or protected, which makes you want to protect and respect it as your own; you are a privileged person who has been allowed to be here, who is wanted here, and as such, you feel a far greater sense of reverence than somewhere they have no faith in their visitors… But then again, this is a castle on a remote hilltop in one of the least populated continents in the world! For whatever reason, this place feels fully functional, lived in, warm and affectionate and I like it here…

Story done, the neat lady in black takes her seat again, and dessert, impeccably on cue, arrives inconspicuously at the table. I eye mine with delight; it is beautifully presented. I have chosen the Pear and Raspberry Tower. On a homemade shortbread base there is a dainty but generous pile of cascading pink pear pieces. On those is another home made shortbread (crinkled edges, bearing a thistle in relief), neatly topped by a scoop of some kind of sorbet – I think it is delicate lemon or ginger, but one of the other ladies wonders if it is lavender – it could be, it is a very delicate flavour, not at all tart or peppery. To finish it off, it is served with a neat blob of real cream, into which has been lovingly inserted a small pansy, heartsease I believe, which peeps invitingly out as if to guarantee how tasty it will be…
And it is…
Oh it is…
J

Then comes tea and coffee. I am so very full that they obligingly provide me with peppermint tea whilst most other people have coffee (though I think I begin a trend when Francesca joins me in the peppermint!). It is served with more dainty homemade shortbreads, thistle-decorated, and also with a delectable dried-fruit-filled sweetmeat that I can’t quite place. I find out, just as my taste buds realise, that it isn’t fudge, but really fruity, thick, creamy white chocolate.
Divine!
This is far better than Raffles, half the price and twice the enjoyment (not that Raffles wasn’t fantastic too in its own way, but this was beautifully presented whilst remaining sufficiently informal to be fun)!
Full to waddling point, we leave the table and stroll carefully ‘home’ to our room, winding through the plants along the floodlit path that twists through the garden, full and happy, before climbing (literally – it’s a tall four-poster!) into bed…
Goodnight!