I can remember when I was a child and used to visit stately homes with my parents. I have no idea, looking back from this far into the journey, if they were in the care of the National Trust or not.

All I can recall is being dragged round, from room to room, each one having a crusty old school‑teachery type steward appearing to check we didn’t place our ice‑creamed sticky fingers on some antique document or whatever.

All I wanted to do back in the day was draw a moustache with melted chocolate flake on Winston Churchill. To me, it seemed that everyone visiting was from an earlier epoch, greybeards the lot, including some women.

I always vowed that when I grew up, I would never visit these places, they were so boring.

Now, fast forward 55 or 60 years. I have now been a member of National Trust and English Heritage, on and off, for a number of years. I have now dropped the latter as none of their properties seem to have roofs.

When you turn up at one of NT’s places now, I swear it is a different world. As we walked through the entrance, having swiped our membership cards, the first thing that caught our eye was the play area.

What a cunning move that is. I listened in as serious negotiations were taking place between three‑year‑olds and parents, sometimes grandparents. You can tell that deals were made, children grinning from ear to ear and grownups smiling.

I did rather fear that it might be more akin to a US‑Iranian peace deal, without the effect on the price of oil.

I imagine the discussions went something like this:

“Oh look, there are swings and slides, Mummy and Daddy,” said little Arabella.

“Yes, darling. You can go in there on the way out.”

They might only be three but, don’t worry, they can see right through that one. “I want to go on them now.” Note the absence of pleases and thank yous in this exchange.

“No, Arabella, we will take a look at the nice buildings first and then you can have a go.”

“They look boring,” she replied with a foot stomp for effect.

“Okay. How about an ice cream when we get in there.”

“How about an ice cream and a small go on the slides.”

You could tell the adults were getting worn down by the negotiations. “Right. Is that a deal then?”

“Deal!” said Arabella, holding out her hand for a low five.

I sense it might be a Donald Trump‑style deal, in that it is no deal at all.

Read on to find out what happens on the way out.

On passing through the ticket area, we were greeted by an affable fellow named Bill. Given the searing heat of the weekend, he was, quite wisely, standing under a demountable gazebo.

He immediately recognised my cane and advised of more accessible routes around the site that we might like to consider. Bravo, Bill.

He also pointed out areas where Jane might be able to direct me toward some tactile surfaces where I could get a real feel of what the property felt like as well as looked and sounded like. Excellent stuff, Fountains Abbey.

Hadn’t eaten since a meagre breakfast, completed a warm parkrun in between, so a café was first on the agenda. Now get this, Fountains boasts three eateries.

My stomach felt like my throat had been dammed. I did not realise that we had missed the first opportunity for satiation at the visitor centre until I was checking out the restaurants on the site for this article.

Bill had informed us of Swanley Grange, about halfway down the hill, where we would find a display of information boards outlining the history of the site, from its earliest beginnings right through to the construction of the Hall and up to the modern day.

So, we called in there and, I have to say, it was jolly good too. We followed the history of the monastic era when, and I hadn’t realised this before, there were two different types of monk.

Choir monks spent all day in devoted service of a greater being, usually an abbot, well endowed in the belly department, writing scriptures and wearing out their cassocks at the knees in a life of piety.

Formal prayers were offered up four times a day, known as the Divine Office: Matins, around 02:00, Lauds, around dawn, Vespers, early evening, and Compline, the last prayer of the day, sometimes said in private.

I wonder when they got the chance to fit in other interests.

The key objective of the cycle was that all 150 psalms had to be sung every week, starting on Sunday. Wow, that’s over twenty a day. Devotion indeed.
Just because you were a lay brother out in the fields you didn’t get away with it, oh no, you would still be expected to comply, come rain or shine, fog or ice.

Your more favoured pals back in the abbey, considered cleverer because they had their letters and could copy out the scriptures for distribution, took part behind the abbey walls. Prayer was still said in the fields, no getting away from it.

It was a lovely touchy‑feely display. I could feel the fleeces produced, touch the tools, similar to those used by the lay brothers — what a great name for a blues band.

But the highlight for my wife was a nest, still occupied by a mummy swallow and her chicks. She informed me that the chicks looked like they were about to fly their childhood home, or is it the mother who goes first.
All reminds me of that very sad Middle of the Road song from the early seventies, “Chirpy, Chirpy, Cheep, Cheep.” Go look it up on Spotify. Possibly not a classic!

Okay, I am now even more hungry.

Let me remind you, the site is twinned with Studley Royal Water Garden. Not sure how this next bit happened, I took my eye off the goal of food.
We then diverted through an archway to look at some water features. They were too far away for me to see anything of them, but I could hear the water’s roar.

On closer inspection a little later I found them to be quite splendid. Oh, to have had a bob or two back in the day.

I was still hungry.

We then passed the Abbey itself on the way to the food. I thought that we could eat and come back to it but no, the Chair thought it proved too attractive to delay.

It is a roofless wonder. Given when it was built, its dimensions are vast. I never understood why these impressive structures are often built in valleys.
If it were down to me, I would put them right at the top of a hill to show off my wealth.

In the 1530s along came Tudor vandal‑in‑chief, Henry VIII, to dissolve the monasteries. I don’t mean like Disprin but render them unusable.

That is why Fountains has no roof. Building materials were robbed out to assist with the development of other structures in the area.

It was grand and, for the briefest of moments, I cast my hunger pangs to one side.

As soon as we stepped back on the path, though, my main thought was food all over again. Here we go, café here we come.

What’s the saying, disappointment is only born out of over‑expectation. Didn’t really fancy a hot drink, too warm, not into fizzy drinks so opted for iced coffee.

I can recall having it once before and I remember it didn’t hit the spot. Time had not allowed it to improve any. My mistake, try and learn by it and never make the same choice again.

The filling to the sandwich was okay but the bread, it was as if the monks from the medieval period had baked it. It was dried out and lost its vim.
Let’s try and cut them some slack for a minute. The day prior to our visit was 35° and we were about to sit out in 32°, so perhaps they were fighting an unwinnable battle.

That is the thing with National Trust properties, isn’t it. Some are right up there with the best tearooms and coffee shops in the land, whereas others seem to be the gastronomic equivalent of pound stores.

The cake was first class. I do, generally, find that NT bakers know how to make a cake.

A couple of young children had ice creams tucked into their fists. The result, a melting creamy confection dripping all over the ground, and wasps galore.

The heat was getting to the parents as much as the ice creams, cool resolution melting away. No idea whether these were the same children and parents who had been entrenched in negotiations at the outset.
This wasn’t going to end well.

Now it was time to wander the grounds. I am struggling to think of any that are so alluring within the NT estate.

The moon‑shaped manmade lake was stunningly attractive. Imitation temples, follies, shone bright in the June sun, but what caught my eye the most were the statues.

Neptune, complete with trident, featured along with a dying gladiator among others.

Jane described one to me and said it would probably be alright for me to feel my way around it. It was of a jolly sort of chap appearing to wander wistfully through vineyards in Italy or somewhere similar.

I could feel the bunch of grapes. She guided my hand down his body until I felt another bag full of something, brought my hand forward a little until I wrapped my fingers around a twig‑like appendage.

I knew with instant horror I was stroking the man’s marriage apparatus. He was naked and Jane was laughing her socks off!

He had a dog‑like creature at his heel. She thought it more akin to a panther. She asked me who I thought it might be.

Given the penchant for things Roman around the estate I guessed at Bacchus, God of Wine. Do you know what, I was right.

I reckon he used to like a drop as well. He was often seen strolling through the Roman countryside with a panther by his side, riding in a chariot drawn by panthers or riding one of his panthers bareback.

I figure he spent too much on the old vino as he couldn’t afford clothes and kept cats and not dogs. He was also recognised as the God of Fertility.
Jane couldn’t work out why as she could not find anything attractive about this debauched character.

A bit of advice, if I may. If you get invited to a Bacchanalia do on 3rd September, his festival day, take plenty of wine, put your cat on a lead and go in the altogether and you should fit in perfectly well.

It is not often I say this, but this is most certainly one NT property I would like to return to one day.

I would include Oxburgh Hall and Tattershall Castle in this list too. What’s more, massive bonus, it also boasts a parkrun. What’s not to like.

Oh, my word, I have run out of space. We will go inside the Hall next time I return to general travel.

Back to parkrun tourism next week with a trip to Devon.
Before I go, I haven’t forgotten, we had to pass the play area on the way out, no avoiding it really.

Despite all the deals being struck on the way in, it was surprisingly devoid of young people. I think it is safe to say that the parents or grandparents were the Trumps in these deals.

Mind you, the young ones would have been covered, sometimes head to toe, in the remnants of their sticky sweets.

White Cane Ratings ©

Abbey: good; a little up and down – 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)

Swanley Grange: average: could do with audio - 🦯 🦯 (2)

Grounds: very good; managed to avoid many steps - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)