Fifty Years Ago: Sunday, 8th August 1976 — Lowther
I slept badly. We had been up late ghost hunting, touring the castle and inventing sightings of Lady Anne Clifford. She appeared on the top landing near the state bedroom, in the round tower. There were also the prisoners supposedly secured by Butcher Cumberland in the courtyard, and the coffin in the cellar. By the end, we had probably frightened ourselves with our own stories.
When the telephone rang, my brother and I mucked around playing bar billiards and table tennis. There was only one telephone line into the castle, so it could have been for anybody. Either you reached it in time or you did not. There were no answering machines to preserve whatever the caller wanted.
When I got up, I poured myself some cereal in our kitchen in the south-west wing, only to be told that we were eating in the refectory. Everyone—our guests included—was already there. There was room for about a dozen around the refectory table. Our kitchen was semi-private; the refectory belonged to the larger machinery of the place.
I went with Dad at ten. The others came later.
We shot clay pigeons. Dad hit one out of fifteen. My brother and I got six each. I was surprised he had lost the knack so completely. Poor Dad had not shot for ages, though perhaps his eyesight needed testing.
I went to the FIH corporate hospitality tent and had a Buck’s Fizz. Then I had a go at archery and threw a Wellington boot. We entered into these country pursuits with complete enthusiasm.
I bought a few raffle tickets but did not win anything this time. The day before, I had won a bottle of Pomagne cider, so perhaps I had already used up my luck.
I saw our three cousins on Dad’s side, all about the same age as us.
Then the food ran out. Jane and Mabel went in search of more, possibly from the castle. They seemed to have it under control. In a place like Lowther, running out of food did not mean there was no food. It meant someone had to locate where the rest of it was being kept.
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